Known to Evil (30 page)

I didn't doubt a word that Tiny had said. I did, however, wonder if he had considered how vulnerable someone like Zephyra would make him. She wouldn't agree to live in a hole, or to a suicide pact, in order to protect data.

"You got a pencil?" I asked him.

He reached under the table, coming out with a cheap retractable pen and a violet notepad. I scribbled down a phone number and pushed the tiny binder back at him.

"What's this?"

"That's a special number that every important person in the city has. It connects to a solitary 911 operator who has at her beck and call an elite SWAT unit, one in each borough. All you have to do is call that number and the police will be here in force in under five minutes--no questions asked."

In my years moving among gangsters and bent businessmen I'd accumulated a whole treasure trove of information. The special emergency number came from Alphonse Rinaldo himself.

"Wow." It was a rare thing to impress Bug.

"Yeah," I said. "Before you level the block, you might just use that."

52

R
egents Bank's main office was on Sixth, at Fifty-third. They owned the entire building. The ground floor brought to mind a futuristic grand ballroom with forty-foot ceilings and crystal walls. The floor was a huge mosaic, a copy of an Australian Aboriginal rock painting depicting their god, the Great Lizard, passing over the Land of Man.

Most of the floor was empty of furniture or partitions. Small groups stood here and there, discussing who knows what. There was a large semicircular desk toward the far end of the vast room where three young women waited to grant or disallow entrance to the higher levels of Regents.

The desk was made from plastic, or maybe glass, with an emerald tint. The young women were Asian, African-American, and Hispanic--all young and, to one degree or another, lovely.

"Yes? Can I help you?" the smiling Asian child asked.

"Leonid Trotter McGill," I said. "For Mr. Oscar Shell."

"What department?"

"He's a special operative in the employ of Sandra Sanderson the Third."

Something like fear entered the young woman's eyes. However, the smile managed to keep a place hold on the lower half of her face.

She turned to her girlfriends and huddled.

A guard with an earphone entered from stage right. I gazed wistfully at the red-and-ochre mosaic tiles at my feet.

All three of the women stood and approached me.

"What is your business?" the black woman asked me.

"Is Mr. Shell here?"

"That's not what I asked you."

"The only thing you need to know is that my business with you is getting to Mr. Shell."

No one there liked me.

"I'm sorry, we, we don't have anybody by that name here," the Hispanic woman said.

"Then I'll leave."

The suited guard took a step toward me.

Evoking my beloved, and favorite, son, I did a single shoulder shrug and made to turn away.

"Excuse me," the Asian woman said.

I noticed then that all three were the same height.

"Yes?"

"Does this business have to do with Regents?"

"No," I said. "I'm pretty sure not. At least I hope not."

"What does that mean?"

Another guard appeared--stage left.

"A woman may have been threatened by Mr. Shell. And we believe that he is known to Ms. Sanderson. I came here to investigate along that line of inquiry."

" 'We'?"

"I represent a consortium that reports to a central body interested in the welfare of this woman and the actions of those connected with said Mr. Shell."

Highbrow language usually gets under the skin of the underlings of power.

One of the guards spoke into his left cuff. I wondered if their earphones were somehow connected to a transmitter at the clear green reception desk.

"But you say that there is no Mr. Shell here?" I said.

"No," the first receptionist I spoke to said.

"Then we've been misinformed." I turned to go.

"Sir?" the black receptionist said. She was holding a small green wireless phone against the left side of her face.

"Yes?"

"Take the elevator through the door behind our desk."

I glanced at the portal and wondered.

"To what floor?" I asked.

"It only goes to one floor."

"Will Oscar Shell be there?"

"I can only tell you what I've been told."

I hesitated a moment more. I hadn't actually expected admission to Regents' inner sanctum. I only wanted to shake things up a bit. But there I was, flanked by two mortal descendants of Cerberus and faced with three modern- day sirens.

