Sweetheart (22 page)

“I don’t believe this,” the young man gasped.

“Believe it,” Thurston said and executed an unreturnable serve.

As they left the court, Thurston limping, they were applauded. In the locker room the young man said, “Will you take a check?”

“No checks,” Thurston said, inspecting his ankle. “Make it dinner.”

The young man hovered. “I just want to know. How’d you do it?”

“Willpower,” said Thurston.

“Something’s different between us,” Jane Gardella said from a high-back deck chair on the patio. The clouds had long passed, and the beach lay refulgent in the moonlight, seeming limitless in its stretch. The air was sea-drenched. “I don’t know what it is,” she said in a hollow tone, as though something had died deep down inside her. Christopher Wade, from his chair, peered at her.

“Maybe you’re imagining it.”

“Maybe,” she said, “he knows.”

“No,” Wade said immediately. “We wouldn’t be sitting here.”

Her eyes were hard upon him, an eerie smile passing across her lips. “He likes you, you know. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Yes,” said Wade, “it bothers me.”

“But not enough,” she said, and he did not reply. She tightened her hands on the arms of the chair. “He loves me, but I don’t kid myself. It’s a narrow love, no room for the unexpected. All of this is bizarre, isn’t it, Wade? If only it could be unreal too.” Her unnatural smile returned. “I wonder if he feels it sometimes, the knife in his back.”

“Why don’t we talk about something else?”

“There’s nothing else to talk about.” She drew herself forward and sat erect, her blond hair quivering in the light breeze. “Would you like to go for a swim, Lieutenant. Would that please you?”

He shook his head.

She said, “Do you mind if I do? I have a small thought of swimming beyond the buoys.”

He looked up with alarm. “Are you joking?”

“Fantasizing.”

He reached over the side of his chair for her hand. She gave it impassively and sat quietly with her private uninfringeable thoughts. He found the silence haunting, as if a physical part of her had drifted off. He said, “Maybe I can help you.”

“Why should I trust you? And what could you do? Nothing. Thurston is everything.” She pulled her hand away and forced herself from the chair. When she raised her arms over her head to tie her hair, he felt entrusted with an intimate moment.

“You need me.”

“That’s for me to decide,” she said and kicked off her sandals. “I’m going for that swim.”

“Don’t do anything foolish,” he said.

Agent Blue was returning to his apartment building from the drugstore when a voice called to him from the dark of a car. A man climbed out the driver’s side and came onto the sidewalk where Blue could see his face in the lamplight.

“Do you know who I am?” Anthony Gardella asked.

“Sure I know who you are,” Blue said.

“Do you know my wife?”

“Personally? No, I don’t know your wife.”

“But you’ve got pictures of her.”

Blue smiled. “We’ve got lots of pictures of her, all on your arm, mostly coming out of restaurants. You live well.”

“I’m talking about the pictures in your desk.”

“I’ve got none in my desk. What are you talking about?”

After a long hesitation Gardella whispered, “I should’ve known better.”

Blue threw him a curious look. His mind moved fast, but he spoke slowly. “I think I get it. Something my boss said?”

“Yeah, something Thurston said.”

“You’re right,” Blue said. “You should’ve known better.”

There was a TV in the room, and Wade was watching it. He lay atop the bed in his undershorts, one arm crooked under his head. He could hear the occasional sound of traffic but nothing of the ocean. The room was on the boulevard side of the house. There was a knock on the door, and Jane Gardella looked in on him. When he reached to cover himself, she said, “I’m not embarrassed.”

She advanced into the room, letting the door close behind her. “Is that wise?” he asked.

She said, “Tony wears the same kind. They don’t keep him in either.”

She stood with her head tilted and rose up on her toes as if to keep her feet from sticking to the hardwood floor. The wrap she wore was damp and clung to her.

“You want me, don’t you?” she said.

“Of course I want you,” he replied, “but the question is whether you want me.”

“No,” she said, “that’s not the question.” She looked at the television. “What are you watching?”

“Nothing.”

She switched it off, which put the room in darkness. He tried to keep sight of her, but she paled away. Then he felt her settling beside him, relapsing on her side. “Who am I?” she murmured. “I’m not sure I know.”

“Honey,” he said as she lengthened herself. “You’re Honey.”

The traffic on the boulevard grew more intense for a time, or perhaps they merely became more aware of it, the danger. At one point a number of motorcyclists thundered by, some shrieking, as if a few crazies were among them. Then a quiet settled, as if the hour dictated it.

“What if he walks in on us?” Wade asked, lying skin to skin with her, a part of him drying on her. His hand curved and slid over her.

