The Gun Runner's Daughter (33 page)

As for the danger, Nicky’s fiancée had said, just before she left him, that Nicky no longer knew what he was after: data or danger. That line had popped into his mind years later as
a chartered plane circled over Eritrea looking for a place to land near a firefight. It made him admit, for the first time, that the singing of the blood in his ears, the little bursts of nearly
sexual excitement in his belly, the superawareness of his every sense, was not fear but joy, and that his fiancée, in many ways, had been right.

What he was planning to do tonight was, however, worse than danger and worse than any of the compromises a reporting job may have required and, as he anticipated it, Nicky could not help
wondering what had brought him here. His fiancée had thought that his politics, his idealism, were just an excuse for adventure. What would she say now? And dimly, without fully articulating
it, Nicky knew what she would say: that if Nicky were only looking to use Allison to get to Eastbrook, he would have done it through lawyers.

He shook his gaze free from the mirror and turned on his stool, letting his eye travel down the bar. When it reached the end, he found himself looking at a familiar face. Their eyes met, and he
looked away. Then he looked back, to find the man still watching him with an expression of shock. It was, he realized, the prosecutor from the Rosenthal trial. David Treat Dennis.

He turned, hoping that he had not shown his recognition, but all the while his thoughts swirled. Was he imagining this? He turned for another quick look, and found Dennis staring at him with an
expression of equal astonishment. Of course, he thought dimly, this guy thought he was dead.

And before he had time to absorb this information or, rather, to disregard it, for there was nothing he could do with it, it seemed to act in conspiracy with the heat of the bar and the bourbon
he was drinking to cause a swoon of dizziness to pass through him. In its wake, the skin of his face felt both cold and moist with sweat. And as he tried to collect himself, the door swung open
into the night and Allison Rosenthal, still in her clothes from the day in court, entered the bar.

Had she already remarked Dennis’s presence? Nicky thought so, but he was no longer sure of anything. She saw him immediately, and stopped dead still. Then she crossed the room and stood,
wordless, before him.

Her face, he saw, was flushed from the cold, her breath coming quickly, as if she had been hurrying. Nicky, unable to speak, watched her openly and wonderingly, his eyes traveling from the blond
hair tied up in a knot, to her eyes, green and alive, to her cheeks, red, to her mouth, slightly open and showing her tongue between her teeth as she caught her breath. Her overcoat—black
cashmere—was open, her charcoal-suited body underneath like a warm, plumed bird.

He returned his eyes to her face, and started to speak, then stopped. He licked his lips and turned away for a moment, not feeling master of himself. Then he said, with great difficulty:
“That guy, David Dennis. Your father’s prosecutor. He’s at the bar.”

She nodded. “Forget him. Are you okay?”

He answered without thinking. “I don’t know. I think I’m going to pass out.” Having said that, he returned his eyes to her inspection, as if awaiting a command.

And indeed, after a short inspection of his eyes, a short, piercing look, Allison did in fact issue an order.

“We have to get you upstairs. I can’t have you fainting here. Quickly now.”

And powerless to stop her, Nicky let this woman put her arm around his waist and, half supporting him, take him out of the bar.

October 24 and 25, 1994.
New York City.

1.

In her apartment, Allison helped Nicky to the couch and, when he was sitting, pushed his head down between his knees with a hand on the back of his neck. For several minutes
they rested, Allison squatting on the floor in front of him still in her coat, Nicky doubled over. When, finally, Nicky sat up, she let herself fall backward until she was sitting on the floor, and
regarded him. His thick, perfectly even brown hair. His mouth pursed, the thick red lips that much more striking for how pale was his face.

“Better now?”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

“How bad were you hurt?”

“Very bad.”

“You shouldn’t be here. You should be in bed.”

Nicky shrugged and reached into his jacket pocket for cigarettes. “That wasn’t an option.”

“No, that’s right.” She spoke thoughtfully. “The election’s next month. Time’s running out.”

At Nicky’s expression of surprise, she went on in a careless tone.

“Oh, I know the whole story. Stan Diamond’s the
NAR
’s patron. He was a tenant of my father’s. You found my embezzlement of the Ocean View Estate rentals. Now you
are going to threaten me—and my father—with my prosecution.”

She paused now, briefly.

“The thing is, you don’t care about my embezzlement—not legally or morally. That’s just a lever. You care about my father, and more specifically, you care about my father
and Colonel Eastbrook. So you’re going to threaten me, but you’re going to offer me a deal. Messy work, Dymitryck.”

He watched, wordless, and she smiled.

“Good. Now, this is what happens next. I’ve got to go do something. While I’m away, you’re going to take a hot shower and then get into my bed.”

“And why?”

“Because, Nicky dear, you are very cold, and very weak, and you and I need each other too much for you to die on me.”

Downstairs, at the bar, she briefly signaled to Dee that he should go by cutting her throat with her finger. She didn’t pause to see his response, but leaned across the
bar to speak to Bobby. Bobby gave her a bottle of Jim Beam and, holding it, she flew up the interior staircase.

Nicky was in bed now, smelling of soap, the color much returned to his cheeks. As efficient as a nurse, she put an extra blanket over him, then sat down on the side of the bed with the bottle of
bourbon.

“Feeling better?”

He nodded, and she offered him the bottle. She felt, suddenly, physically aware in every pore of her body. When he had drunk from the bottle, she lifted it to her lips while he talked.

“How did you know I had searched your house?”

“Because I searched your briefcase. In the Ritz. While you were checking on the ferry.”

He very nearly smiled at that. “I underestimated you.”

“Join the crowd.”