Knowing the mythology, I should have walked out.

"Okay," I said.

The Latina raised a section of the round desk as the Asian used an electronic card to open the door.

I walked through into a small cylindrical room that was colored dark red from ceiling to floor. Before me stood an onyx elevator door that slid open, seemingly at my approach.

The black car had two buttons: a green disc over a cream-colored one. I pressed the upper button, and, after a moment, the car began a speedy ascent.

Maybe eighty seconds later, the car came to a stop and the door opened onto a large space that was more like a living room than an office. The floors were white marble and the distant windows looked eastward, toward Long Island. There was a rainstorm passing in the distance.

"Forgive me, sir," a well-built white man in an olive-green suit said.

"For what?"

"I'm going to search you."

He was tall enough, in his forties, I guessed, and bald. Probably pretty strong.

"No," I said.

Mild surprise rippled across his handsome features.

"I'm afraid I'll have to insist."

"You should be--afraid, that is. Because I'm mad as a mothahfuckah and I don't believe you can take me. At the very least you have to prove it before you can see what's in my pockets."

The bodyguard's face had a tan complexion. His intelligent eyes gave the impression of education--both formal and from the street. He had seen a lot of struggle in his life but did not expect it in this rarefied atmosphere.

I noticed a jet in the distant sky, taking off from Kennedy, no doubt.

The bodyguard took a step in my direction.

I smiled invitingly.

"Mr. Corman," a deep feminine voice intoned.

From somewhere to the left a tall and slender woman approached.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Let's forgo the routine this time. I'm sure that Mr. McGill isn't here to make trouble."

"But Ms. Sanderson--"

"Stand aside," she said. She had a voice that was used to being obeyed.

Mr. Corman backed away as the woman strode forward.

At first I couldn't make out her features because of the light from behind. But then, suddenly, the light of the entryway revealed her face.

It was the mask of a forty-year-old woman perfectly molded to a skull that sat atop a fit seventy-year-old body. She had done her Pilates and eaten acres of broccoli but that hadn't stopped the clock, not completely.

"You'll have to forgive Mr. Corman," she said. "He's a new employee and hasn't yet mastered the subtleties of his position."

"Is another one of your employees an Oscar Shell?" I asked.

"Thousands of people work for me. You can't expect that I would know them all by name."

Twelve feet behind her sat two black sofas on a bright pine floor.

"What do you want with this Mr. Shell?" she asked.

Her steel-gray pants suit and lilac blouse were designed for the forty-year-old she was impersonating. But the backs of her hands were discolored and wrinkled.

I glanced to the left to see what Corman was up to. He watched me with the same purpose.

"Mr. McGill?" Sandra Sanderson III prodded.

"I wanted to ask him a question."

"What's that?"

"Who hired him to frighten and harass my client?"

"You're a lawyer?"

"A dick."

"I see. And who is your client?"

"My business."

"And how much is this client paying?"

"She's paying the going rate. The only rate I ever charge."

"I see."

"You don't know him?"

"No."

"Then why am I here?" I asked.

"I wanted to get a look at you." Her words accomplished their sinister intent.

"May I ask you something?"

"If you wish."

"I never heard of a woman, outside of royalty and cruise ships, called 'the Third.' Did your mother go by 'Junior'?"

"I come from a long line of strong women, Mr. McGill. I believe you will discover that fact at some point in your misguided investigation."

"Are you telling me that you don't own the Leontine Building over on Park?" I said.

That did something to the old woman's eyes.

"Come sit with me for a moment, Mr. McGill," she commanded.

We strode into the block-long living room--Sandra in the lead, me in close pursuit, and Corman bringing up the rear.

She gestured toward one of the black sofas and I sat at the end nearest me. Sandra perched in the middle of her ebony divan and brought her hands together, as if in symbolic, passionless prayer.

"Do you have children, Mr. McGill?"

"I have friends with guns," I said in answer to a perceived threat.

