Love or Honor (17 page)

And he met John.

When Marty first asked him to pick her up at her house, on Saturday when she wasn't working, Chris didn't go inside. He drove up the circular driveway, parked in front of the columns marking the front door, got out, rang the doorbell, then went back to the car and waited. By the time she invited him to dinner, he was familiar enough with the place that he was able to park his car, ring the bell and stand there without his hands sweating. Still, he was nervous when the door opened.

“Hello,” the woman said, smiling at him. “Come in, please. I'm Marty's mother. She'll be down in a minute.” Chris stepped in. She closed the door and then, to his surprise, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I'm very glad you could come,” she said.

The interior of the house was just as he'd imagined it. The foyer was dim but fairly large, with a wing chair opposite the door. Several rooms opened off the foyer. The living room was stiff and formal, with heavy furniture, a dark-red carpet and an unused look. In the dining room there was a mahogany table seating twelve; the room was lighted with an elaborate chandelier. An ornate sideboard stood along one wall, a china closet with leaded-glass panels along the wall opposite. The door between the dining room and the kitchen was not a swinging door, but one that closed tightly.

Marty came down the stairs just as John came in the front door. He took off his coat, handed it to his wife and stood looking at Chris, not smiling.

“Daddy, this is Christian,” Marty said. Chris put out his hand which, to his dismay, felt damp again. John shook his hand, looking at Chris with a steady, cool expression. Chris wasn't nervous now; he was terrified. He felt that the man could see right through him. He wanted only to turn and run out of the house as fast as his legs could carry him. John kissed his wife on the cheek, then his daughter. Still, he didn't smile.

John was a stocky man, a trifle overweight, but immaculately dressed. He moved and acted just as Chris had known he would. Underlings in the criminal world made swift gestures and talked fast, hustling to gain a listener's attention. John didn't. Like members of the British ruling class, who move and speak with deliberate pacing, hands behind their backs, John didn't need to capture a listener's attention. He knew he already had it.

Certainly he had Chris's, as they moved without further ceremony into the dining room. John took his place at the head of the long table, as Anna came from the kitchen with a steaming platter of chicken cacciatore. When she saw that Chris was standing at his chair, waiting to sit until she was seated, she gave him a beautiful smile.

He liked Anna at once. She reminded him of his mother, though they didn't look at all alike. Anna was slim and animated, not the stereotypical Italian mama; she had a great figure, Chris noted, if a little heavy on the backside. Her salt-and-pepper hair was carefully waved. She looked cared-for, the kind of woman who gets not only a regular manicure, but a pedicure too. But she had Katrina's manner of making a man feel comfortable, of making him feel that he was the most important man in the world, that nothing mattered except what he said.

John didn't say much, though. He didn't strike Chris as being a talkative man. Marty talked about a layout she was working on. Anna was watching Chris, apparently trying to make him feel at ease.

“We're all music lovers,” Anna said. “We started Marty's music lessons when she was just a little girl.”

Chris was about to speak when John broke in.

“What instrument you play?” John asked abruptly.

“Ah, drums, vibes,” Chris said. “Drums, mostly.”

“Where in Vegas?” John asked. His tone was sharp, just short of accusing. Chris thought quickly. Marty must have told her parents about his background. He recalled what he'd told her, without naming a specific place, thank God. John could have checked him out with one phone call.

“Small lounges, mostly,” Chris said. “Some of the hotels, but just a couple of nights in each place. A week at most.”

John seemed about to continue when the phone rang. Anna looked questioningly at her husband.

“I'll take it, Mama,” John said. He threw down his napkin and got up. He went into the kitchen to take the call, closing the door tightly behind him.

Chris couldn't hear anything John was saying, so he tried to relax. He wasn't wired. He never wore the wire the first time he was going to meet someone, because he didn't know the guy's habits. The guy might be a grabber, and Chris couldn't risk being caught in a bear hug when he was full of lumps and bumps. John certainly wasn't a grabber—more like an iceberg—but Chris was not sorry he hadn't worn the Nagra. Without it, he could concentrate on other things. He was enjoying the food, especially the potato salad. The potato salad he remembered had always seemed kind of mushy, with everything mixed together. Anna's had wedges of potato, with chunks of cucumbers and tomatoes and sliced black olives, all in a spicy oil-and-vinegar dressing. “This is the best potato salad I've ever had,” he told Anna, who beamed at him.

