So just who was the phantom friend Mortimer claimed to have but would not identify?
And what did this “friend” intend to do when his missing wife was found?
There was something wrong with the whole thing, Stark decided, something left out or hidden. Mortimer wasn’t telling him the whole story, and in recognizing that austere fact, Stark felt a terrible sense that his old associate had crossed a fateful line. After all, Mortimer’s saving grace had always been that he clearly understood his own substantial limitations, the fact that in any test of wit or will he would surely come out the loser. For that reason Stark had never doubted that Mortimer would play straight with him, if for no other reason than to do otherwise would inevitably spell disaster. But now Stark suspected that Mortimer had taken a crooked road.
But why?
SARA
She was tired by the middle of the afternoon, but she knew she had to fight it. Years before, a talent agent had counseled Sara to be “perky.” A guy who owns a club is looking for a girl with spark, he’d said, even in a torch singer he’s looking for a spark. Sara had assumed that she would need to show the same spark now that she’d tried to show years before. Especially since the job she sought was one that required her to greet the public, answer the phone.
And so for the past hours, in the assorted jobs she’d sought since leaving the coffee shop, she’d tried to be bright-eyed, sharp . . . have a spark. She offered a quick smile and a ready hand. But it hadn’t worked, and as the minutes passed, she’d seen the interviewer slowly drift away, then rise, mutter a quick “Thanks for coming in,” and escort her to the door. Nor could she blame these people for not hiring her. She was in her late thirties, a woman with no experience, her résumé a blank page. They had seen it in her eyes, seen through the sparkling mask that in some indefinable but alarming way she was at loose ends, would be trouble down the line. She knew that they couldn’t guess the force that drove her, but that didn’t matter. They wanted someone relaxed, someone easy, someone who believed that if you did everything right, things would work out, someone with experience but no past, a blank slate they could write their company’s logo on. They did not want a woman who answered their questions quickly and added nothing, a woman in whom they could hear the aching groan of a tightly wound spring.
She thought of the man who’d interviewed her for the job of receptionist in his hair salon, the way he’d looked at her hair, like it was a nest of squirming snakes, Thank you, we’ll be in touch. Then there was the woman at the attorney’s office, dressed like a man, who talked like a man, and whose flinty gaze said Now you’re sorry, right, for wasting your life, well, too late, sister.
The final job was located on Avenue C, a neighborhood Sara remembered well from her days in New York. Back then it had been a dangerous place, but now, as she moved down Sixth Street, she marveled at how much things had changed. There were young professionals on the street, along with the usual tradesmen and delivery people. Tompkins Square Park, once a mire of drug addicts, was now both park and playground, a well-tended expanse of green where children scurried in all directions while their well-heeled parents looked on.
Addison Film Works was located just off the park, the building a bit more dingy than the ones around it. There was no doorman, only a spare foyer with walls painted institutional gray and an ancient elevator that creaked and trembled as it rose to the fourth floor.
The door was at the end of a corridor stacked high with cardboard boxes and black towers of videotape. The name of the company was printed in block letters on frosted glass. A single name was written in the lower left corner of the glass: Art Gillman.
A stubby, overweight man in a dark double-breasted suit greeted Sara as she came through the door. “I’m Art Gillman,” he said. His hair was a lackluster brown, very thin on top, parted low on the left side and then swept over to cover spaces that would otherwise have been bald. “Sorry for the mess. I just got back from L.A.” He shrugged helplessly. “When I’m out of the office, things go to pot.”
Sara smiled weakly.
“So, what do you go by?” Gillman asked.
“Go by?” Sara asked.
“Name.”
“Samantha,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “Samantha Damonte.”
Something registered in Gillman’s eyes. “That’s good. I like that. Samantha Damonte.” He stripped off his jacket, hung it on a wooden hat rack, then dropped heavily into a seat behind a cluttered metal desk. “You work in the film business before?”
“No,” Sara admitted.
Gillman nodded toward the single empty chair that rested in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
Sara did so.
“It takes a little getting used to,” Gillman added. “But most people catch on pretty fast.” He glanced about, as if looking for an assistant. “Mildred’s supposed to stay till five, but she cut out early, I guess.” He eyed the small wooden cabinet to the right of his desk. “You want something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Sara replied.
“How about a cigarette.” He winked. “I got a full pack.”
Sara shook her head.
“Good,” Gillman said. “A girl should keep fit.” He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head, his belly thrust out aggressively so that Sara noticed how large and firm it was, the way it seemed to poke through the stained white shirt. “So, tell me a little about yourself, Samantha,” he said.
Sara offered her best smile. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Start anywhere,” Gillman told her brightly. “And by the way, you can call me Art. We’re real informal around here.”
“I used to be a singer,” Sara said. “Art.”
“A singer?” Gillman said exuberantly. “No kidding? What kind of singer?”
“Clubs. But that was a long time ago.”
“What kind of clubs?”
“Cabaret.”
“So you’re used to performing for an audience,” Gillman said. “That’s good. ’Cause you got to deal with a lot of people in this business. People hanging around.”
Sara nodded silently.