“Then we die,” she whispered. “It will solve everything.”

The fear he felt was vital but did not make him move. “You’d rather have him think you betrayed him this way than the other?”

She did not move either, her drawn knees still pressed under him, her silence her answer.

Anthony Gardella did not return to Rye until the morning. On his way into the house he saw Wade on the beach and waved. In the master bedroom, treading on quiet feet, he approached his wife, drew the sheet from her shoulders, and gently raked his fingernails down her long, bare back, giving her a chill.

“Wake up,” he whispered.

“I am awake,” she said, not moving, her eyes open.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly into her ear. “Sorry about a lot of things.” His hand slipped into the small of her back. “Sometimes I’m such an idiot.”

She spoke into the pillow. “Why are you saying that, Tony?”

“Sometime when we’re lying together on the beach I’ll tell you,” he said and straightened up. She lifted her eyes. He was undressing, smiling. He winked at her. “You have to go to the bathroom, go now.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to make love to you,” he said, and she began to cry.

Two hours later, eating breakfast on the patio, he said to Wade, “I’ll tell you something, I’m fifty years old, and I still don’t understand women.”

D
ECKLER
, the private detective from New York, waited in the car while the two men working for him went into the attractive brick apartment building where Russell Thurston lived. The man who lived alone in the apartment next to Thurston’s was an electrical engineer twice divorced and deep in debt from court orders requiring him to support two families. It was his bell that the two detectives rang from the foyer and his door they went to. He let them in after they flashed identification, Internal Revenue Service. He suspected the identification was false but didn’t care. They were offering him five thousand dollars for the use of his apartment for a week, with the provision that he would keep the entire amount if they vacated the place sooner, which they said might well happen. Having presumed he would agree, they had booked a room for him at the Colonnade, the tab prepaid.

“Jesus,” the man said. “As long as what you’re up to is legal.”

It was, they assured him and helped him pack.

“I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

“You won’t.”

Deckler climbed out of the car and unlocked the trunk when he saw the man drive away. In the trunk were suitcases of special equipment, which he and his two assistants carried up to the apartment. When they began sorting things, he wandered into the kitchenette, poked about, and, though he would have preferred something better than bologna, made himself a sandwich. Eating it, he went into the bedroom, where his assistants were waiting. A dresser had been pushed away from the wall. He picked up the bedside telephone, tapped out Thurston’s home number, and after many rings hung up.

“Okay,” he said, “start drilling.”

• • •

Outside the State House a hand dropped down on Senator Matchett’s shoulder and a voice said, “That’s a nice tan you’ve got, Senator.” The senator spun around with an automatic smile that slipped when he saw who it was.

“Ah,” he said, as if he needed to jar his memory to put a name to the face.

Russell Thurston said, “This heat wave won’t quit. You should’ve stayed at the beach.”

“Can’t abandon my duties,” the senator said jauntily and felt his arm being taken, the grip surprisingly firm, almost frightening.

“Can we talk?”

“Now? Right now? I’ve got a vote to cast.” He struggled in protest but felt himself being guided out of the sun, toward the shade of the building, to a rail, which he clutched.

“Listen to me, Senator, I don’t have time to waste, and neither do you. I have friends with the New Hampshire state police. In twenty minutes, if I make a phone call, troopers will raid your place in Rye, grab all the pornographic material, and book your wife. I have a buddy at Channel Nine in Manchester who’ll have a cameraman there.”

The senator went red with pure anger. “You’re a lunatic.”

“I know the stuff is there, enough to charge your wife with possession with intent to distribute. You’ve got quite a collection. There’ll also be a warrant out on you, of course.” Thurston quietly cleared his throat. “By the way, I have you both on tape, not for evidence, simply for my own amusement. Lieutenant Wade gave it to me.”

The senator stood firm, though one hand twitched. “Nothing will hold. Everything will be thrown out of court.”

“What do I care?” said Thurston. “The damage will be done. No?”

“You bastard.”

“Senator,” Thurston went on smoothly, “I know Gardella washes money for you and at least a half dozen of your colleagues. I know he does it for a superior court judge, some people in the tax department, and a fair number of blue-blooded businessmen who more or less run this city. I’ll tell you what else I know, Senator, they funnel the money through you, huge amounts, and you pass it to Gardella. You don’t do it directly, but it gets to him. At the moment, Senator, I can’t prove any of it, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“This is insane. I think I’d better talk to my lawyer.”

“You walk away from me, Senator, and I’ll make that call. When I do, don’t hold me responsible for your wife’s emotional stability. You know it better than I do. Also consider your own. It’s your career and reputation that’s going.”

