Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (27 page)

Jo Jo took a hit.
 
“I’ll show you what else I need.”
 
He reached down and retrieved the half-empty bottle of Scotch from the open drawer at his feet, put it between them on the cluttered counter.
 
“Want a drink?”
 
He unscrewed the bottle cap and clicked it down on the glass counter.
 
“I guarantee you this little honey will take care of all your problems.”

For a moment, Marty believed it would.
 
But right now, he needed to keep his head clear and so he declined.
 
"No, thanks," he said.

"Shit's good.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Trust me.”

“Trust you?
 
Spellman, if anyone needs a drink right now, it's you.
 
You look like shit.
 
And I know that look because I see it on my wife's face every time she turns to look at me.
 
It's like she just saw a horror movie.
 
But whatever.
 
Your call."
 

And so Jo Jo, seldom a generous man, wasn't about to ask again.
 
Instead, he reached for a dirty glass hidden within arm’s reach behind the towering stack of boxes.
 
He picked up the bottle of Scotch and began to pour, his gnarled, unsteady hand causing the amber liquid to slosh.
 
When he drank, he did so in little gasps that fogged the glass.
 

"I'll see you later, Jo Jo."

"Right on, brother."

*
 
*
 
*

He left the store, caught the E-train at West 4th, and shot uptown to 53rd and Third.
 
As the train rocked, he thought of Judge Wood and her high-brow neighbors on 75th and Fifth.
 

Even if someone hadn’t seen Wood being dropped off yesterday morning, wasn’t it likely that over the years someone had seen something unusual in her behavior?
 
Wood leaving late every third Thursday night?
 
Wood coming home drugged out of her mind the next morning?
 

Marty knew.
 
This was New York.
 
Here, prying eyes missed nothing, knew everything, collected information like a computer.
 
If only the mouths would speak.
 
But how to get them to talk?

Think.
 

Who did he know on 75th who lived near Wood?
 
There must be someone--Gloria would have made sure of it.
 
She cultivated friendships on Sutton and Beekman, Fifth and Park.
 
She was the ultimate address snob, the quintessential climber.
 
Live in a penthouse on Fifth? Come on over for a cocktail.
 
Have an apartment overlooking the Park?
 
Let’s do dinner.
 
Marty never understood it.

Gloria.
 

Right now, she was the last person he wanted to speak to.
 
But there was no question she would know a neighbor or two of Wood’s.
 
No question she was still friends with those people and could get him inside.

Her influence could make all the difference.
 

He needed to call her.
 
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell.
 
He was down to one bar, but if he was quick, it might be enough.

Gloria picked up on the fourth ring, her cool voice an absolute change from the woman he once loved.

Gloria, his latest contact.

Gloria, helping him out on a case.

Sweet Jesus.

*
 
*
 
*

 
“You want me to do what?” Gloria asked.

“A favor,” Marty said.
 
“I want you to do me a favor.”

“Let me get this straight,” Gloria said.
 
“You miss lunch with your daughters and you want me to do you a favor?
 
Oh, that’s rich, Marty.
 
That’s perfect.”

“I didn’t miss lunch,” Marty said.
 
“I was a few minutes late.”
 

“You were thirty minutes late.”

“It was unavoidable.”

“It was inexcusable.
 
Obviously, the excuses won’t end with you.”

She paused and Marty could feel her mind working.
 

“Why were you late?
 
Does it have to do with Maggie Cain?”

He could hardly lie to her--Gloria would know.
 
“Yes," he said.
 
"She's also the reason I need your help now.”

“Is she in some sort of trouble?”

“She might be.”

“You know she’s my favorite writer.
 
You know I love what she does with words.
 
She paints with them.
 
She creates landscapes, murals, art.
 
She has an ability to generate entire fields of engrossing characters.
 
Her plots are something to be studied and admired.”

Marty said nothing.

“You’ve never asked me for help before,” she said suspiciously.
 
“Why now?”

“Because you’re the only one who can help me.”
 
That wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t exactly a lie either.
 
At home, Marty had a list of names and addresses of all their friends and acquaintances.
 
