Fear City (44 page)

“I don't care about any of them,” he said falling face-first onto his bed. “I want Cristin back. And Bonita and Rico.”

“I know,” he heard Julio say from the doorway.

“It's not fair. I mean, they die and all those strangers live. That's bullshit!”

A voice somewhere in his head was telling him he sounded like a jerk, and he probably did, but he was six sheets to the wind so he was allowed.

Goddamn, this hurt.

 

SATURDAY

 

1

Jack awoke to the smell of coffee and a barrage of noise that sounded like a demolition derby.

The room spun as he sat up. He waited for it to settle into place, then pushed himself to his feet. Another rush of vertigo had him swaying but he kept his balance and took very small stutter-steps into the front room. His head was throbbing from the inside but the noise around him intensified the discomfort to an almost unbearable degree.

It seemed to be coming from the kitchen. He turned the corner and found Julio with the pot from the Mr. Coffee machine in his hand.

He looked at Jack and grimaced. “You look all
Dawn of the Dead
, meng.”

“Please don't shout.”

“I ain't shouting.”

Jack cringed as Julio rattled a plate.

“And that other noise … must you?”

“Just making some toast. Want some?”

Julio was still shouting but the stomach lurch triggered by the thought of food was worse.

“Coffee. Just coffee. You stayed?”

“Never seen you like that. Worried you coulda died.”

“Really? Were I feeling even remotely human right now I might be touched, but—”

“You were gone, man. High-fiving everyone and—”

“Who? Me? I do
not
high-five
anyone
. No way.”

“Yeah, you were. And you had your arms around Lou and Barney and got all weepy telling them how much you loved them.”

“Oh, Christ. Do not serve me tequila ever again.”

Julio laughed. “Just pullin' your chain.”

“Really? I didn't get all I-love-you-man?”

“Nah. You just got quiet. Really quiet.”

“Better than high-fives.”

“Don't know about that. Booze brings out the inner person. Take it from a guy who seen too many drunks. You can pretend you're someone you ain't until you down too many, then the real you comes out. People all ugly inside become ugly drunks. Nice folks become all lovey-dovey. You…” He shook his head. “You just got quiet. And you had this look.”

“What look?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. I couldn't read it. But something about it told me I better get you out in the air and home.”

“Well, thanks for that, but—” He jammed his palms over his ears. “What the hell is that
noise
? They pile driving outside or something?”

“Hey, no. It's quiet. It's Saturday and it's snowing.”

Jack looked at the window and heard a pile-driver bang every time a drop of sleet hit the pane.

“Can you make it stop?”

Julio blinked. “What?”

“Forget the coffee. I'm going back to bed.”

 

2

“Lookit this, will ya?” Aldo said as he thumbed through Tommy's black book.

They were sitting in Vinny's office, sipping a little Sambuca to take off the chill of their recent boat trip. They'd sneaked Tommy's broken body into his house and left it there—but not before removing whatever might point to anything illegal. That included his black book and his wallet. Then they'd crimped the raghead into an old Dodge. This morning they'd dumped the package offshore and returned through a snow squall.

Vinny poured himself a little more Sambuca. “Whatcha got?”

“Looks like our boy Tommy was holding out on Tony.”

“Yeah? How so?”

Not that Vinny was surprised.

“Loans on his own. Buncha loans right under Tony's nose in Brooklyn and Queens and even a few in Nassau.” He flipped pages. “
Whole
lotta gook names from Chinkytown and Little Saigon. He was one busy fuckhead.”

That got Vinny to thinking. “How many those loans still alive?”

“Most of them, looks like.” Aldo glanced up. “You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?”

“I'm thinking those loans shouldn't get neglected just because Tommy's dead.”

“Yeah, I'm thinking that too. Somebody really should, whatchacall, service them. Know what I mean?”

“I know exactly what you mean. I'm just thinking about Tony.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Sick man.”

“Yeah. Not long for this world, like they say. You think it would be right to, whatchacall, burden him with this?”

“Not right at all. Downright cruel, if you ask me. I mean, imagine the hurt of learning that the senior member of your crew had been doin' you dirty for years.
Years
.”

Aldo shook his head. “Break the poor old guy's heart—and him with hardly any time left.”

“I'm getting this feeling that it's kinda like our duty to shield him from this.”

“I am in total agreement, Vinny. Let him live out his final days in, whatchacall, ignorant bliss. We owe him that.”

“We do.”

“I'll take the gooks. You can have the rest.”

That seemed fair.

“Deal.”

They shook hands.

“A little more Sambuca, Mister D'Amico?”

“I do believe I will, Mister Donato.”

They clinked glasses.

“
Salute!
” said Aldo.

“
Cent'anni!
” said Vinny.

 

3

By four o'clock Jack was ready to face the world. Julio was long gone by then. He swallowed four Advil and took a long shower. He couldn't remember being that loaded since a certain keg party at college. He liked to drink but he hated being drunk. Drunk meant physically and mentally out of control and unable to do anything about it.

Julio had mentioned drink bringing out the real you. But according to him all it brought out in Jack was “quiet” and a “look,” whatever that meant. As much as he was glad he hadn't turned into the high-fiving, I-love-you-man dork Julio had joked about, that guy would have been better than the other Jack he knew lurked inside—the dark part of him that wrecked knees and busted skulls and threw people off bridges and drove arrows into brains via eyeballs. Good thing the tequila hadn't set that guy free in Julio's last night.

Some people craved the oblivion of a rip-roaring bender, but Jack suspected it was not a good place for him.

The snow had stopped and mostly melted by the time he stepped outside. He caught a cab down to Murray Hill, to the Celebrations brownstone on East 39th. With Saturday night looming, he figured Rebecca would be working.

He was right. When he pressed the call button at the front door she answered.

