I Am God

by Giorgio Faletti

  ‘Let me have what you’ve got, and consider it done. Anything else?’

  Russell was fascinated by the laconic but clear way the two police officers communicated. They spoke the same language, which they’d learned by experience.

  ‘Years ago,’ Vivien continued, excited, ‘Sparrow worked for a small construction company called Newborn Brothers. His wife just told me. They did renovation work on a house at North Shore, Long Island. And listen to this: apparently the house belonged to an ex-soldier and one year after the end of the work it blew up. According to the experts it wasn’t an accident, but a bomb. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you found yourself a good lead.’

  Vivien continued, certain that her chief was taking notes at the other end. ‘We have to check out Newborn Brothers and the company that did the building on the Lower East Side, and look through the personnel records, if they still exist. See if there was anyone who worked on both buildings. And find out the names of the heads of the company.’

  ‘I’ll get the men on it straight away.’

  The captain changed tone. Now it was his turn to update them.

  ‘I’ve been moving in the meantime. I had a talk with Commissioner Willard. A private talk, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘When I showed him the letter, he almost jumped out of his chair. But, as I expected, he distanced himself and started to stall. He said he thought it was a pretty slim lead, though of course we can’t rule out anything. He wants to have the letter examined by a criminologist or a psychologist, but someone outside the police or the FBI. Someone who’ll keep it hush-hush, obviously. He’s looking at a list of names. He agreed that for the moment we should proceed with caution, keeping it strictly between ourselves, as agreed. It’s a tricky situation for everyone. People have died. Others may be in danger. As far as we’re concerned, we may end up praised to the skies, or we may be out on our ears. I’m talking about us, Vivien.’

  Russell had the impression that Vivien had expected these words. Her only reaction was to say, ‘Received.’

  ‘Wade, can you hear me?’

  Russell instinctively moved his head into the area he supposed the microphone to be. ‘Yes, captain.’

  ‘I didn’t tell the commissioner about our arrangement. If anything gets out before this thing is over, your life will be worse than your worst nightmares. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Very clear, captain.’

  This meant that from now on their lives were inextricably linked, for better or worse. When Vivien next spoke, it was in a calm, detached voice. Russell admired her self-control, something he himself was quite lacking in.

  ‘Good. We’ve established that. Any other news?’

  The captain’s tone retuned to being the professional tone of a police officer examining the elements of an investigation. The emotional break was over. They were getting back to work.

  ‘The good news is that, if we need it, we have the whole of the NYPD at our disposal. And the power to drag anyone from their beds at any time of the night, starting with the commissioner.’

  There was a noise of papers being leafed through.

  ‘I have here in front of me the results of the first tests. The experts think they’ve identified the kind of primer used. It’s a simple but very ingenious device, which emits a series of radio impulses at different frequencies and in a specific sequence. Given all the radio waves in this city, this stops the mines from exploding at a chance signal.’

  Russell had a question that had been nagging at him since this crazy story had started. He again intervened in the conversation.

  ‘The building that blew up was built some years ago. How come the bombs were still working after all this time?’

  That question was one that the captain must also have asked himself, because he let out a sigh before answering. In spite of his experience, it was a small mark of his incredulity at the genius of madness.

  ‘No batteries. The son of a bitch connected the primer to the building’s current. It may be that in the course of years some deteriorated and are no longer active, but God knows how many places the man put that shit.’

  There was a strange sound, and for a moment Russell was afraid that they had been cut off. Then Bellew’s voice again spread through the car.

  ‘You’re doing great work, guys. I wanted to tell you that. Great work.’

  Vivien took over again and ended the conversation. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you, then. Call me as soon as you have anything.’

  ‘As fast as I can.’

  Vivien hung up and for a few moments only the muted noise of the traffic competed with their thoughts in the silence of the car. Russell looked out at the street and the lights shining through the dark. On this day without memory, time had preceded them and the darkness had caught them almost by surprise.

  It was Russell who spoke first, with words that reciprocated the trust Bellew had placed in him. ‘Do you want the original?’

  Distracted by her thoughts, Vivien didn’t immediately grasp what he was saying. ‘What original?’

  ‘You were right when you accused me of coming to you with a photocopy of the paper I got from Ziggy. The real one I put in an envelope and sent to my home address. It’s a system he taught me. I think it’s in my mailbox right now.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  Russell was pleased that Vivien had made no other comment. ‘Twenty-ninth Street, between Park and Madison.’

  Vivien drove in silence along Queens Boulevard and across the Queensboro Bridge. They emerged onto Manhattan at 60th Street, turned left onto Park Avenue and drove south, at the mercy of the traffic.

  ‘Here we are.’

  Vivien’s voice reached his ears like a memory and Russell realised that he had dozed off. The car was now parked on 29th at the corner of Park, just across from his building.

  Vivien saw him rubbing his eyes. ‘Are you tired?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘You’ll have time to sleep when this is all over.’

