by Thomas Perry
“This time, yes. Because this, all of it, has happened before—ten years ago—and Vico had nothing to do with it.”
“So if what you say is accurate, what the Butcher’s Boy will now do is to use the confusion he’s caused to disappear, possibly forever.”
“I don’t know that, but I do think Vico’s innocent.”
“I don’t think so,” said the deputy assistant. “Logically I can’t think so and still do my job. I’d like to have everyone in this room working on preparing this case.”
It was happening again. Ten years ago the people who had sat in this room had made the decision to believe that the one who had disposed of Arthur Fieldston must be the big, powerful gangster, rather than the solitary killer. Their logic had brought them promotions and public notice, and eventually had elevated them right out of the Justice Department. Now the ones who had replaced them were making the same decision. The Butcher’s Boy was going to disappear again. She tried not to think about Jack Hamp, waiting downstairs to hear where he was going next. Home was where he would be going.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I … I’d like to be excused, if I could. I’ve been on loan from my own office, and I’ve got cases of my own coming to trial.”
The deputy assistant looked at Richardson, whose face was expressionless. “I hope it’s not hurt feelings?”
“Me?” said Elizabeth. “No. I think you’re wrong, but I always do my job. It’s just that my regular job is the one I ought to be doing, and I’ve probably been away too long.” She added, “Besides, my son has heard Richardson’s name so many times that he’s been having bad dreams about him.”
The Immigration officer at Heathrow Airport studied James Hart’s face, then compared it to the photograph on the passport. The gentleman in front of him looked notably older than the one in the two-year-old photograph. Perhaps it was the fact that he had changed his spectacles, or that he had allowed his hair to grow a little. His flight bag had been vetted by the X-ray machine, his pockets had been emptied, and clearly he was bringing nothing into the country but two thousand American dollars, all declared as required. This Mr. Hart didn’t fit any of the profiles of undesirables. The money was sufficient for him to have a short holiday, but not enough to do anything that was not on. The Immigration officer applied his stamps to the passport: “Given leave to enter the United Kingdom for six months,” which was five and three-quarters months longer than Mr. Hart had said he intended to stay; and the other, “13 September Heathrow (3).” The officer handed the passport back and watched Mr. Hart take two steps away from the counter. He had considered suggesting that Mr. Hart have another photograph taken, but it would have been absurd. The next three people on the same flight from Kennedy would undoubtedly have restyled and dyed their hair and be wearing contact lenses that changed their eye color.
James Hart stopped at the door and looked out at the cool, damp, gray morning, and then ceased to exist. Michael Schaeffer walked out along the asphalt pavement to the red double-decker Airbus and gave his fare to the Pakistani conductor on the steps.
Schaeffer settled into his seat and let the vaguely familiar sights of the ancient western suburbs go by. He liked Hammersmith particularly. It had something to do with the profusion of wet brick that always reminded him of cities in the northeastern United States. It began to rain as they moved into London, and the architectural trophies that the Empire had awarded itself began to appear, all of them old and built on top of foundations that were even older.
When the bus pulled to a stop on the street outside the huge barn of Victoria Station, Schaeffer got off with the others, moved quickly through the doors and down to the tube, looking at nothing and at no one, maneuvering himself into the right stream of people. He took the Circle Line to Paddington Station. When the train came to a stop, he went upstairs, walked over to the BritRail window and bought a ticket to Bath.
“Schubert, Octet in F Major for Strings and Winds, D. 803.” The concert in the Deanery Gardens was exactly what Schaeffer had expected, merging in his mind with a hundred others he had sat through in the ten years in various green spots around Bath. Since they had moved to the north, he had let Meg drag him into York only for an occasional shopping trip. After all, you couldn’t hire somebody to try on clothes for you. But now that life had settled down a little, he didn’t mind concerts. All he required was that they park the car west of the River Ouse, beyond the medieval city walls, so that they wouldn’t have to cross any of the little bridges to get out to the A59.
Schaeffer knew that Eddie Mastrewski would have told him he was crazy. “Are you telling me you’re going to sit here on your ass in the sunshine like a superannuated tortoise listening to a bunch of Germans playing violins? Look at you, for Christ’s sake. You’re practically dead already, because let me tell you they don’t forget. You’re not trying to save your life; you’re just waiting to sell it at the top market price.”
There was an explosion of applause, and Schaeffer added his few pats to the general uproar. He missed Eddie. He still liked to argue with him, and Eddie’s arguments had improved in the years since he had died.