“It's your uninvited guest from last Saturday night.”

Without another word or a second's hesitation, she buzzed him through. She waited for him in the doorway to her office at the end of the hall. She was wearing a tweedy business jacket and skirt, but looked like she hadn't slept since he'd last seen her.

“It's been a whole week,” she said when he was halfway down the hall. “Any word?”

He nodded as he approached. “I'll tell you inside.”

“We have the building to ourselves.”

“Still…”

She stepped back and waved him into a paneled reception area, nicely furnished, indirect lighting.

“Not what I expected,” he said. “You do real business here?”

“This is where I interview the new girls,” she said quickly. “What about Cristin?”

He started the story he'd constructed on the way down—half fact, half bull.

“You know about the Trade Center bomb, of course. People connected to the bombers thought she might have overheard something.”

“Oh, God! Is that why you were asking about Arab clients?”

“Yeah.”

“Roman Trejador was involved, wasn't he.” It didn't sound like a question.

“How do you figure that?”

“I heard on the news. Cristin dead, then her client from the night before she disappeared found dead of cyanide poisoning … how can they not be connected?”

“They are. Trejador ordered it—at least that's what one of his people told us.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Dear God! He was one of her regulars. The cyanide—was it you?”

He shook his head. “He took it before we had a chance to question him. That pretty much says it all.”

Trejador … Tony … whoever he was, total son of a bitch.

“Too quick,” she said through her teeth. “Too
quick
, damn it! After all those dates with her, how could he—?”

“He didn't do the actual deed. He had some of his people handle that.” He felt his throat constrict. “Turned out she was tortured and killed for something she knew nothing about.”

Rebecca's lips thinned to a thread. “Where are they?”

“One's dead.”

She leaned forward. “How?”

“Not pretty.”

“Good. How many others?”

“Two. If you've been listening to the news you've heard about a couple of ‘horrendously mutilated' guys they found in Queens and the city?”

She swallowed. “Those were…”

“
Are
 … they're still alive. How many details on the news? I've been … out of touch.”

“Not much. But a deputy mayor is one of my clients, and he told one of the girls…” She swallowed again. “He went into great detail about what had been done to them.”

“It's called Infernum Viventes and—”

“Living hell?”

“You know Latin?”

“Four years of it at Catholic high school—another sort of living hell.”

“Yeah, well, with proper care and feeding, they'll probably live in that hell quite a while longer, and every second of it will be pure torture.”

She stared at him, shaking her head.

“What?”

“You seem so normal. What kind of mind thinks up something like that?”

“Oh, I can't take credit. A consummate professional came up with it.”

“Professional what?”

“Torturer.”

She continued to stare. “You're so young, yet the people you know…” She heaved a long, sad sigh. “I can't help thinking what Cristin would say about that. If she's up there watching, would she be proud of you?”

Jack suddenly felt as if the building had collapsed on him.

“No, I don't think she would.”

He had set out simply to track down the scumbags and settle the books. Somewhere along the line he'd slipped off track and allowed things to get out of hand.

Rebecca squeezed his arm. “I think Cristin would understand the feelings behind what you did. She might not applaud you for it, but I know she'd appreciate the why of it.”

Jack realized with a pang that it hadn't been at all about what Cristin would have wanted. It had been all him … what he wanted: blood.

“And for what it's worth,” she added, “I think they deserve everything that's happened to them.”

“But it's still not enough, is it.”

Rebecca's bitter smile held an ocean of hurt. “No, it's not. Not even close.”

Jack knew exactly how she felt.

 

SUNDAY

 

1

Jack watched Burkes step through the door of Julio's and look around. He caught his eye with a wave and the Scot strolled over to Jack's table.

“So this is your office?”

“The rent's reasonable.” Jack pointed to a chair. “Have a seat at my desk.”

“It's been days,” Burkes said as he settled in. “What took you so long to get in touch? Back at the UN you took off to have a look down the avenue and that was the last I saw of you.”

Julio came by. “Drinking?”

“Thought you'd never ask. I'm desperate for a bevvy.” Burkes pointed to Jack's glass. “What's that?”

“Rolling Rock.” He hadn't been able to look at a brew yesterday. But that had been yesterday.

Burkes made a face. “An American lager? Not likely. Got anything
good
to drink? Something with some body to it?”

“You mean like Guinness?”

Burkes slapped the table. “Now you're talking, lad!”

“We ain't got none.”

Jack pushed back a laugh. He'd seen that coming.

“But you said—”

“Got a couple Brit regulars who talked me into stocking something called John Courage.”

“Bitter!” Burkes said, raising a fist. “Bring us a pint of Courage.”

“Make that two,” Jack said.

He'd never tried it. He guessed now was as good a time as any.

As Julio sauntered away, Burkes turned back to Jack. “So where'd you go?”

Jack explained racing down to the World Trade Center but arriving too late to catch the bomber. He told them about the dead phones, being detained by the cops …

“And then I came here and tied one on.”

“Don't blame you. Would've done the same myself had I been free to.”

Julio arrived then carrying two pints of amber liquid with a beige head.

Burkes lifted his glass. “Here's tae us. Wha's like us? Gey few, and they're a' deid.”

The best Jack could do at the moment was, “Cheers.”

Burkes added, “
Slàinte mhòr agad
.”

They clinked glasses and quaffed. He liked it.

“Not bad,” Jack said. “Not bad at all.”

Burkes smacked his lips. “This place keeps a keg of Courage on tap for just a couple of Brits?”

“You should see them drink. Two hollow legs each.” Jack wanted to get to something that was bothering him. “I lost much of Friday night and most of Saturday, but I've been watching TV for a whole day now and it's all about the Trade Tower bomb. Not a word about the UN. What gives?”