Ghosts of Manhattan

by George Mann

  He'd missed her at the party. Missed the opportunity to peel away with her to a quiet spot and blot out the presence of everyone else. But he was also pleased, in a sense, that she hadn't come. She didn't need the party, not like everyone else needed the party. And for that reason, if no other, he was very much in love with her.

  Gabriel listened to the sound of her heels crunching on the gravel, a soft rap on the front door with a gloved fist, Henry's footsteps as he crossed the hallway to let her in. Smiling, Gabriel retrieved the newspaper from the breakfast table and rustled it noisily, as if intent on continuing with an article he had earlier abandoned. He attempted to exude his most nonchalant air. He knew Celeste would see through this ruse, but then, such was the game they played.

  A moment later the drawing room door creaked open. Gabriel didn't look up from the newspaper to watch Celeste enter the room. She hovered for a moment at the threshold, silent save for her soft inhalation, awaiting his acknowledgement. The moment stretched. Gabriel turned the page and pretended to scan the headlines.

  Finally, the visitor broke the silence. "You look terrible, Gabriel. I see the party was up to its usual ... standards." Her voice was soft and melodious; it had broken many hearts.

  Gabriel folded the left page of his New York Times and peered inquisitively over the crease, as if he'd only just realized she was there. Framed in the doorway, the soft light of the morning streaming in from the hallway, she seemed to him like an angel; surrounded by a wintery halo, beautiful, ethereal. She dressed with the confidence of a woman who knew she would turn heads: a black, knee-length dress, stockings, high-heeled shoes, and a black jacket. Her auburn hair was like a shock of lightning, bright and electrifying, her lips a slash of glossy red.

  "You didn't come." It was a statement, not a question.

  "Of course I didn't come. Did you expect me to come?"

  "You were missed."

  Celeste laughed. She stepped further into the room, placing her handbag on the sideboard beside the door. Gabriel crumpled the newspaper and tossed it on the breakfast table, where it disturbed the ashtray, sending a plume of gray dust into the air. He wrinkled his nose. "Yes, it does rather make a terrible mess of one's house." He paused, as if thoughtful. "I think next time we'll stay outside. We'll all have to wear beach clothes. A bathing party, out by the pool."

  Celeste looked confused, despite herself. She offered him a wan smile. "In November? Whatever are you talking about?"

  Gabriel grinned profusely. He leaned forward in his chair. "Yes! Why not! There's that place down in Jersey selling some new-fangled contraption. A thing that heats your pool. The Johnson and Arkwright Filament, they call it. Just imagine. It would be a showstopper! I'll order one next week. A pool party in November! Oh, do say you'll come?" He knew she wouldn't come. But he had a role to play, and so did she.

  "I'm busy."

  He glanced out of the window. His voice was quiet. "Yes. Of course."

  "Oh really, Gabriel. You need a drink. And I need a cigarette."

  Gabriel smiled. He reached for the small silver cigarette case he kept in his jacket pocket. It was engraved with his initials: GC. "Do you want eggs? Henry's making eggs. Sit down."

  She sat. "No. Not eggs." She reached over and took one of his proffered cigarettes. He noticed her fingernails matched the color of her hair. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, pulling the tab on the end of her smoke so that it sparked and ignited. A blue wreath encircled her head.

  "Are you singing tonight?"

  "Yes. At Joe's. Will you come?"

  "I'm busy."

  "Yes. Of course." Her lips parted in a knowing smile.

  Gabriel grinned. Celeste was a jazz singer at a club in downtown Manhattan. That was where Gabriel had met her, six months earlier. He'd taken a pretty girl named Ariadne, a perfectly lovely young thing, all lipstick and short skirts and oozing sexuality. But Celeste had stolen his attention. It had nothing to do with romance; it was dark and harsh and exotic, an attraction of a different kind. When she'd parted her lips at the microphone the entire world had ceased spinning. Her voice carried truth. It spoke to him-not to Gabriel Cross, but to the real man who hid behind that name. It carried knowledge of the world, and poor Ariadne hadn't stood a chance.

