Book of Nathan (15 page)

“One question,” I fired at Arcontius while he was busy
herding us outside. “The painting in the library. Who’s the woman?”

Arcontius’s beetle-like face told me what he really wanted
to say was “none of your damn business.”
But
he decided to spit out an answer. “Ruth Silverstein—Mr. Silverstein’s late
daughter.”

Chapter 9

 
“Want a historical factoid to help pass the
time?” Doc Waters called out from the back of my Buick.

“All right.” Like it or not, it was trivia time.
   

“Arcontius was a Catholic bishop.”
 

“Yeah, right.” I cranked my head to catch a glimpse of the
white-haired genius behind me. Doc had been relegated to my car’s rear seat for
the return trip to New Brunswick, while Maurice got in front. The passenger
shuffle was all about keeping Maurice’s motion-sensitive gut under control.

“I’m not talking about the worm who polishes Arthur
Silverstein’s boots,” Waters clarified.

“That should make a billion Catholics feel better.”

“Somewhere around the eighth or ninth century, there was a
French bishop named Arcontius. He went nose-to-nose with a mob that had some
issues with the church and ended up getting clubbed to death. Because he stood
up for the boys in Rome, Arcontius was made a saint.”

“Fascinating,” I said, intrigued. “The guy we just met must
come from a different bloodline. Because I guarantee you—sainthood isn’t in
Abraham Arcontius’s future.”

In my rearview mirror, I saw the Doc nod.
  

“Change of subject,” I said. “What did you and Arcontius
talk about while Silverstein was marching me around his mansion?”
 

“Absolutely nothing. Arcontius dumped Maurice and me in a
room next to the library. Never saw him again until he threw us out.”

“When Arcontius first brought us into Silverstein’s library,
did you notice the painting behind Arthur’s desk?”

“The one you asked him about?”

“Yeah, the picture of Silverstein’s daughter. Know anything
about her?”

Doc grinned. He knew everything. “Absolutely. It was a big
story twenty, thirty years ago. His daughter was an addict who overdosed in
some lower Manhattan dive. The tabloids had a field day speculating on whether
it was an accident or whether she deliberately killed herself. Anyway, the
kid’s death unhinged Arthur’s wife and she spent the next year or so in and out
of a psych ward. You probably know the rest of the story—Mrs. Silverstein
jumped off the Queensboro Bridge.”

Coupling pity with Silverstein didn’t come easy. “This is
going to sound weird,” I said, “but Twyla looks like Arthur’s daughter.”

The professor laughed. “Promise to have me around when you
tell Silverstein that his kid has been reincarnated as a lap dancer.”

I wanted more of Doc’s input, but my curiosity was cut short
by my cell phone. It was Doug Kool returning a call I had placed earlier in the
day.

“Holy Christ,” Doug said. “You nearly got your ass blown
off. Talk about bad luck. Getting mixed up in a damn terrorist attack.”

“It wasn’t a terrorist attack. I think the bomb was meant
for me.”

“What? Are you nuts?
Don’t
you watch TV, for God sakes? It was some Islamic fundamentalist idiot who blew
the place up. Besides, who’d want you dead?”

“I’m trying to figure that out,” I answered. “And by the
way, I don’t watch TV because I’m too busy keeping both eyes on Twyla Tharp.”

Doug went quiet for a time, probably thinking about the
possibility of how an attack on me might also damage Manny Maglio’s niece.
“Listen, I don’t want Twyla getting hurt, Bullet. Not a scratch. Jesus, that’s
all I need is to have her banged up. And I’m not talking about the usual way
she gets banged up.”

“Try not to worry too much about me,” I said sarcastically.
“I called you earlier because I need a favor.”

“You’re going to squeeze me again?”

“You’re going to get squeezed as long as I have to play den
mother to your big donor’s relative. You stuck me with Twyla, and my guess is
you knew from the start this was going to be a long-term deal. Well, here’s a
bulletin. I’m teetering on the edge of saying ‘so long’ to Manny’s niece.”
 

I listened to Doug take a long breath. “Don’t even think
about rocking the boat. Maglio’s contribution will put the United Way over the
top this year. All I’m asking is that you keep Twyla in check. You owe it to
me.”

I knew enough about Doug’s business to grasp the seriousness
of the situation. In his world, it was about making the numbers. If the United
Way missed its annual fund-raising goal, then it would be bye-bye to the Harris
& Gilbarton contract. And God forbid my friend should have to go
bottom-fishing for work. He might even end up managing a homeless shelter.

“I don’t owe you anything!” I argued. “When we flew back
from Orlando, we were even steven. If you want me to continue playing
nursemaid, you’re going to lend your old friend a hand.”

The man who rarely lost his cool was working harder than
usual to keep himself under control. “All right. What do you want?”

“Two things. First, I want a rundown on Arthur Silverstein’s
daughter.”

“Ruth Silverstein? She’s ancient history.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want to know what happened to her. What
really
happened.”

“She was a screwed-up druggie,” said Doug. “Went over the
edge and OD’d. Not a lot more to know.”

