City Of Lies (52 page)

Marcus looked once more at Freiberg.

Freiberg smiled. ‘We all carry a responsibility to protect our own people Ben. You know this. We’re not here to discuss Sonny’s place, what affairs he may control elsewhere. You, as well as anyone, understand that we take the precautions we have to, and that is the nature of our business. We’re here to discuss the matter at hand, nothing more than that. All I can tell you is that Sonny will agree to acceptable terms, and he will do this for his father.’

Marcus hesitated for a moment, a flicker of something in his eyes. He looked once more at Harper. Harper returned his gaze unerringly. Ben Marcus turned to where Reiff and Neumann stood at the edge of the room. Almost imperceptible, but it was there. The slight shift of the head, the dismissal of whatever instructions Reiff and Neumann carried.

Marcus edged forward on his chair. ‘You understand the mechanical aspects of this agreement of course,’ he started.

‘I understand that we are brokering a deal,’ Harper said.

‘Brokering a deal, yes,’ Marcus replied. ‘And from what I understand you are here to act as proxy for your father.’

‘I am here to ensure that whatever proposal he made is executed to the letter. I am fully apprised of the terms of this sale, and I am determined to see it carried forward despite present circumstances.’ Harper glanced at Freiberg. Freiberg nodded, his own almost unnoticeable tilt of his head.
You’re doing fine Sonny
, that gesture said.
You’re doing just fine
.

‘Good,’ Marcus said. ‘I am obviously gravely concerned about Edward’s welfare, and though I understand that his position is still critical and there is a possibility he may not make it through this thing, I also believe wholeheartedly that this is what he wished to have done.’ Marcus looked at Freiberg. ‘Walter I have known for many years, and though there have been differences between us I am still respectful of his position as your father’s consigliere and confidant. However, considering the nature of this thing, the manner in which your father was so suddenly and brutally taken from this negotiation, I also respect Walter’s wish that a representative of Edward’s family be present to
conclude this matter. This is a big thing we are speaking of, and it needs to be done right or not at all.’

Harper nodded. His mouth was dry, his throat tight. For a moment he believed he would lose his balance. He pressed his feet down on the floor, hard enough to feel the strain in his knees. He cleared his throat and started speaking. ‘With the shooting of my father the control that he possessed of his own affairs was called into question. It would have been all too easy for someone to take away his interests and territory by force. An army loses its power when its leader is taken from the field. It creates confusion. Loyalties become all too easily subverted and transposed. My appearance here is to demonstrate nothing more than the consolidation of my father’s interests, and to act on his behalf. I understand Walter’s position, the fact that his authority might have been called into question, but let me assure you that I am in a position to act on my father’s behalf and make this thing work.’

‘And in the event of a failure to resolve this agreement satisfactorily?’

‘Then I shall not be making any calls to Miami, Mr Marcus . . . Miami is the last place I will be calling.’

Marcus frowned. ‘It is not a matter of threat or provocation, Mr Bernstein.’

‘I never said it was.’

‘But your implication—’

‘Implication is neither threat nor provocation,’ Harper said. ‘Implication is the perception of one thing from the words of another. We are businessmen, Mr Marcus. I am here for my father, no other reason. This matter . . .’ Harper waved his hand dismissively. ‘This matter of territories in New York is of no great concern to me. My concern is for my father’s name, the name of my family, and to see that whatever influence and capability I might possess be used judiciously to guarantee the name of that family. You will attend to your business with Mr Freiberg. Your people and my father’s will work together tomorrow and conclude this agreement satisfactorily. When this agreement is settled I will see to my father, and then I will return to Florida. My understanding is that you will be left with both territories under your control. This is correct?’

‘Yes, that is correct.’

‘Then my advice to you, Mr Marcus, is to maintain your word, see this thing through to its settlement, and create no trouble that does not need to be created.’ Harper leaned back and smiled. He felt assured, almost in control of himself. He knew it was a charade. He knew that the moment he left the room he would fall apart. He smiled graciously. ‘That is all, Mr Marcus, no more nor less than that.’

‘Which is good enough for me,’ Marcus said.

‘Then that is settled,’ Freiberg interjected. ‘For relinquishment of all concerns and interests, for the acquisition of all territory previously owned and controlled by Edward Bernstein, you agree to pay the sum of seven and a half million dollars, to be delivered in cash tomorrow evening at a location to be agreed now.’

Marcus was silent for a moment, surveying the faces of the people before him. ‘Agreed,’ he said.