He nodded. “Why do you and I need each other so much?”

“You need me to give you what you want about Greg Eastbrook.”

He thought now. Then, rather than asking her for details, he asked something that surprised her.

“How can you do that without including your father?”

She hesitated, watching him. Then, carefully, she answered: “That’s not your problem.”

“I see.” He nodded, and took the bottle from her hand. “And what do I have that you want?”

She shook her head. “First tell me something.”

He nodded.

“Why did you come east?”

“You know that. You just told me.”

“No. I told you how you’re planning to force me to give you Eastbrook. Your lawyer could have done that. You didn’t need to come.”

“No.” He looked away now for a time, and when he looked back, she was surprised by the expression on his face. She nodded.

“I see.”

“What? What do you see?”

“You don’t have the stomach for this, do you? I mean, putting my father in jail was one thing. He may not be guilty of this, but he’s guilty of so much else it hardly matters.
But you don’t have the stomach to do it to me.”

“Would you?” He had followed her perfectly.

“Yes. But I don’t count. I’m different.”

“And what makes you different?”

She shrugged, and drank from the bottle. Then, as if changing her mind, she said: “I had too strong an experience of death, too early. That’s all. I’m not being dramatic:
it’s a typical psychological profile. After my brother died I stopped being scared of anything. Anything. It’s like anesthesia. I feel fear, but it’s . . . depersonalized. I have
the stomach for anything.”

He nodded. Then he said, as if, in the anomaly of their position, there was nothing that could not be discussed:

“Why did he kill himself?”

“He didn’t. He was murdered.” Not watching now, she spoke tonelessly, without emotion.

“I read it was a suicide.”

“No. He was killed. Now, we’re not going to talk about that anymore, okay?”

Looking up at her, sitting, the curve of her thigh pressing through the blanket against his, he felt as if they had known each other forever. Her suit jacket was off now, her
white shirt open at the collar, and his eye followed the curve of her skin from where a golden chain fell between her breasts up to where her heavy blond hair fell against the straight of her neck.
He lay looking at her. Then without a thought he reached a hand up and placed it against the skin of her neck. Looking away, she leaned into his palm. And now, his voice seeming to come from his
belly, he spoke.

“I thought any price was worth keeping Eastbrook out of office. That’s all. I thought it was an absolute.”

He felt her nod against his hand, but she did not answer, and he went on.

“Stan Diamond’s going to give his proof to the Mass. state attorney. They’re just waiting on my word to have you arrested.”

Again, he felt her nod of comprehension. She answered: “I know.”

A small pause, then Nicky said: “It doesn’t matter. I can stop them.”

“How?”

“Because I searched your house. All their evidence comes from an illegal search.”

“Yeah. That would screw them.” She spoke meditatively. “If you didn’t do that, then how long could you delay him?”

Silence. Nicky found he didn’t even wonder how she knew all about this. Or rather, he didn’t care.

“A few days. But you don’t understand. I don’t need to delay him. I can stop him dead.”

Again, he sensed her thinking in the dark. When she spoke, it was in a new tone.

“Believe me, I understand. How did they make everyone think you were dead?”

“FBI announced it.”

“That was smart.”

“Thanks. Jay’s idea.” He felt her neck pivot under his hand as she turned toward him now, and he pulled his hand away. But she caught it between hers and replaced it, flat
against the warmth of her throat, and as she did, he felt his vision begin to spin.

“You ready?”

“What?” Even the one word seemed suddenly difficult to pronounce.

“To negotiate.”

He watched her, his eyes traveling from her neck down the planes of her shirt to her small and full breasts and then back up to her somber green eyes.

“No.”

This made her smile, more in her eyes than on her mouth. “We can’t put it off forever.”

“Okay. Just not tonight.”

“Okay.” Her eyes steady on him, still smiling, she rose now.

“Where are you going?”

“You’ll see.” She left the bedroom, turning out the light as she went.

Alone, she crossed the living room to the bathroom, her mind blank. She undressed entirely—except for the golden chain and Star of David on her neck—with quick,
efficient movements; then showered, dried herself, and brushed her teeth. Finally, the apartment dark but for the faint, orangish light from the street lamps, she opened the bedroom door and
stepped in.

He was on his back, his bare shoulders above the quilt, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling under the covers. While she watched him his eyes opened. Leaning, she carefully pulled back
the duvet, exposing his chest and stomach. The scars from his stabbing formed an awkward V, rising from above his groin. Deliberately, she ran her hand over them, feeling the faint bulge of the
skin, the warmth of the wound. Then she carefully stepped over him on one knee, into the bed.

2.

Her skin was hot, not warm but hot, and scented with orange soap. Her eyes were steady, serious, and unafraid; her mouth, unsmiling. Her touch, returning his, was firm and
unambiguous. But it was also, in a way accentuated rather than lessened by its lack of hesitation, profoundly tender.

There was no romance. Just the unmitigated reality of her nudity, of her exposure, of the heat of her skin. Unthinking, he let his body be drawn toward hers, surprised by how hard she was,
surprised by how warm. Breathing hard, she shifted her body until it was under his, as efficient as a prostitute, carefully avoiding hurting his wound, but leaving him no choice but to follow, as
if to emphasize that this was not about giving or receiving pleasure, that this was not about sex, and as he complied with the demands of her movements he lowered his lips to her neck, feeling the
fast beat of an artery over taut tendon. Then came a suite of minutes in which Nicky neither saw her nor felt her, but rather experienced her, utterly thoughtless. And then, floating on the deep
breaths of this woman beneath him, the world returned again.