He could have gone there, skimmed the list himself for someone they knew on 75th, called them up, and hoped they’d agree to see him.
 

But it was too much of a risk.
 
These people adored Gloria and her rising star.
 
They’re the ones who put her on a pedestal and applauded first before the rest of the art world followed suit.
 
He had been her absentee husband, writing his little movie reviews and bringing down wealthy people not unlike themselves.
 
That's what he was known for--being hired by the rich to take down the rich.
 
If he was going to break into this crowd, he'd need her influence.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

He told her.
 

"No way."

"Come on, Gloria."

"They don't like you, Marty.
 
None of my friends like you.
 
I'm not risking my reputation because of you."

"What about for Maggie Cain?"

"This will help her?"

"This could change everything for her.
 
It could save her."

“The situation is that dangerous, then?”

He laid it on thick.
 
“It’s worse.”

A silence passed.
 
Marty could feel her weighing her options.

"Alright," she said.
 
"But there's a condition."

Of course, there was.
 
"What is it?"

“I want the girls for Christmas.”

He almost hung up the phone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Carra Wolfhagen stood to the right of her third-story bedroom window, a sleeve of red curtain pressed against her cheek as she looked down at the street, where the media and the curious had come to catch a glimpse of her and her murdering thief of a husband.
 

What were they thinking, knowing he was here with her now?
 
That she’d had a change of heart, supported him, welcomed him into her home and taken him back?
 

If only she had the courage to tell them what she’d kept secret for years.

She moved away from the window and glanced across to the locked bedroom door.
 
Fear of him rooted her here.
 
She thought of the gun sitting ten feet away in the top drawer of her nightstand and knew if she could kill Max--right now--and get away with it, she’d do it.
 
She’d find him in this house and take his life for the one he continued to steal from her.

Where was he now?
 
In his guest suite?
 
On the phone with his lawyers?
 
Or maybe he was watching that disc.

That disc.
 
If she phoned the police now and they came, she knew Max would somehow find a way to destroy the DVD before they made it to him.
 
He’d burn it or smash it or crush it and flush it.
 
He'd find some way to get rid of it.
 
Still, at some point, she'd have her opportunity.
 
When the time was right and she felt safe, she'd grab that disc, contact the police and be rid of him forever.
 

But now?
 
Now she wanted out of this room.
 

She went to the door and pressed her ear against it, heard nothing, unfastened the lock and opened the door.
 
She looked into the hallway and saw only her cat, Sasha, strolling by.

Carra went after it, scooped the animal into her arms, listened.
 
The house was quiet.
 
The cat purred against her breast.
 

Behind her, a door opened and clicked shut.

Though the hallway was generous in width, Carra pressed her back to the wall as her husband, naked save for the shaving cream dripping from his body, stepped out of the bathroom with the gold straight razor clutched high in his hand.
 

He was bleeding from the peak of each nipple, but he didn’t seem to notice.
 
Too angry and too high to notice.
 
He did a little jig in the middle of the hallway and twirled around twice, glaring at her each time, fanning out his sopping arms, nearly knocking off a side table the expensive vase she’d bought at auction with his stolen money.
 
With his arms pinwheeling, he came over to where she was standing, stopped and then scraped the razor down the length of his stomach.
 
With his head cocked, he flicked the blade hard and sprayed her face with a mixture of stubble, shaving cream and blood.
 

Carra turned her head and gasped.
 

She dropped the cat, ran the back of her hand across her face and smeared her lipstick with the cool pink foam.
 
She tasted his blood on her lips and thought of HIV as she frantically wiped her sleeve across the tight line that was her mouth.
 

Furious, repelled, she reached out to slap him but he snagged her wrist first.
 
She raised her other hand to strike, but he dropped the blade and grabbed it before she could.
 
He stuck his face in hers.
 
His pupils were tiny islands of black sand drowning in rough blue waters.
 
His eyelids trembled from the nerves he’d fried with meth.
 
There was nothing she could do when he was like this, only pray to God he wouldn’t beat her as he had in the past.