19 Purchase Street (40 page)

He went directly in a Hertz rental to Number 19.

Stopped at the gate, he causally told the man on duty he lived there and was surprised when that was politely accepted and he was given the go-ahead. The man probably had a mind like a Polaroid when it came to faces, Gainer thought as he steered up the drive.

Numerous cars were parked along the wider area at the front of the house. Leslie's Rolls Corniche among them. Gainer found a space for the rental, backed it in and deliberately caused a deep scar down both doors of a that year's Mercedes sedan.

It helped untighten him some.

He was let in the front way by one of those white-coated former CIA or whatever servants.

“Nearly everyone is down by the pool, sir,” the man said.

“Which room is mine?”

The man told him and Gainer went up to it.

It was the sort of bedroom one would assign to a lesser guest. Pleasantly furnished in W&J Sloane versions of Queen Anne but nowhere to stretch out except on the bed, which, Gainer particularly noticed, was a single. An old Sony seventeen inch
black and white
sat on the dresser top and most of the magazines on the lower shelf of the nightstand were middle-aged
National Geographics
. Just one additional piece of furniture, even a side chair, and the room would have been crowded.

Sounds of people down at the pool came through the open windows. One fragment of gaiety sounded like Leslie.

Gainer resisted looking out.

Instead he opened the closet, saw a few things of his, hung too close together, needlessly crushed when there was a whole vacant rod.

The door on the next wall was the connector.

Gainer tried it, went into Leslie's room, recognized one of her skimpy dressing robes tossed over the back of a chair. Her room was more than twice the size of his and done with far more care and taste. Authentic Chippendale and an intricate, needlepoint rug that someone must have spent years on. The bed was king size, its linen fresh and neatly folded. In the spacious bathroom on the marble counter surface was her makeup with its special implements. They were sort of strewn carelessly, as though she'd been hurried; the pink column of lipstick left swiveled up. Gainer disliked the thought of her hurrying for anyone but him, especially not with such things as these. He swiveled the lipstick, capped it, tossed two pink-smeared tissues into the toilet and flushed them down.

Also noticed, in a shallow dish partially covered by a soiled linen and towel, her six carat D color flawless round cut, again carelessly left around. With the diamond were a couple of gold chains and another ring with a large single blue stone. Gainer had never seen that ring before. He examined it, saw the Tiffany mark struck on the inner side of its platinum band. He guessed it to be a sapphire of about twenty carats and he recalled who recently had been the big sapphire expert.

Sounds of amusement from outside got to him again.

He went back to Leslie's bedroom, to the window, looked out from that upper floor south. In the intermediate distance on the tennis court Hine and Sweet were bullying two older men at doubles. Beyond the court at the swimming pool a considerable amount of flesh was maintaining its sun tan. Gainer counted ten slathered bodies stretched out on loungers.

And then, there was the lovely incongruity.

Leslie's pale skin.

She had on a black maillot, simple and snug like a competitive swimmer's, and a wide-visored topless cap.

Gainer tried to will her to look up and notice him.

But at that moment she was preoccupied, kneeling beside a huge yellow towel that had someone on it.

Darrow.

He was lying face up, still as though dead.

Leslie bowed her head, clasped her hands beneath her chin, prayer-like.

She's going to try to cleanse his aura, Gainer thought, despising the idea. He felt like yelling out to her that it couldn't be done. Then he realized that cleansing wasn't what she was about.

She placed her forefinger on a spot about three inches center above Darrow's navel, held it there for a long moment, moved it up to the center of his chest, up to the start of his throat, to between his chin and lower lip, to between his upper lip and nose, to the center of his forehead and finally to the top of his head. Without pause she then ran her finger as though it were a blade and she was slicing him in two from his belly spot straight upward to his top spot. Ended with her hands cupped and placed parenthetically to the left and right of his head.

Darrow didn't budge. Eyes closed, he seemed to be soaking it up.

An involuntary sort of snarl from Gainer. He kept on trying to transmit his will, but after another minute of concentration so intense it made the back of his neck cramp, he quit it.