Freiberg turned and looked at Harper. ‘Sonny, you agree?’

Harper nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I agree.’ His heart trip-hammered in his chest. He wanted to move, wanted to do anything but stay facing Ben Marcus. There was something terrifying about the man. The man was a consolidation of endless nightmares personified in human form. Such a man as Marcus would kill without reserve, without compunction, without consideration of consequence. Perhaps, Harper believed, that was what he had intended to do all along.

Marcus rose from his chair, Harper also. They met in the center of the room, for a moment each of them hesitant, and then they shook hands, held their grasp for some considerable time, each of them looking directly at the other.

Marcus stepped back. He seemed in his element. ‘It is unfortunate, is it not, that you will not be accompanying us on our little adventure tomorrow. Perhaps we could have used some of your Florida crew, eh Sonny? I think West Twelfth—’

‘No details,’ Freiberg suddenly said. He rose from his chair. ‘Sonny will not be with us on this thing, Ben. There is no need for him to be aware of anything that may compromise his objective position. He is here merely as a representative of his father, here to make sure that the agreement you made with Edward stands. Once this is done he will return to Florida and attend to his own business down there.’

Marcus smiled. ‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘So now
our
business is concluded we should drink our coffee, speak of inconsequential pleasantries for a little while, and then away to prepare for Christmas, eh?’

‘Indeed,’ Harper said, believing that at no time in his life had he ever so desperately wished to be somewhere other than where he was.

Within minutes the gathering was disbanded. Marcus once again shook hands with both Freiberg and John Harper, and then walked them from the door of the room to the elevator. Marcus and his people waited while the lift was called, stood and watched as Harper and Freiberg stepped inside, Marcus never looking anywhere but directly at Harper, watching him even as the elevator door closed and started down. Harper and Freiberg remained motionless, each of them completely silent, until they reached the street below.

‘You did good,’ Freiberg said quietly, almost a whisper. ‘Real fucking good. Edward . . . hell, John, Edward would’ve been proud of you.’

Harper, experiencing the greatest sense of turmoil, the greatest conflict and division of loyalties he had ever known, believed he would not make it to the car.

He did, for Walt Freiberg was beside him, holding him up all the way.

‘I don’t care,’ Marcus said, his voice edgy, irritated.

Sol Neumann stood at the window, looking down into the street as Walt Freiberg and Sonny Bernstein came into view. He watched them as they made their way towards the car parked against the facing sidewalk.

‘Let it go, Sol,’ Marcus continued.

Neumann turned, stepped forward and took a seat.

‘When this thing is finished . . . when Christmas Eve is done, then I’ll find Walt Freiberg and kill him.’

‘And Sonny Bernstein?’ Neumann asked. ‘Whoever the fuck this guy is . . . what are we going to do about him?’

Marcus smiled, waved his hand. ‘Who the hell cares? He goes back wherever he came from. We get what we want out of this.’

‘And Lenny?’

‘Lenny is going to die. He isn’t dead come Christmas Day then
we’re going to send someone in there and finish this thing for good.’

Neumann nodded, didn’t speak.

‘Whichever way it goes we wind up with New York,’ Marcus said. ‘Long time overdue . . . the way it always should have been.’

Later, close to eight, having left the hotel and walked four blocks west, Harper stopped at a callbox and dialled Duchaunak’s cellphone number.

‘I went to their meeting,’ Harper said.

‘You what?’

‘The meeting with Freiberg and Marcus . . . last minute change. I had to go too.’

‘Jesus Christ . . . what the fuck. . .’

‘It’s over now. Another story for another day. I gotta get back to the hotel.’

‘So what happened?’ Duchaunak asked.

‘West Twelfth,’ Harper said. ‘That’s all I know.’

‘West Twelfth what?’

‘How the fuck do I know? That’s all that I could get. Marcus said that it was unfortunate I wouldn’t be accompanying them on their little adventure tomorrow, and then he mentioned West Twelfth. Walt Freiberg stopped him saying anything further.’

‘You think that’s one of the places they’re going to hit?’ Duchaunak asked.

‘Jesus Christ, you’re the fucking detective. What do I think . . . oh fuck, I don’t know, maybe they’re all going to meet there and choose Christmas presents for the help.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Duchaunak said. ‘I’m just thinking aloud, okay?’

‘Go think aloud somewhere else. I really have to get back to the hotel.’

‘Mr Harper?’

‘What?’