John came back to the table and had just picked up his fork when the phone rang again. Some OC guys didn't even have phones in their homes, Chris knew, but John got up again, sighed heavily, and threw down his napkin. This time John went into the den to pick up the phone. Chris could hear his voice, but he couldn't make out anything John was saying. He stopped straining to hear, because he found himself in the odd situation—actually, he should have expected this, he told himself—of being more concerned about not giving something away than of getting something on John.

As the women cleared the table, John sat perfectly still, saying nothing, just looking at Chris. Chris was relieved when Anna brought coffee. After coffee, John stood up. “Good night,” he said to Chris, somewhat formally. As John left the room, Anna smiled at her daughter. “Why don't you and Chris go out now?” she said. “I'll take care of things.”

It was still daylight, not yet eight o'clock, as Marty and Chris drove into the village for ice cream. “My mother likes you,” Marty informed him as they drove.

“Well, I like your mother,” Chris said. “She reminds me of my mother.” He paused. “What about your father? Does he like me?”

“Oh, I think so,” Marty said. “He wouldn't say so, at least not yet. But I was watching him, and he was watching you, and I think he likes you.” She smiled. “Because he knows I like you.”

It was still early when they got back. “Will you come in for coffee?” Marty asked. Chris said he wouldn't, but he'd call her tomorrow. He walked her to the door, where she kissed him on the cheek, smiled, and went inside.

As he drove away, Chris smiled too. He felt good. In this undercover life, he'd adopted different styles, depending on who he was bouncing around with. When he was with Gene and Bennie, he was a hustler, a fast talker. With Frankie he was that way, too, only more relaxed. He had a good time with Frankie. With Solly he was more respectful, a guy who took orders. This evening, except for his nervousness when he met John, he'd felt comfortable. He felt almost lighthearted, rather like a young guy who'd just met his girl's parents for the first time and felt he'd passed inspection. As he approached Queens, he was feeling so good about feeling that way that he decided to stop and see his mother.

But when he drove by, the house was dark. There was a light in the wing where one of his sisters lived, but Chris didn't want to see his sister. So he drove the short distance to the Grotto, had a drink, then went over to his own place shortly after midnight.

Gene was getting ready to open. “You look good,” Gene said. “What have you been up to?”

“I feel good,” Chris said. “What have I been up to? None of your business, pal.” They both laughed, and they had a drink together.

Chris was still feeling good when Bing arrived.

Bing didn't say hello. “What are you doing in this place?” Bing demanded.

“Hey, Bing,” Chris said brightly. “How ya doin'? It's been a long time, Bing.” One hell of a long time, Chris thought. A lot of years since he'd seen Bing, though Bing had called him to congratulate him when the “Hero Cops” story came out.

“I heard this was your place,” Bing said flatly. “So, is it? Is this your place?”

“Yeah, Bing, that's right, it's my place,” Chris said.

Bing made a fist and slammed it down on the bar. “Son of a bitch!” he said.

People were looking at Bing. Chris hurried out from behind the bar and steered him down to the far end. “Sit down, have a drink,” Chris urged. Bing sat down heavily on a stool, keeping his eyes fixed on Chris. “Good to see you again, Bingo,” Chris said heartily. “What'll it be?”

Bing just stared at him. Chris walked back around the bar, poured a scotch and set it in front of Bing, with a glass of ice and a glass of water. He poured one for himself and lifted his glass. “Here's to you,” Chris said.

Bing stared at Chris. “Son of a bitch! Lowlife! Thank God my father isn't here to see you.” He picked up the glass and drained it.

“Have another, Bing,” Chris said cheerfully. He poured another, then set the bottle on the bar. “Help yourself,” he said. “It's on me. I've got to make a phone call. Be right back.”