  He'd driven Ariadne home in silence; abandoned her on the front steps of her house. She'd been sanguine yet desperate, resigned yet somehow wanting more. She still came to his parties, sometimes, floating around ethereally in her sequined dresses, catching his eye as he showered platitudes and cigarettes on his other guests. She needed a reason, an understanding of what had passed between them. She needed to know what she had done wrong, what fatal act of sabotage she had committed. But Gabriel couldn't bear to tell her the truth, couldn't bear to strip away civilities and reveal to her the hollow reality of the matter: that poor Ariadne was just another girl in just another city. That her life filled with parties and laughing and booze didn't mean anything. That she could never compare to a woman like Celeste. She couldn't see the world for what it was.

  Ghosts. New York was full of people like that. So were his parties. People who drifted through life as if it didn't matter, as if it were simply something that they had to do. Get up in the morning, pass time, sleep, fuck, die. Even Gabriel Cross was a member of that illustrious set, as much as he hated to admit it. But Celeste was not, and her allure had been unavoidable, her effect on Gabriel predetermined from the outset. He had been ensnared, and for the rest of that night he had lain awake in the stifling summer heat, drunk on whisky and desire, replaying the sound of Celeste's voice over and over in his mind.

  The next night Gabriel had returned to the club by himself in search of the jazz singer. He'd found her haunting the bar; drinking orange juice laced with cheap, illegal gin. He'd bought her drinks, offered her cigarettes, watched her as she brushed aside the other men who each lined up to make a play for her attention. At first she'd seemed amused by his presence-the confident interloper-intrigued by the fact that he had returned to the club so soon after his previous visit, this time without the pretty embellishment on his arm. But Gabriel had seen where the other men had tried and failed. He wouldn't make the same mistakes. Not this time. So, instead, he had simply offered her a final cigarette for the evening, before retiring. He didn't leave his name or his number. He didn't need to.

  A week later he had found her playing cards in his breakfast room with three other girls whose names he could never remember. His party was in full swing; it was dark outside, but drunken men strutted loudly on the lawn by the light of the moon, and women laughed gaily as though being treated to the height of theatrical endeavor. All around them the house was full of bustle, of noise and tension and sex and booze. Of people looking for a way to force some feeling into their lives, or else to numb the pain. But when Celeste had turned to smile at him, he'd wanted nothing more than for them all to disappear. He'd wanted the world to stand still again, like it had a week before, the night he'd first watched her open her mouth to sing.

  He'd fucked her that night at the party, hot and fast and urgent. And in the morning, as the sunlight streamed in through the window to dapple the pillow where she had lain, he knew then that he was in love with her.

  He looked up. She was watching him now whilst she gently rolled the end of her cigarette around the rim of the cut-glass ashtray. He turned to meet her gaze. "Have you read the papers?"

  Celeste shrugged. "It's not news, you know, Gabriel. Not real news. It's just hearsay and opinion. It's what people tell each other to make the time go by."

  Gabriel smiled. "But what about this `Ghost'? Did you hear about that? The crazy vigilante who burst in on that bank job and killed all the crooks? Now that's news."

  Celeste shrugged, pursing her lips. "Yes, I suppose it is. But I don't know why it's so surprising. It was only ever a matter of time before someone tried to take the law into their own hands. Crooks and vigilantes, they're just different sides of the same coin. He's as
bad as the rest of them."

  Gabriel nodded. "Perhaps you're right. The papers certainly share your opinion. But I can't help wondering if the guy is actually a hero. He saved people's lives."

  "And took others. He caused that woman's death. The hostage."

  Gabriel fingered his cigarette case before turning it over, flicking the catch, and withdrawing a cigarette. He pulled the tab, and met Celeste's penetrating gaze through a brief wall of smoke. "Perhaps ... but I'd still be inclined to blame that on the crook who put the knife in her throat, rather than the guy who tried to save her."