Between concerts he forgot about music, but whenever he went to another concert it felt as though it were continuous, one long book that he was picking up where he had stopped last time. He was learning more about music, but he had trouble associating the dry, meaningless numbers that served as titles with the little tunes that entered his head. He would sit and listen, and by now he could form the themes and changes into complex spatial structures in his mind. But then, amid the obfuscating blare and blast, he would hear a little melody begin to form, tentatively at first and then gradually taking over, until it obscured the rest. Then he would realize that he had heard it before, recognize it like an old acquaintance and feel frustrated. It was as though he had opened the book and read two or three pages before discovering that he had read them already. Once, when Meg had asked him to take her to a concert, he had asked what they were going to play. She had recited a bewildering string of B flat majors and opus 106’s, and when he had said, “What’s that?” she had hummed them to him, one after the other, as though they were popular songs.
The Honourable Margaret Holroyd glanced at Schaeffer beside her. He looked as though he were in suspended animation, sitting comfortably in his folding chair with the gentle sun warming him. He really was a remarkable man. He had apparently had less formal education than the average saddle horse, but lots of Americans gave this impression, and ever since he had settled whatever business he’d had in America, he had seemed different. For one thing, he had become studious. He had been so willing to read books that nobody else actually read that she had been tempted to give him something like the Dictionary of National Biography to see how far his dedication went.
At one time she would have done this, but she had changed too since the business with the Bulgarians. She always called it this when she thought about it because that was the only lie he had given her. They had never spoken about it since. He had simply shown up at her door one day, about ten pounds thinner and looking exhausted, and said, “You’re not married or anything, are you?” She had thrown herself at him and hugged him so hard that she had probably squeezed the breath right out of him, but of course he would never have let her know. That was how it had happened. She had made a huge, irreversible decision without actually deciding anything.
While Michael was away, Margaret had bought American newspapers and tried to figure out what he was really doing. There had even been a few nasty days when she had wondered if she had already read about his death. After all, there was no reason to imagine that she knew his real name. He might have had one of those names that were in the papers—Fratelli, Talarese, Vico and so on. There had been a surprising number of them in the month that he was gone. But that gangster business had just been Meg’s penchant for making up ridiculous stories, and she had turned it on herself because she hadn’t had anyone to tell the stories to. G
wendolyn’s detestable aunt would have said it was her punishment on earth for being a liar, to be followed in due course by more severe and exquisite punishments in the afterlife.
In any event, Margaret could see that it was over. It wasn’t unheard of, after all. There were all those men who went off to wars and saw and did unspeakable things, and then after a year or two they were perfectly fine—or at least they appeared to be. She looked at Schaeffer and felt good about the decision she had not made. It was possible he was going to be one of those tough men who surprised you by being doting fathers. To look at him now, you could imagine that he was a professor, or even an artist. He never fidgeted or moved, and there was nothing in his face to register any change in the music. Only his eyes were in motion, gliding from one person in the audience to another, then upward to the top of the city walls where the walkway was, then over to the gardens and the Minster, then back to the attentive group of tourists and local gentry seated in the folding chairs on the lawn.
Jack Hamp walked along the thick carpet of grass and looked out over the fence across the track. It was an odd little place. With the short season here, all the horses had returned to their paddocks for the winter. Today you could as easily imagine that this was the site of the Santa Maria County Fair as a place where people laid down serious money on horses.
The desk sergeant had said that B. Baldwin’s betting booth had stood sixty meters to the left of the stands, ten meters back from the rail. That would be about here. Hamp turned and looked at the grandstand, then beyond it toward the road. From this spot you couldn’t even see the top of the walnut tree where the Bentley with the bodies in it had been parked. So it wasn’t a question of an enterprising bookmaker noticing a couple of rich young men and deciding that it would be safe to get together a crew to kill them for their walking-around money. The victims hadn’t even gotten close enough to the track for Baldwin to see them; there had been no betting slips in their pockets, no turf on their shoes.
So if anybody had picked them out, it had to be Lucchi or young Talarese. It was odd that the nephew of a New York underboss would be reduced to starting his career as a street thief, or even as a bookie who happened to see a couple of easy marks. What good could the family imagine that his experience as a British bookie would do him in New York? There was no possibility of useful contacts in the barns or on the street; there wasn’t even the same monetary system.
Hamp decided to ask the Brighton police about the stolen-car market in England. He couldn’t imagine that anybody might have hoped to sell a hot Bentley in a country that wasn’t more than four hundred miles from end to end, but it was something you had to ask about before eliminating it. For all he knew, Talarese might have been serving an apprenticeship in pinching Rolls-Royces and using the Mafia’s channels to sell them in Asia or someplace.
But he had an instinct about this. He was fairly confident that when he had done all the footwork and checked out every angle, what he was going to end up with was essentially the same story. The two Limeys had only been unexpected witnesses. Talarese had been out here one fine day at the Brighton racetrack, doing whatever he was supposed to be doing, when he had happened to see a man who, among all the people milling around at this track, he and only he could possibly have recognized. Then with the sun making the bright silks on the horses and jockeys glow, and the birds singing—they were sure as hell singing today, so they probably had been then too—he had started feeling lucky.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 94710210-1355-4875-a788-c7d7034f0375
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 20.6.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.56, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Thomas Perry
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