“What else, Samantha? What else can you tell me about yourself?”
Sara tried to think of something interesting, but couldn’t.
Gillman continued to wait for her to respond in some way, show some sparkle, tell him something he didn’t drag out of her. But all she could think to say was “I lived in New York a long time ago. When I was a singer.”
“You’re from the South, right?” Gillman said. “Still got a little twang there.” He leaned forward, rested his hands on the desk, fingers entwined. “You don’t have to like it, you know.”
Sara looked at him quizzically.
“You don’t have to like what you do, I mean,” Gillman said. “Lots of people don’t like what they do. But they got bills to pay, kids to raise. A lot of people in this business have kids, you know. Do you have any kids, Samantha?”
“No,” Sara answered.
Gillman looked at her with what seemed a deep regard, as if he were trying to get beneath her skin. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Thirty-eight,” Sara answered.
“That’s pretty old for the film business,” Gillman said. “It’s a younger group, I mean. But the way I see it, it’s the person that matters. People who see you, they wouldn’t take you for thirty-eight.” He looked her up and down. “Thirty tops. Well, maybe thirty-one, two.” He seemed to be talking to himself again. “Yeah, that’s it,” he concluded. “Thirty-two tops.” He waited for her to respond, and when she didn’t, he said, “Have you ever been on a film set, Samantha?”
“No.”
“Think it would bother you, all that hustle-bustle?”
Sara shook her head.
“Well, even if it did, it wouldn’t matter, right?” Gillman said happily. “I mean, you can keep focused, I’m sure.” He sprang to his feet. “Okay, so why d
on’t I show you around.”
Sara followed him out of the office, then down the corridor to a set of padlocked double doors. “This is where the action is,” he told her as he fumbled for a key. “I keep everything locked up because we’ve had a couple things turn up missing over the years.”
He unbolted the lock and swung open the door into a pitch-black room. “This is where we do the shoot.” He stepped inside and turned on the lights. “It’s not the Waldorf, but in this business you gotta keep an eye on the budget.”
The room was a labyrinth of small cubicles, each with papered or painted walls, and set up to resemble offices, medical examination rooms, prison cells. To the right, a barn loft, complete with fake bales of hay, stood separated from a pool hall by a slender partition. There was an Arabian tent, its multicolored flaps hanging limply in the windless air, and an automobile showroom, complete with two convertibles. Toward the back a sandy beach, dotted with plastic palm trees, swept out from a large photograph of the ocean. “We can shoot just about any kind of story using these sets.” He motioned her to the left, where a mattress lay on the concrete floor, stark and unadorned, covered with a single white bedsheet. “It’s not up to me, you understand,” he said as he approached a still camera mounted on a tripod. “Other people have a say.” He stepped behind the camera and began fiddling with its dials. “Just have a seat there,” he told her, nodding toward the mattress.
Gillman continued to adjust the camera. When he’d finished, he seemed surprised that Sara remained in place, glancing about, her arms stiffly at her sides. “I have to have a look,” he said. “At you, Samantha.”
She stepped back again and felt the wall behind her. She could see the door ahead and wanted to rush toward it, but couldn’t. He would catch her, and she knew it. She drew her purse to her chest. “Stay away from me,” she said.
Gillman stared at her. “What’s the matter with you?” He stepped forward, his hands raised slightly. “Look . . . I have—”
“Get back,” Sara commanded.
Gillman stopped dead. “I wasn’t going to . . . do anything to you,” he told her earnestly.
“Get back,” she repeated sharply.
Gillman’s eyes sparked with a sudden stunning realization. “Wait a second, you came for the receptionist’s job.” He shook his head. “Oh, Jesus. Mildred’s job. You’re not an . . . actress.” He laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, Samantha. Believe me, I wasn’t going to . . .” He glanced about the room, the grim partitions, the hanging metal lights, the cheap furniture and the plastic palms. “This place. You’re scared. I’m sorry.” He stepped back, his hands now at his sides, and stood completely still. “Just go, okay? Just go, and we’ll end it right here.”
Sara didn’t move. If she moved, he would spring at her, she knew. If she turned her back, he would rush up behind her.
“I’ll stay right here,” Gillman assured her. “Or I’ll go all the way to the other side of the room if you want.”
Sara nodded stiffly.
“Okay,” Gillman said, walking backward one slow step at a time. “This far enough?” he said finally.
Sara gave no answer but turned and dashed toward the door, opened it, and rushed out, taking the stairs rather than the elevator, her feet thudding loudly against the concrete steps, until she burst into the lobby, then across it and out into the air, where, she saw to her relief, no one followed from behind.
TONY
He pulled into the driveway, but instead of moving down the walkway to his house, he turned and faced the cul-de-sac, his attention focused on the house across the way. He didn’t know Mike well, and he didn’t know Della at all. But he knew that Sara and Della were friends, and that Eddie had been right in thinking that Della might have some idea of where Sara was. He’d meant to ask her about it three days before, but embarrassment had frozen him, the terrible admission that Sara was gone, and he’d taken the chance that she might simply come back, make everything right again, so that no one would have to know that she’d actually left him.