  Celeste looked as if she was about to speak, but then she turned to watch Henry, the valet, enter the room through another door. On a tray he bore a plate of toast and eggs, with a Bloody Mary on the side. He smiled genially when he saw her looking. "Will Miss Parker be taking breakfast this morning?" He'd made her breakfast before, on more than one occasion.

  Celeste folded the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray. "Not today, Henry. I have rehearsals. And I think Mr. Cross could use some more sleep."

  Henry nodded politely and placed the silver tray on the table beside the crumpled newspaper. He straightened his back, glancing at his employer. "Will that be all, sir?"

  Gabriel nodded. "Yes, that'll be all, Henry." He glanced at the eggs. His stomach growled. "I'll be taking a trip into town later. I intend to watch Miss Parker's show this evening. Could you ask Graves to prepare one of the cars?"

  "Very good, sir."

  Celeste flashed Gabriel a wry smile. Gabriel offered her an abundant grin.

  "I'll leave you to your breakfast." She regarded him with something approximating satisfaction, and then stood, collecting her handbag from where she'd left it on the sideboard. "Until this evening, then."

  Gabriel dropped his still-smoldering cigarette into the ashtray and pushed himself up out of his easy chair, riffles of blue smoke billowing from his nostrils. "I'll walk you out." He took her arm and led her into the hall.

  "What about your eggs?"

  "Never mind the eggs." He stopped her at the foot of the stairs and took her face in his hands, pulling her near, kissing her deeply on the lips. Once again he felt his heart hammering in his chest. He wondered if she could feel it too.

  They stood for a moment, staring into one another's eyes. Then Celeste broke away, moving toward the door. She pushed it open and Gabriel felt a cold breeze sweep into the hallway. He shivered involuntarily.

  Celeste crossed to her motorcar, the gravel crunching noisily with every step. Gabriel followed to open the door for her, watching as she smoothly lowered herself into the driver's seat. A moment later the engine roared, a shot of black smoke belched out from the exhaust pipe, and the vehicle hissed away. Celeste didn't look back.

  Gabriel watched the car slide off into the distance, steam rising from the rear funnels to leave long vapor trails in the crisp morning air. As he turned back to the house, already lamenting the fact that she'd had to leave so soon, he noticed a small, dark bundle on the ground, resting on the driveway at the bottom of the step. He crouched so that he could get a better look. It was a dead bird, its black feathers ruffling in the breeze. It looked as if it had been mangled somehow, caught and abandoned by a predator, perhaps, its head twisted awkwardly to one side, its wings broken out of shape. He'd seen a man like that once, lying in a ditch in France. His neck had been broken, too, blood caked ominously around one ear, eyes glazed and milky-white. If it hadn't been for the startled look of terror frozen on the dead man's face, Gabriel could almost have imagined he was resting, his head on a soft pillow of mud, watching the plumes of distant explosions as innumerable airships drifted lazily above, relentlessly bombarding the landscape below.

  Sighing, he stood. He wished his mind wasn't full of such memories. He'd have Henry come and clear the remains of the bird away later. Now, he needed eggs. And he needed to clear his head. The Bloody Mary would help.

  elix Donovan was having a terrible day.

  He'd been dragged from his bed at five-thirty by the buzzing of the holotube, only to find his sergeant on the line, nervously informing him there'd been a homicide. From the look of the flickering blue image that appeared in the mirrored cavity in his holotube terminal, he'd been able to tell that Mullins was calling from a private booth in a hotel or bar, and that he very much considered himself out of his depth.

  Nevertheless, for a moment Donovan had actually considered going back to bed. It wasn't as if murders were anything new or unusual in downtown Manhattan. Another dead body on another apartment floor. He was sure it could wait until a reasonable hour of the morning, at least until he'd showered and eaten his breakfast. But then Mullins had told him who had been murdered, and suddenly everything had changed.

  Now, at a quarter after eleven, his head was still thick with lack of sleep, and he was desperately in need of a coffee.

  "Inspector?"