The senator’s lips faltered, then closed. He did not crumble as Thurston thought he would, and he did not weep as Thurston had hoped. Finally, simply, he said, “It’s my wife I’m thinking of.”

“Naturally.”

“What do you want?”

“Your cooperation.”

“Who do you want?”

“Everybody.” Thurston’s smile was quick. “Except you of course. You walk.”

“Immunity?”

“Better than that, Senator. We’re going to let people think you were working for me all this time.”

• • •

On the beach Jane Gardella’s bare foot accidentally touched Christopher Wade’s, and she jerked hers away fast. “If you stay here much longer,” she said, “I’m going to go insane.”

“I need an excuse to leave.”

“No, you don’t.”

They were sitting in low beach chairs near the surf. Anthony Gardella had left his chair and was swimming fearlessly in deep water, his stroke long and graceful, athletic. Wade said, “I’d rather stay.”

“Are you doing this to be cruel?”

“You know I’m not,” he said, unable to see her eyes. She was wearing a sun visor strapped to her head, and her face was lowered. She raised it to watch her husband.

“I love him,” she said.

“I love you,” Wade said, surprised by his own voice. “How’s that for a complication?”

“I don’t want you to love me. I don’t even want Tony to love me. Do you know how scared I am?” She dropped her head back. “And how tired?”

“It doesn’t show,” Wade said. “Only when you’re with me.”

“I’ve told Thurston I can’t go on, but he doesn’t believe me … or doesn’t care. Doesn’t care is what it is.”

“You’ve got to hold on.”

“No, that’s just it,” she said. “I can’t.”

Gardella came out of the water tugging at his trunks, his silver hair flattened to his skull. Wade, waiting at the edge of the surf, tossed him a towel, which he caught and then almost dropped. He looked beyond Wade. “Where’s Jane?”

“The sun was too much for her.”

Vigorously he used the towel on his head, arms, and shoulders. Nearby a boy of thirteen or fourteen, golden-haired, was scraping a vulgarism into the wet sand and doing it deep so that the word would not soon be washed away. Gardella gave him a disappointed look and said, “Hey, kid, is that nice?”

The boy glanced up abruptly, threw away his stick, and, trotting off, said, “Up your ass!”

Gardella and Wade exchanged tight smiles. Gardella’s was the wryer. “Should I let him get away with that? Maybe I should put a contract out on him.”

“At that age he can get away with anything.”

“At that age,” said Gardella, “I wouldn’t have even thought of mouthing off to my elders. Everything was respect. That’s the way I was brought up.”

“That kid,” said Wade, “will probably grow up to be a computer programmer or a junior executive or maybe a high school teacher. Look what you grew up to be.”

Gardella laughed and slung the towel around his neck. “I see your point.”

“For that matter,” Wade said, “look what I grew up to be.”

“Hey, take it easy. What I think is, there are worse than us, plenty worse. Come on. The sun’s getting too much for me too.”

They slipped their feet into sandals, left the beach, and walked up the boulevard to Philbrick’s store, where they sat at the fountain and smiled at the young woman working it. Gardella ordered a mocha milkshake, and Wade decided on the same. “And a hamburger,” Gardella said, “if you don’t mind.” Wade followed suit. When their orders came, they ate greedily and took their time drinking their shakes. Gardella, who had used up one napkin and was reaching for a second, said, “Enjoying yourself?”

“Yes,” said Wade.

“So am I.”

When they left the store, the sun seemed hotter and brighter. They walked along sluggishly, at times on grass, other times on gravel, and crossed the boulevard when there was a break in traffic. As they neared the house, Wade noticed an extra car in the drive. Gardella said, “We’ve got a surprise. My sister.”

• • •

Agent Blodgett said, “The call came in about a half hour after you left; he wouldn’t give his name, said he’d only talk to you, his terms. Could be a crank.”

“You didn’t recognize the voice at all?” Russell Thurston asked.

“No. I can play the tape for you if you want.”

“I haven’t got time. I’m dropping in on Quimby at Union Bank in an hour.” Thurston looked at his watch and plucked up a newspaper. “I’ve got to go to the john. This guy calls back, tell him I’ll meet him if he makes it close by.”

Thurston returned in fifteen minutes with the paper turned to the crossword puzzle, which he had completed. Blodgett said, “He called. Wants you to meet him now. He sounded anxious as hell.”

Again Thurston consulted his watch. “We’re playing this close. Where is he?”

“He’s right down in the lobby. One other thing. He sounded like he’s had a few drinks.”