But three days had gone by and now he had no choice but to act. Still, he didn’t look forward to revealing anything intimate to Della. She was Sara’s friend, after all, not his, and although he didn’t know the actual depth of their friendship, he suspected that Sara had told Della at least a few private things.
The thought that Sara might have had this kind of intimate conversation with Della filled him with apprehension. Suppose he asked Della straight out, What did Sara say? Did he really want to know? If he asked her about another guy and learned that there was one, what would he ask next? The guy’s name? Why would he want that? Would he ask how long it had been going on? What good would such information do him now? Or would he simply tell Della the truth, I don’t care about any of that. I just want the chance to get her back.
His father’s face suddenly thrust itself into his mind and he knew with what contempt the old man now regarded him, his pussy-whipped son. On the shoulders of that thought, he headed across the cul-de-sac and knocked at his neighbor’s door.
Della opened it. “Hey, Tony.”
“I was . . . I . . . You haven’t heard anything, right? About Sara?”
Della shook her head.
“She’s missing. I mean, she just sort of . . . left, I guess. . . . The thing is, I was wondering if she said anything to you. You and her being friends and all, I thought she might—”
“No, Tony,” Della said. “She didn’t say anything to me about—”
“Yeah, okay,” Tony said hastily. “I just thought maybe . . . You know.” He stepped away from the door. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No, that’s okay,” Della told him. “I mean, I wish I could help you.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Tony said. He turned to leave, faced the empty house across the cul-de-sac, its dark windows, and stopped. “I just—” He turned back. “I don’t know what to do.” He started to say more, stopped briefly, then said, “Would you mind if I came in for a minute, Della?”
She looked at him in a way he’d never seen before, as if she were afraid of him.
“Just to . . . talk,” he added.
She nodded but he could tell that it was hesitantly.
“Of course, if you’re busy . . .”
“No, that’s okay,” Della said, her voice still oddly strained. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”
In the kitchen, Tony sat at the square wooden table, his hands folded around a brown mug, sipping it occasionally, trying to find the right words but always failing. “I think my father’s looking for her,” he said finally.
Della nodded stiffly and pressed her back firmly against the door of the refrigerator.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Della said.
Tony took a sip from the mug. “She didn’t say anything to you, did she? I mean about leaving me?”
Della shook her head.
“You know if maybe there was some other friend she talked to?” Tony asked.
“No. I don’t think she talked to anybody.”
“I guess not,” Tony said. An aching sigh broke from him. “She sure didn’t talk to me. But then, I didn’t talk to her either.” He tried to smile. “You and Mike talk?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Just the usual stuff. Every day. The kids.”
Tony’s gaze roamed Della’s kitchen. He envied Mike this simple, contented wife, so different from his own. But that was what had drawn him to Sara in the first place, wasn’t it? The way she was so different from the girls in the neighborhood, the ones his friends had already married or were about to. “I liked her accent,” he said.
“What?”
“Her accent. Sara’s. You know, southern. The thing is, I’d be good to her if she came back.”
Something in Della’s face altered, and she suddenly unfastened herself from the door of the refrigerator and sat down at the table. “I’m really sorry about this, Tony.” She touchis hand. “Really.�
��
He drew his hand away, feeling like a worm now, the type of guy his father hated. Not like Donny, whose wife wouldn’t have dared leave him. Or Angelo, who’d never stop busting his chops if he didn’t get Sara back, make her keep her mouth shut, get back to the old routine and stay there.
“Yeah, thanks,” he said, and got to his feet. “I better be going.”
Della walked him to the door but stepped back quickly when he turned to say good-bye, her eyes fearful again.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Tony said, though he didn’t know in exactly what way he’d bothered her, and certainly could find no reason for her to fear him. Why would she? They had been neighbors for years, and he’d never done anything to cause her the slightest unease. He saw clammy dread in her eyes and knew that it was the same fear he’d seen in the cringing figures who stood before his father, men who’d crossed him in some way.
“Has anyone else talked to you about this?” he asked. “My father, I mean. Or somebody who works for him?”
Della shook her head. “No.”
“I have to find Sara before my father does,” he told her.
Della said nothing.
“So, if he talked to you—”
“He didn’t talk to me,” Della blurted, then stepped back from the door. “Really, Tony.”
“Okay,” Tony said.
He walked back across the cul-de-sac. By the time he entered his house he’d come to believe that Della had lied to him. It was even possible that his father already knew where Sara was. Perhaps he was already headed to some motel on the Jersey Shore, Caruso behind the wheel of the big blue Lincoln, ready to do whatever the Old Man said he had to do to bring Sara home.
MORTIMER
He saw Caruso first, a thin, taut wire of a guy, the type who seemed always to be walking point. In the war, they were the ones who’d usually bought it first. Bought it so quickly, Mortimer had come to the conclusion that there was something about them, all that fidgeting perhaps, that God just didn’t like.
“Mr. Labriola should be here in a few minutes,” Caruso said as he scurried up to him. He glanced out toward the swirling traffic. “Drives a Lincoln.”
Peril Page 8