  Without saying that what he was hoping for was not sleep, Russell took advantage of the green light and crossed to the other side of the street. When he got to the entrance to his building, he pushed open the glass door into the lobby. The building, like all those of a certain standing in New York, had the services of a doorman twenty-four hours a day. He approached the doorman behind his desk and was surprised, at this hour, to find Zef, the building manager, with him. Zef was a friendly man of Albanian origin, who had worked hard to get to his current position. Russell had always been on good terms with him. He was convinced that Zef, for all the dubious activities he’d been a witness to, was secretly his only fan.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Wade.’

  Russell not only led a wild life, but was also a tad absent-minded. That was why, after losing several bunches, he always left his keys with the doorman. Usually whichever of them was on duty would hand them over as soon as he arrived, without even needing to be asked. The fact that this didn’t happen now told him that something unusual was going on. His suspicions aroused, Russell turned to his friend.

  ‘Hi, Zef. Have you lost the keys this time?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s a problem, Mr Wade.’

  The man’s words, not to mention his expression, made him even more suspicious. The thought that now crossed his mind wasn’t so much a conjecture as a certainty, but he asked the question anyway. ‘What problem?’

  The man’s embarrassment was obvious on his face, in spite of which he had the decency to look him in the eyes. ‘A representative of Philmore Inc. came here today. With him was a lawyer bearing a letter from the executive director addressed to me. And one for you.’

  ‘And what was in them?’

  ‘The one addressed to you I didn’t open, obviously. I put it with the rest of your mail.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘The one addressed to me says that the company apartment in
this building is no longer at your disposal. With immediate effect. So I can’t give you the keys.’

  ‘What about my things?’

  Zef shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that meant: Don’t shoot me, I’m only the piano player. Russell felt like laughing.

  ‘The person in question went up to the apartment and put all your personal effects into suitcases. They’re over there, in the storage closet.’

  He seemed really upset by what had happened, and, given their relations in the past, Russell had no reason to doubt that he was genuine. In the meantime, the doorman had fetched the mail and placed it on the marble desktop. Russell recognized the logo of Philmore Inc. on an unstamped yellow envelope. He took it and opened it. When he unfolded the sheet of paper, he immediately recognized his father’s handwriting.

  Russell,

  Any rope, however resistant‚ finally snaps if you pull on it too hard. Mine snapped some time ago. It was only your mother’s gentle soul that grabbed the ends and kept them joined, providing you – without my knowledge – with money and the apartment you’ve been living in until today. After your last stunt, I fear that even her strength is exhausted. She has found herself faced with a choice: whether to maintain relations with a man she married some decades ago and who in the course of time has given her a thousand proofs of his love, or with a son who is beyond redemption, a son who has never, even at the best of times, been anything but a severe embarrassment to this family.

  The choice, although painful, was freely made.

  To use language you can understand: From now on, kid, you’re on your own.

  Jenson Wade

  P.S. If you had the good taste to change the name you bear, it would be a gesture greatly appreciated by us.

  As Russell put it, when he finished reading, ‘So my bastard of a father has kicked me out.’

  Zef assumed a fitting expression, which even included an embarrassed half-smile. ‘Well, I would have phrased it differently, but that’s more or less the idea.’

  For a moment, Russell was lost in thought. In spite of everything, he didn’t feel like blaming his father for his decision. On the contrary, he was surprised it had been so long in coming. He wouldn’t have given himself all that time.

  ‘It’s all right, Zef, it doesn’t matter.’

  He took the envelopes from the desk and put them in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Can I leave the bags here for now?’

  ‘As you wish, Mr Wade.’

  ‘Good. I’ll pick them up later. And I’ll swing by every now and again to see if there’s any mail.’

  ‘You know I’m always pleased to see you.’

  ‘OK, then. Goodbye my friend.’

  Russell turned and headed for the door.

  Zef’s voice held him back. ‘One last thing, Mr Wade.’

  Russell turned and saw Zef leave his post and cross the lobby. He placed himself between Russell and the doorman and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, ‘I assume your situation is a little precarious right now.’

  Russell had always been amused by the man’s decorous language. This time was no exception.

  ‘I think that pretty much sums it up.’

  ‘Well, Mr Wade, if you’ll allow me …’

  Zef held out his hand as if in farewell, and when Russell shook it he felt the thickness of a few banknotes in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Zef, look, I can’t—’

  ‘It’s only five hundred dollars, Mr Wade,’ Zef interrupted him, with a knowing look. ‘It’ll help you to keep going. Don’t repay me until you’re back on your feet.’

  Russell withdrew his hand and put the money in his jacket pocket. He accepted it for what it meant. To him and to the person who had offered it to him so generously and so discreetly. At this major turning point in his life, the only tangible help he had received came from a near-stranger. He put a hand on Zef’s shoulder.

  ‘You’re a good man, my friend. I promise you’ll get it back. With interest.’

  ‘I’m sure I will, Mr Wade.’

  Russell looked Zef in the eyes, seeing in them a sincerity and trust that he, for one, was very far from possessing. He turned his back on Zef and walked out onto the street. Here, he stopped for a moment to think again about what had just happened. He put his hand in his pocket to make sure it was all true, that people like that still existed.