“Shit, maybe we ought to forget it,” Thurston said and thought about it. “You come with me. You never know what kind of nut you’re going to run into.”

In the elevator Thurston loaded his mouth with Certs and clicked them around. Blodgett lifted his revolver from the hidden holster inside his suitcoat and inspected the chamber. Thurston, watching, said, “If he is a nut, run that up his ass and pull the trigger.”

Blodgett put the weapon away as the elevator settled and stepped out first when the doors wheezed open. As they neared the foyer, he nudged Thurston. “That must be him,” he whispered, nodding at a man in a powder-blue sports jacket poised behind a potted tree as if to hide himself.

Thurston peered in that direction. “I think I know him.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Tyrone O’Dea.”

• • •

Anthony Gardella looked for Rita O’Dea in his house and found her and Sara Dillon on the patio, where his wife was pointing out places on the beach for them. Sara Dillon saw him first and lowered her eyes as he regarded her without surprise. She looked frazzled from her pregnancy and almost too old for it, especially beside the straight and sunny figure of his wife. Then his sister saw him and came at him with a bear hug that threatened to smother him. “Easy, Rita,” he said, grappling with her moist flesh, “it’s hot.”

“Not here,” she declared, releasing him gradually. “It’s beautiful. Boston’s unbearable. That’s why I brought Sara here. She doesn’t believe me, but she can’t take the heat. Look at her.” Rita O’Dea, wearing a sundress that swished loosely as she moved, went to Sara Dillon and took her hand. “The drive didn’t do you any good. You need a nap. Jane, show her to her room.”

Gardella watched Sara Dillon leave without argument, with what was probably relief, his wife gently guiding her. With a slow turn to his sister, he said, “I don’t think she wants to be here.”

“I know what’s best,” Rita O’Dea said.

“No,” he said abstractedly, “you only know what makes you feel good.”

“You scolding me, Tony?”

He placed a caring hand on her. “That’s something I never did enough of. Too late now.”

She gazed past him. He turned to look too. Christopher Wade had come quietly onto the patio and was standing in a gauche manner, as if he felt he were intruding.

“Rita, this is — ”

“I know who he is,” she said. In a paradoxically dainty way, she billowed toward Wade as if to gather him up, encompass him. Her face loomed. “My parents,” she said haltingly. “I never thanked you for helping us.” Her voice failing, she clasped Wade’s hand and kissed it.

“Rita, don’t!” Gardella said sharply. To Wade, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Wade said. “I understand.”

• • •

In a room papered in pink, Sara Dillon loosened the front of her maternity dress, one of several Rita O’Dea had chosen, and sat on the bed’s edge to force off her shoes, a task, for her feet were swollen. She rubbed them. Jane Gardella, laying out towels for her, said, “We have a sauna. You might want to use it later.”

Sara said, “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“And the ocean will do wonders for you,” Jane added.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

Jane reached into the wide pocket of her beach jacket. “Only this.”

“Can we share it?”

The door was closed. The smoke tinted the air and sweetened it. Jane sat on the opposite edge of the bed, a strain in her face, alert for any approaching sound. She crossed her slim legs.

Sara said, “You’re very beautiful.”

The joint meandered between them. “Yes, I’ve been told that.”

“For an hour, or even only a minute, I’d like to be beautiful, simply to know how it feels.”

“Sometimes it feels like shit,” Jane said and, with feelings near combustion, stretched her face into a semblance of a smile. “I don’t sound beautiful, do I?”

“You’re troubled. I felt it as soon as I saw you. Rita did too.”

“Fuck Rita.”

Sara took a slow hit on the joint and savored it. “You shouldn’t discount her,” she said in a vague warning that she herself did not understand. The bed began to look good to her as she viewed it out of an intense paleness and a fatigue she was fighting.

Jane, watching her, said, “How does it feel to be pregnant?”

“Crowded. Cramped. Rearranged.”

“I meant mentally.”

“Responsible.”

“Have you asked yourself whether it’s worth it?”

Sara prepared to lie back. “I’d be afraid of the answer.”

• • •

Anthony Gardella and his sister plodded along the wet edge of the beach, their bare feet sand-caked. Rita O’Dea’s hair, unloosed, flowed down the expanse of her back. At times she clung to her brother’s arm, proud to be seen with him as other women looked up from under their umbrellas or over their magazines. Her voice rose. “I brought a banana cake, Tony. It’s on the kitchen table.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“And I put a pint of cream in the fridge. I told Jane to whip it up for tonight.”

“Don’t tell her to do things, Rita.
Ask
her.”