‘I appreciate your help.’

‘It’s as good as I’ve got . . . there isn’t anything more after this.’ He paused for a moment. ‘One other thing.’

‘What?’

‘I agreed to do it for three hundred grand. That was the deal I made with Walter Freiberg. I would do what he asked and I’d walk away with three hundred grand.’ Harper didn’t wait for Duchaunak to respond; he hung up the phone and elbowed his way out of the callbox.

The snow came down thick and fast.

Tomorrow it would be Christmas Eve.

Eight-forty-two a.m.

‘How many times has he called?’ McLuhan asked.

‘Counting this time . . . er, seven I think. Four calls last night and three this morning.’

‘And what is he saying?’

‘That he has to speak with you, something about Lenny Bernstein’s son.’

McLuhan sat without moving. It was Christmas Eve. Last thing he needed was Duchaunak somewhere in New York City, out of control, beyond whatever dividing line existed between his sense and his obsessions.

‘Call Faulkner . . . Faulkner will more than likely know what’s going on.’

Oates nodded. ‘I called him, landline and cell . . . left messages on both. He has family upstate, may have gone there for Christmas.’

‘As we all should’ve done,’ McLuhan said. ‘How did he sound?’

‘Duchaunak? God knows, Captain, how does he always sound? Manic?’

‘Jesus Christ, this I do not need. He calls again put him through. Don’t let him talk to anyone else, just put him straight through to me.’

‘Sure thing,’ Sergeant Oates said, and turned to leave the office.

‘Oh, and one more thing.’

Oates turned.

‘Don’t say a word to anyone about Duchaunak. Not a fucking word, okay?’

‘What . . . that he called, or that he’s crazy?’

McLuhan scowled. ‘That he called for God’s sake. Don’t mention to anyone that he called.’

‘As you wish Captain,’ Oates said, and disappeared down the corridor towards the elevator.

It took three attempts before the car started. Old car, an ancient Chrysler Plymouth station wagon, but Dr Kennet Wiltsey was determined to drive her until she died on the road. Wiltsey was a creature of habit, ignorant of fashion or trend, and regarded any attempt to revise his ways as both offensive and invidious. He was fifty-three years old, head of the Department of Anthropology and Religion at NYSU; graduated from Oxford University, England, with an honors degree in Religious Studies.

When it came to God, Kennet Wiltsey knew a thing or two. Cars, however, were a different thing, hence the Chrysler Plymouth station wagon and three attempts to start her after a night of heavy snow in New York. Christmas Eve the university was officially closed, but that afternoon – commemorating the season, acknowledging the acquisition of additional funding from a private benefactor that would permit the construction of an annexe to the university library – there was a luncheon scheduled. Dr Kennet Wiltsey had been asked not only to preside over the lunch, but to give the keynote speech. He had no family as such, and thus there would be no rowdy gathering of antecedents and progeny the following day. Others spoke of such gatherings and Wiltsey experienced nothing but relief. For Christmas dinner itself he had been invited – and had indeed accepted – by the university’s deputy principal, Robert Bryan, and en route to this day’s luncheon, Kennet Wiltsey had scheduled a stop at a small bookstore called The Reader’s Rest. There, in the possession of a most pleasant young woman called Annie Parrish, waited a copy of James Fenimore Cooper’s 1828
Notions of the Americans
. Bryan was a Fenimore Cooper aficionado, and a first edition of
Notions
would not only surprise the man, it would damn near give him a coronary seizure. Such was Wiltsey’s humor, such was his generosity, such his intention for that afternoon and the subsequent day.

He would indeed make his appointment at the bookstore, and there he would purchase the Fenimore Cooper. The luncheon he did not make, despite having prepared a most sardonic and
excellent speech, peppered with tasteful quips and wryly obscure references, for – as he entered the New York Providence Bank on West Ninth and Washington – he was shot in the face by a hooded man. It was nine-forty-two a.m. The bullet, a .45 caliber Glaser Safety slug, penetrated Wiltsey’s head alongside the nose, perhaps three-quarters of an inch below the left eye; the proximity of the weapon, no more than eight or nine feet from the target, the simple fact that it was a handgun of significant power, and the nature of a Glaser Safety – designed to spread on impact and thereby reduce the possibility of passing through the intended target and hitting an innocent bystander – meant that Kennet Wiltsey, half the alphabet chasing his name, fifty-three years of age and of rare and inordinate intelligence, was dead before he hit the polished parquet floor.