At the very instant he gave up, Leslie raised her head and aimed her point-of-view right at him. Despite her visor, she had to squint. She stood and stepped back into the shade of the cabana. What she saw through the diffusion of the window screen up there in the lesser light of her room could be nothing more than an astral projection, the spiritual replica of Gainer come to visit, was her thought. But then, did spirits usually wave like that?

In her hurry, she tripped over Darrow's legs and didn't even beg pardon, managed to contain herself to a fast walk until she was across the lawn. Ran up the steps and inside.

Gainer intended to nonchalant it, to be sitting slouched in a chair when she came in, but with the first sounds of her coming down the hall, he was up and moving to meet her.

They held, pressed so tightly it seemed they overlapped. Their mouths slicked together, being fed and feeding.

Gainer breathed her hair.

She breathed his neck.

The fabric of her maillot slipped against him. They were being pushed to the bed but decided it would be better saved and put half the room between them.

“You worried me,” she said.

“Did Darrow let you know where I was?”

“Just said you were off somewhere doing a favor for him. I tried to pump him but that was all I could get. He didn't want to talk about you.”

“What did he want?”

“Where the hell were you, anyway?”

Gainer told her, everything from the Concorde ride to Fraulein Foehr.

“For all I knew you were getting killed or something without me.”

“I tried calling.”

“I was just here.”

“Where you shouldn't be.”

“It was as near as I could get to whatever was happening to you.”

Best of all possible explanations, Gainer thought. He went to the window, glanced down to the pool, saw a woman get up from a lounge and do a neat little dive. She climbed out almost as quickly to resume her sunning. “Who are the people?” Gainer asked.

“Darrow's wife showed up unexpectedly. I don't think he's very pleased about it. Her name's Barbara. From what I gather she's just touching home plate and while she's at it, taking a bit extra from it. She brought an entourage with her—a woman her age, apparently her long-time conspirator, and a young Spaniard who is doing his impression of a count or something. Please come over here.” Leslie was on the fat arm of a summer-covered sofa, her legs straight out, parted and flexed.

“I love you,” Gainer said without looking at her.

“I need another kiss.”

“That piece of business I noticed you doing to Darrow down by the pool …”

“That?”

“That.”

“I was raising his organs.”

“Sure you were.”

“He complained about his gall bladder and you know how I hate to see anyone suffer.” She went over to the mirror above the dresser, examined her face briefly. “The insides of people get out of place,” she explained, “from gravity and stress and a lot of things. So they have to be put back where they should be with white light. A healer taught me how.”

“When?”

“Ages ago.”

“You never did that to me.”

“There are lots of things I've never done to you …”

“You expect me to—”

“… but I intend to.”

He went to her with a kiss. After it, he told her, “You worried me.” And she told him, her eyes looking directly into his, “I've been good. I haven't even had the monies much. You know, I'm almost convinced I could live within your means.”

Sapphires came to Gainer's mind. “Did you bring me a pair of swimming trunks?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“I've already taken too much sun,” she said, testing her shoulder skin with a finger.

“I want the edge of talking to Darrow while he's almost bareass.”

Leslie got out of her swimsuit while Gainer put his trunks on. She was in the bathroom humming a fragment from a Karen Akers song:

“…
I've lost my taste for

tears so many shoulders ago
…”

was adding apple cider vinegar to the water in the tub, when Gainer left the room.

He went down and out. As he passed the tennis court, Hine was so taken aback at the sight of him that a serve that was hardly more than a lob went by him for an ace. Gainer acknowledged Hine with the flick of an upward first finger.

Darrow did not know until he opened one eye that it was Gainer who pulled a mat over and lay beside him.

“What are you doing back?” Darrow asked, calm but annoyed.

“Took the first flight I could get.”

“Didn't Hine give you instructions?”

“Yeah.”

“You were supposed to stay over there—no less than a week.”

“He didn't mention that.”

Typical of Hine, Darrow thought, the miserable son of a bitch. Purposely forgot. “Want a drink?” Darrow asked.