"I have wealth beyond the everyday citizen's ability to comprehend," she said, "and still I could not save my son's life."

"I read about that. I'm sorry."

"I would do anything to make my son's memory a part of the fabric of this city that he loved."

"New York's like a boiling cauldron," I said, only dimly understanding why. "We are all consumed therein."

"That's down in the street you're talking about," Sanderson told me with a dismissive wave of her liver-spotted hand. "Up here it's different. Up here we can make a difference."

I stared out the window, wondering at the nature of the combination of folly and wealth.

"Do you know a man named . . . Alphonse Rinaldo?" she asked.

"No. Who is he?"

Despite my usual sangfroid, sweat sprouted on my head.

"I could make you a rich man," she offered.

"I'm sure."

"Where can I find Angelique Lear?"

There were no planes in the sky, no rain.

"I don't know."

"Are you a fool, Mr. McGill?"

"That I am."

"I will have my memorial or that child will die, as my son died."

"Not while I'm here."

"You are nothing," she said.

There was a finality to her sentence. I felt as if a high court had just pronounced judgment on my soul.

"Grant," she said then, speaking to Mr. Corman. "See our guest out."

"I can push the button myself," I said.

I stood up on boxer's pins. I might have been wobbled, but I was going to end that round on my feet.

53

I
had made it past the green desk and more than half the way across Regents Bank's broad entrance hall.

"Excuse me, sir," one of the burly business-suited guards from earlier said.

I kept walking.

"Excuse me."

Moving at a pretty good clip, I was less than fifteen feet from the revolving door when one of the men got in front of me. His partner was there at my side a moment later.

One was black, the other white, but for the most part they were interchangeable minions of the Corporation. Their suits were both dark blue, their heights indistinguishably tall.

"Yes?"

"Come with us, please," the white one said. "We have some questions."

"No thanks."

"We have to insist."

"You will swallow all your front teeth before I go anywhere with either one of you."

"What?" the black corporate cop said. He put a hand on my shoulder.

For a man in his mid-fifties I'm pretty fast. I crouched down and hooked a good left into the black man's midsection. I felt the wound inflicted by Patrick tear a bit, but it was worth it. I could tell by the guard's deep exhalation that he would need a few moments to recover. I stood up behind a right uppercut that the white guard had no defense for. He sprawled out on his back and I started walking toward the doors again.

People shouted behind me, but my point had been made effectively. No one else tried to block my egress. I exited the building feeling right with the world for the first time in many days.

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE," a voice commanded on Forty-ninth between Fifth and Sixth.

I stopped and turned. Four uniforms were approaching.

"Yes, officers?" I asked, smiling sincerely.

"Don't move."

"Is there a problem?"

I liked the makeup of the modern NYPD even if they had no use for me. The small group consisted of a black woman, a black man, one Asian gentleman, and a strawberry-blond white rookie who somehow brought to my mind the phrase
one-hit wonder.

The black man was the one addressing me. He was solidly built, not a hair over five eight.

"Where you coming from?" he asked.

"Just out for a walk, officer."

"From where?"

"I don't know. Walkin' around is all."

"Let me see your knuckles."

"Why?"

"Show me your hands."

"Give me a reason," I said. I hadn't meant for it to sound like a threat but I could see a jolt go through the assembled constabulary.

THE ARREST TOOK A long time.

When taking a suspect into custody on the streets of Midtown Manhattan the police dot all
i
's and cross their
t
's and
f
's. They ask you questions and, if you're me, you give them indecipherable answers.

I wasn't worried about assault charges. The fight was on tape, no doubt. Two men had assaulted me in the bank. They didn't have badges or uniforms. I hadn't said a word in provocation--not really.

After a while the police got around to binding my hands behind my back. Maybe forty minutes later I was hustled into the back of a police cruiser driven by the Asian and attended by Blondie.

Half the way to the midtown precinct the white kid's cell phone rang.