He could feel Bing watching him as he walked the length of the bar and went into the little office. I've got to get him out of here, Chris thought. Maybe if he drinks enough, he'll forget what's bothering him.

Chris was standing there, trying to figure out what to do, when Gene came in. “What's with that guy at the bar?” Gene asked. “The guy you were talking to. Know him? He's giving me the creeps.”

“Yeah, I know him,” Chris said. “He's got problems. Problems with his wife.”

Gene looked more sympathetic, then. “Okay, but take care of him, will you?” Gene asked. “Go out and do something about the guy.”

Bing was crying. He was crying noisily, sloppily, putting his head down on the bar, then lifting his head, still sobbing, and fumbling for his glass.

Chris grabbed his coat and walked down to the end of the bar. “C'mon, Bing,” he said. “Let's go home.”

Chris steered him out onto the street and put him in the car. He hoped Bing still lived at the same place, the house where he'd lived with Sal, when the old man was in the rackets and Bing was on the fringes. If he had moved, Chris didn't know what the hell he'd do with him. Chris drove to the house on the side street in Astoria where he knew Bing had lived, and was relieved when he began digging in his pocket for the key.

Inside, Bing took off his coat and let it drop on the floor.

“C'mon, I'll get you to bed,” Chris said. He pushed Bing gently down the hall to the back bedroom. He intended to just sit him down on the bed, take off his shoes, then leave. But when they got into the bedroom, Bing started yelling. “Son of a bitch! I was so proud of you, and my Pop was so proud of you, 'cause you were makin' something of yourself. You were a cop! What happened, hey, what happened with the job?”

“I just blew it, Bing,” Chris said. “I needed some cash—what can I tell you? C'mon, babe, sit down on the bed.”

Bing wouldn't sit down. “Proud of you, proud of you,” he moaned. “You're a loser. And I'm a loser. And you're a loser.” He was weaving back and forth. Then he fell to his knees, heavily. He bent down and reached under the bed. He dragged out a box and opened it. He dug into the box and brought out fistfuls of bills.

“Is this what you need?” Bing screamed. “Money? You need money? Then why didn't you come to me for money? I got money! Here, take the money, take it, take it!” He threw wads of money into the air. Chris ducked, involuntarily, as though the bills fluttering down had sharp edges.

“Oh, Bing, you don't understand,” Chris said bleakly. “I don't want your money.”

“Don't understand, don't understand,” Bing repeated, in a kind of chant. “But you were a cop and now you're a loser. I'm a loser and my Pop was proud of you.” He kept throwing bills in the air. “Take it, loser, take it!”

“Hey,” Chris said. “Everything's going to be all right, babe. I gotta go now.”

“Yeah, go!” Bing shouted. “Go on, get out, just get outta here, you make me sick! Get the hell out!”

He was still flinging money around as Chris left. Even at the front door, he could hear Bing crying. He didn't know what to do, so he just picked up the coat Bing had dropped and hung it on the rack behind the door.

For Marty's birthday, Chris went to a florist on Madison Avenue and ordered a dozen roses sent to her office. As he peered through the glass doors of the refrigerator case at the glistening, long-stemmed beauties, he decided that one dozen looked skimpy. He changed it to two, then shook his head. “Make it three dozen,” he told the florist. “I want three dozen roses, different colors—red, white, blue, whatever. Mix 'em up.”

The florist looked startled, then slightly suspicious. “And how will you be paying for these, sir?”

Chris was irritated at the clerk's tone, which he thought sounded very snooty. So he made a show of bringing out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. “With money,” Chris said airily.

He knew Harry would need convincing that three dozen roses had been necessary, but he knew he could convince him. Chris wasn't using the department's money, anymore; all this spending was done with money earned from his various enterprises. Technically, he wasn't supposed to use that money, which was labeled “ill-gotten proceeds” or some such bureaucratic term—and which was supposed to be turned in, according to the rules. But the rules were made by guys who never got out of the sight of their desks, Chris reasoned; guys who, when it came to knowing what was going on out in the field, sometimes didn't know shit from Shinola.