  At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement behind him. A hand reached out of the semi-darkness and grabbed his arm. He turned his head to the right and found himself confronted with a tall, solidly built black man, dressed all in black. On the other side of the street, a large dark car switched on its lights and pulled away from the kerb. It stopped in front of them and, at the same time, as if the two things had been synchronized, the back door opened. Instinctively Russell looked around, trying to figure out what was happening. His guardian angel thought he was looking to escape, and saw fit to underline the reality of the situation.

  ‘Get in the car. Don’t do anything stupid. It’ll be better for you, believe me.’

  Through the open door, Russell saw the thick legs of a man sitting in the back seat. With a sigh he got in the car and sat down, while the big guy who had so politely invited him to get in took his place in the front.

  Russell greeted the man who was sitting next to him in the tone of an Egyptian greeting a plague. ‘Hello, LaMarr.’

  The usual sardonic smile played over the fat man’s lips. His well-cut suit couldn’t compensate for his graceless figure, nor did his dark glasses provide any kind of protection against his coarse-grained features.

  ‘Hello, photographer. You don’t seem yourself. Anything bothering you?’

  As the car pulled away from the kerb, Russell turned to look through the rear window. If Vivien had seen what had happened, she hadn’t had time to intervene. She might be following them. But he hadn’t seen any other car move out from the kerb on the other side of Park Avenue.

  He turned to LaMarr again. ‘What’s bothering me is that you’re still using the wrong deodorant. Sitting next to you would make anybody’s eyes water.’

  ‘Good joke. Give the man a great big hand.’

  LaMarr was still smiling. He signalled to the man in the front, who leaned over and punched Russell in the face. For a moment, the noise of flesh on flesh was the only sound inside the car.

  Russell felt a thousand hot little needles puncture his cheek. A yellow bulb danced in front of his eyes.

  Nonchalantly, LaMarr put a hand on his shoulder. ‘As you can see, my boys have kind of a strange way of showing their appreciation of humour. Got any more jokes like that?’

  Russell sank resignedly into his seat. In the meantime, the car had turned onto Madison and was now heading uptown. At the wheel was a guy with a bald head and the same build, Russell estimated, as the man who had just given him such tender loving care.

  ‘What do you want, LaMarr?’

  ‘I told you. Money. I’m not usually involved in collecting, but with you I want to make an exception. It’s not every day I get to rub shoulders with a celebrity, which is what you are. Not to mention the fact that you’re really pissing me off.’

  With a nod of the head, he indicated the man who had just hit Russell.

  ‘It’d be a pleasure for me to sit in the front row and see you go a few rounds with Jimbo.’

  ‘There’s no point. Right now I don’t have your fifty thousand dollars.’

  LaMarr shook his large head. His double chin wobbled slightly, shiny with sweat in the light from outside. ‘Wrong. You don’t seem any better at math than poker. It’s sixty thousand, remember?’

  Russell was about to reply but held back. He preferred to avoid another encounter with Jimbo’s hand. His first experience of that hadn’t been one that left him feeling nostalgic.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll see. Somewhere quiet, where we can have a man-to-man talk.’

  Silence
fell in the car. LaMarr didn’t seem inclined to give any further explanation. Russell didn’t need any. He knew perfectly well what was going to happen when they got to their destination, wherever that destination was.

  In a short time, carried on the stream of lights and automobiles, the car reached an area of Harlem that Russell knew well. There were a couple of places here that he visited when he wanted to hear great jazz, and another couple of places, much less well publicized, that he visited when he had a bit of money in his pocket and felt like shooting craps.

  The car stopped in a dimly lit street, in front of a closed shutter. Jimbo got out, opened the padlock and pulled the handle up. Lit by the car’s headlights, the metal wall rose to reveal a large, bare space, an L-shaped warehouse with a line of concrete pillars in the middle.

  The car glided in through the entrance and the shutter came down again behind them. The car turned left round the corner and stopped at a slanting angle. A few moments later, a couple of bare dirt-encrusted bulbs hanging from the ceiling came on, spreading a dim light.

  Jimbo opened the door on Russell’s side. ‘Get out.’

  He took Russell’s arm in his iron grip and made him walk around to the other side. Russell had the pleasure of seeing LaMarr struggling to get out through the door. He avoided making any comment that would simply have earned him more of Jimbo’s brand of applause.

  To their left was a desk with a chair. In front of it, another chair, a wooden one with a straw bottom. Despite the precariousness of the situation, Russell found the setting quite traditional. Clearly, LaMarr was a nostalgic.

  Jimbo pushed him towards the desk and pointed at the top of it. ‘Empty your pockets. All of them. Don’t force me to do it myself.’

  With a sigh, Russell put everything he had in his pockets on the desk. A wallet with the documents and letters, the five hundred dollars Zef had just given him, and a pack of cinnamon-flavoured chewing-gum.

  The fat man walked to the chair behind the desk. He smoothed the collar of his jacket, took off his hat, sat down, and placed his fat forearms on the table. The rings on his fingers glittered as he moved. It struck Russell that he looked like a version of Jabba the Hutt.