  Donovan turned to see Mullins standing sheepishly behind him. The sergeant was a portly man who sported a short, clipped moustache and appeared to Donovan to have a permanently ruddy complexion. He was currently dressed in a long, gray overcoat, which covered his disordered blue suit: a symptom of being roused from his bed at such an ungodly hour of the morning. The inspector could forgive him that. Donovan himself, however, was dressed immaculately, as usual; his black suit and crisp white collar were pressed and pristine, and he had taken the time to freshen up before driving out to the scene of the crime. It was a small, fruitless rebellion, but it made him feel better just the same. After all, he was alive and the victim was dead, and the dead man wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. Regardless, the man had been an odious toad. Politicians, Donovan found, were very rarely anything else.

  He regarded Mullins with an impatient eye. "What is it, Sergeant? Have you finally managed to search out some coffee?"

  Mullins wouldn't meet his eye. "No, sir. Not coffee. But there's a gathering crowd of reporters out front, and they're calling for a statement. Are you planning to say anything?"

  Donovan looked round at the tall revolving doors of the lobby. Beyond, through the glass panes, he could see a gaggle of reporters and photographers being shepherded back from the sidewalk by a couple of uniformed men. Flashbulbs blinked, reflecting in the glass and causing miniature, shimmering coronas to burst momentarily to life.

  He and Mullins were standing in the lobby of the Gramercy Park Hotel, all plush modernity and chandeliers. It was a bit rich for Donovan's decidedly down-to-earth palate. He gritted his teeth. "No. They can wait." He looked back at Mullins. "They can wait like everyone else. We haven't even informed his wife yet, for God's sake." He was muttering now, as if to himself more than to his sergeant. "How the hell are we going to break it to his wife?" A sigh. "And then there's the matter of the scandal. The Commissioner might want to keep the details out of the press." He gestured at Mullins. "Tell them to get back to the gutter."

  Mullins sucked in his breath. For a moment Donovan thought he looked even redder in the face than usual. He hadn't thought that was possible. "They're asking, sir, if it's the work of the Roman."

  "Well, yes. I'd very much imagine they are." Donovan gave another, plaintive sigh. His voice was tinged with weariness. "Mullins, do me a favor and find that coffee. And let's have another look at the crime scene. Then the ambulance crew can take the bodies to the morgue. After that-we'll see about facing those reporters."

  "Yes, sir." Mullins nodded and shot off in the direction of the kitchens.

  The murder of James Landsworth Senior had taken place in the early hours of the morning on the top floor of the Gramercy Park Hotel. It was a sordid affair, and Donovan, standing on the threshold of the room with a cigarette dangling from his lips, didn't quite know what to make of it.

  The dead man was a senator-a well-respected one at that-and this whole affair, Donovan had concluded, had been set up to discredit him. There was no doubt the scene inside the hotel room had been posed; a grisly diorama intended to emba
rrass the government.

  Landsworth was-or had been, Donovan corrected himself-a middle-aged man of about fifty, with a full head of graying hair and a significant paunch, and he had built his career on a foundation of right-wing policies and conservative opinions. He supported Prohibition. He had a healthy hatred for the British Empire and he campaigned against "progress," claiming that science was "dehumanizing" the American people. He sold himself as a family man, and was often seen around town with his wife and two young children. He never attended parties or large social gatherings, and the newspapers had a dog of a time digging up anything about the man that could even be considered controversial.

  But nevertheless, here he was, his pants round his ankles, chained to a bedpost, wearing rouge, a half-drunk bottle of illegal whisky on the bedside table. His chest was covered with cigarette burns and there was lipstick all over his prick. His mouth was hanging slack-jawed and two small Roman coins had been placed over his eyelids. They glinted in the lamplight as if they had been freshly minted.

  Across the room, a dead whore lay on the floor, her skirt pulled up around her hips, stockings torn, her face bruised and split where she had been viciously beaten. Donovan couldn't even tell what she had looked like before the beating, except for the fact that the lipstick smeared across her lower face matched the color of that now found on Landsworth's corpse. Mullins had told him she'd been asphyxiated, but Donovan hadn't yet brought himself to take a proper look. He'd needed a coffee and a cigarette before even contemplating that.