There was a hint of hesitancy in my friend’s voice. Maybe
Doug was just confounded about my interest in Silverstein’s kid. Or maybe he
was privy to information that wasn’t supposed to come out.

“I want the story behind the story.”
 

“What’s this all about, Bullet?”

“I don’t have to answer that.” Which was a good thing since
I couldn’t come up with an intelligent response. It was about the way
Silverstein connected with the painting in his library.
 

“All right, all right,” Doug gave up. “I’ll see what I can
do. So what else?”

“
Quia Vita
.”

“
Quia Vita?
What about it?”

“Let me save us both some time. Don’t start with the ‘I
don’t know the organization.’ You’re wired to every nonprofit operation in New
York.”

“All I know is that
Quia
Vita
plays nothing but hardball. And the woman who runs it—”

“What woman?”

“Judith Russet. She’s a Mack truck. I’m telling you—don’t
get involved.”

“I’m not looking for a one-on-one with the lady,” I said.
“I’m trying to find out whether
Quia
Vita
had a connection to Benjamin Kurios.”

“Listen, don’t go there.” Doug’s voice rose. “You’re
completely over the edge. Until now, it’s been a harmless game of Clue. But you
start messing with
Quia Vita
’s
top dog and you’re up against a pit bull.”

“You want me to watch Twyla or not?”

“Jesus.”

“So what’s it going to be?
Quia Vita
or Manny’s niece dropped on your doorstep?”

Doug cogitated. “
Quia
Vita
holds a meeting in Manhattan each month. Don’t ask how I know—I just do.”

“What kind of meeting?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not a group that broadcasts its agenda.
If I remember right, they meet the third Friday of every month.”

“That’s tomorrow night,” I said more to myself than to Doug.
“Where does this crowd get together?”

“You need to hear what I’m saying.
Don’t
mess
with these people!”

“Where?”

Doug sighed. “Always the same place. The Grand Hyatt.”

“Midtown? At Grand Central Station?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have any idea what goes on at these meetings?”

“They’re recruiting sessions.
Quia Vita
rounds up pro-lifers with deep pockets from around the country and brings them
to Manhattan. It’s an invitation-only deal.”

I wasn’t planning on taking the next step. It just happened.
“Get me in, Doug.”

“In where?”

“The meeting tomorrow night.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Finagle a couple of invitations.”

“I won’t do that,” Doug said flatly.

“Too bad. I’ll put Twyla on the train in the morning. She
should be at your office in time for lunch.”

“I can’t believe this,” Doug grunted and snorted for a time.
Then he came through. “All right. There’s this Hyatt sales rep who handles the
Quia Via
account. I’ve thrown her some business over the years. Maybe she could open the
door. I don’t know—it’s a long shot.”

“Get her to cough up a couple of invitations. Doc Waters
will be coming with me.”

“What?”

“Doc has his faults, but he has a way of solving puzzles. I
want him at my side.”

Doug wasted more time trying to convince me my idea was
sheer insanity. I wouldn’t bend. All arrows were pointing to
Quia Vita
and I needed as much insight about the organization as possible. Climbing into
the belly of an extremist group would be dicey, but doing nothing was more
dangerous. The two men who tried and failed to exterminate me were probably regrouping.
Staying ahead of their next bomb meant moving fast and taking a few necessary
risks.
   

I
dropped Doc and Maurice at the Gateway and drove to a car wash on Route 1. The
seven dollar super-clean cycle and a two dollar vanilla deodorizer strip were
no match for the odor Maurice had left in my Buick. A half hour later, I was
back in my office and found two Post-It
messages
slapped on my phone.

Pick up Twylie Thorp at four thirty, call Middlesex County
Admin. Office.

Call Figgy Rosenblatter

The first call was answered by Twyla’s probation officer who
explained that Manny’s niece had been referred to an occupational counselor.
Middlesex County was trying to find something Twyla could use to make a living
other than her vagina. Apparently Twyla mentioned that she had already been
offered a job at Universal Orlando, but the bureaucrats brushed that off as
wishful thinking. I could have validated Twyla’s story but that would have just
put her back in my custody sooner than four thirty. So, I left things the way
they were and placed my second call to Yigal Rosenblatt.

“Got paint from the car that burned,” Yigal proclaimed. “I’m
ready to bring it to New Jersey.”

“Yigal, this guy you know in Weehawken—”

“Morty Margolis is his name. He’s my partner’s brother-in-law.
Remember?”

“I remember. The point is, it would be a waste of time for
you to drive all the way from Florida to Jersey if this guy Margolis can’t or
won’t give us a hand.”
 

“Oh, he’ll help,” Yigal insisted. “Not a waste of
time.”
 

I pictured the drool rolling out of Yigal’s mouth. The
thought of touching base with Twyla before doing business with Morty Margolis
was putting a little extra buzz in the already overly stimulated lawyer.

“So, when will you be here?” I asked.

“Leaving now.”

“Now? You’re going to drive all night?”

“Be there in the morning.”