“I'll have a Savannah Sneak.”

Darrow's gesture had a servant scurrying to them. “Bring Mr. Gainer a vodka and tonic.”

“Stolichnaya,” Gainer said.

Darrow settled again, eyes shut. He had some of that same sun-blocking white stuff on his nose. Big Chief Bird-Shit-on-the-Beak, Gainer thought. “Anyway,” Darrow asked, “how did it go?”

“What?” Just to taunt, make
him
nervous for a change.

“The carry.”

“No sweat.”

“It got there?”

“Three plus one.”

“It was supposed to be three even.”

“I should have stashed the one.”

“Seems someone can't count.”

Bullshit, Gainer almost said. His drink was brought.

“Where did they put you up?”

“At the Dolder.”

“First class, I presume.”

“A nice room. Couldn't have been better.”

Darrow's eyelids twitched twice. Gainer enjoyed the old liver spots on the back of Darrow's hands.

“How would you like to be put on as a regular?” Darrow asked.

“For a percentage?”

“And a draw, the same arrangement as Norma.”

“Why?”

“It's the least we could do in return for her loyalty.”

“I'll give it some thought.”

“So will we.” Darrow said with a double edge. He felt a flutter in his solar plexus. He liked dominating this unpleasant, brash young peasant. Couldn't remember when he'd gotten so much satisfaction from having his knee on someone's neck. And that would be the position for as long as he, Darrow, wanted it. He felt virtually smiled upon, the way things were turning out. How ironic that he should benefit from Hunsicker's man having missed. Not that he intended to let Hunsicker know that. Oh no, he'd put Hunsicker on the spit for it, for all the recent foul-ups, in fact. Only thing not so right, Darrow thought, was he could have made good use of more time with Mrs. Pickering. But even as it was, he believed he'd made quite a few points. “You're in my sun,” he told Gainer.

Gainer pretended he hadn't heard.

Darrow repeated the same words in the same tone.

Gainer got up and walked around to a lounger on the other side of the pool. He removed the wedge of fresh lime from his drink with his tongue, sucked on it while he gulped. Evidently whoever had made the drink was a better strong-arm than bartender. It hadn't been stirred, was topped by straight vodka that went down into Gainer like a molten wire. He just did manage not to make a face.

Off to his right, a dark-haired underfed young man stood halfway out on the diving board. Hands on hipbones, bars of his ribcage showing. The Spanish pretender, Gainer assumed. The young man was posed as though accommodating a photographer before at least a two and a half somersault with a twist. Maybe he was thinking what a long ways this was from a shoe factory in Barcelona.

Gainer blinked, imagined his eyes going
click
.

The young man sprang off the board and into the water feet first, unheroically holding his nose.

So much for him.

To Gainer's left, only one vacant lounger away, was a woman in a white two-piece sunsuit. Lying flat, face down. Her body appeared long, feet extended beyond the end of the lounger; no doubt she would be tall when upright. She turned her head and opened her eyes on Gainer. Wet her lips before asking: “Who are you?”

“I'm a Vanderbilt.” For the hell of it.

“I thought so.”

“Only a few of us left, you know.”

“Pity, really.”

“We don't issue too well.”

“What do people call you, Vandy?”

“Archie.” Silly enough name.

“You were probably named after the real Cary Grant. His first name was Archie, you know. I'm a Buckley myself,” she said, rolling over and adjusting the back of the lounger to a sitting position. “You can call me Millicent, if you like.”

“I don't usually like much,” he said, laying on the world weary.

“Neither do I. I must have disliked practically everything at one time or another.”

Gainer almost was enjoying the way she was going along with it. He noticed that any grays in her hair had been auburned. Indisputably a time fighter, he decided, one of those hoping for the title in her division. Sixty trying for forty, was his guess. Her face had been lifted and possibly relifted. Chin and neckline too tight not to have been tucked. Whoever had knifed had knifed her well, but no doubt there were scars left and right concealed by her hairline and those above and below her eyes were too fine to be discernible.