He pushed forward and stepped within earshot, but he was too late-Maggie Cain was already pulling away. “You’re a fool, Alan, just like the rest of them.”
As she turned, Spocatti turned with her, showing her his back as she slipped into the crowd. He waited to make sure she wasn’t moving toward the exit before turning to glance at the man in the cage. He pressed a coke inhaler against his nostril and made kissing noises to the woman while he snorted the drug. He giggled and he laughed, and Spocatti, who never forgot a face, recognized him from the photographs Wolfhagen sent months ago, when the job was initially proposed and accepted.
He was Alan Ross, another of Wolfhagen’s former moles, who had testified against Wolfhagen for his own personal immunity. He’d stolen confidential information for Wolfhagen but he’d done no time in prison for the millions he’d ripped out of the world’s hands. He was on Wolfhagen’s list and he was to be murdered along with the rest of them.
Had Maggie Cain come here to warn him?
He looked around for her, saw her talking to a man at the makeshift bar, and knew that if she had warned Ross, he couldn’t let the man leave here alive.
He also knew that if he didn’t do this quickly, he’d lose her.
He moved to the rear of Ross’ cage and swung open the door. The woman looked around and growled a low warning at Spocatti as the club’s lights fanned out and dimmed to blackness. Ross’ head jerked up. “Who’s there?” he whispered.
Spocatti stepped right, eyes on the woman.
“Mama?”
The lights again, all of them, lifting from floor to ceiling.
“Tell me it’s you.”
Spocatti bent down and gripped the woman by the throat. “Get out of here. Now. I’m fucking him, not you.”
The woman started to laugh, but Spocatti stopped her with a slap across the face, which startled and thrilled her. He could see that she was high, so he slapped her again, this time so hard that the ball gag sprang free from her mouth and for an instant, her eyes became clear. “Get out.”
The woman left on all fours.
Spocatti leaned down and cupped Ross’ face in his hands. He brushed away the sweaty white hair cobwebbing the man’s forehead and traced a finger around the man’s mouth. He kissed him, felt Ross’s tongue slide across his lower lip, tasted the man’s self-hatred on his breath, sensed him relaxing beneath his touch, and became aware of shapes and shadows moving closer to get a better look at the man in street clothes kissing the freak. One by one, they left, disinterested.
Spocatti waited for the lights to dim and finally they did. He pulled out his iPhone, set it to record and discretely put it next to Ross. He shielded it with his lowered body so nobody could see it. Now, the camera faced Alan Ross’ head.
He curled his lips away and said just loud enough for Ross and the camera to hear, “You sent Wolfhagen to prison and now he’s having you murdered. Tell me how it feels, Alan.”
The man blinked in recognition at the sound of Wolfhagen’s name. His eyes flicked up to Spocatti, then across to the iPhone, where the room’s lights were causing an electrified firestorm to gather and crash in the center of the device’s glass panel.
“Who are-?”
Spocatti gripped the man’s head and, in an instant, twisted it. The sound of neck bones breaking was dulled only by the sharp blast of music. But Spocatti heard it and, as he gently rested Ross’ head back onto the table, he slipped the iPhone into his pocket and stepped away just as the man lost control of his bladder and colon.
Lights still low, Spocatti moved away from the cage and into the crowd. He glanced back and saw pooling on the floor all of the rotten life that was leaving Ross.
He stared at it for a moment and knew that in this crowd, it wouldn’t go to waste. It would attract an animal of a different sort.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In Heaven, Maggie Cain’s scarred profile, caught in the ceiling’s spinning lights, flashed across the blackened walls in a million jigsaw shadows that would never fit if pieced together.
She was sick from being here. Revolted.
She looked up at the woman hanging above her from the black trapeze and wanted to snap the damn cords. But why bother? This woman would feel nothing if she fell. Her eyes were wide open yet unseeing, windows that looked into empty rooms. The things she’d seen, the secrets she knew, were stamped within the lines of her face.
Fool.
Maggie looked at her watch and again around the club. He wasn’t coming, even though he’d sent his driver to pick her up and bring her here. She was disappointed but not surprised. When they spoke, she’d warned him what was going on, but didn’t answer his questions. She wanted to see him in person to tell him the rest of it, if only so she could try to reach him with the gravity of the situation before it was too late. Although he told her he came here every Saturday at this time, he’d obviously backed out.
Something soft and fleshy brushed against her leg.
Startled, she looked down and saw an enormously fat woman walk past her on all fours. She stopped to rest beside a man with a glass slipper perched atop his head. Maggie watched him reach down to pat the woman’s head, then she turned and looked in the direction from which the woman came.
She saw him almost immediately-the man from the street. He was leaving Ross’ cage, closing the door behind him, now sliding along the walls as he moved in her direction. He passed through ribbons of red light and Maggie saw with a start that he was looking at her. His mouth tightened, their glances crashed, hers fell away.
He was following her.
She’d seen him at the bookstore, the post office, her agent’s office on 13th Street. She’d dismissed him as a curious fan.
She stepped back into shadow. He wasn’t FBI, didn’t have the look. Who, then? And why had he been in Alan Ross’ cage?
Two hundred feet and a wall of bodies separated them. She moved away from the bar and in the direction of the exit, where a tall black transvestite with a teased platinum wig turned to look at her with interest.
The queen’s lips parted in what could only be a look of recognition and now real fear burned in Maggie’s throat. He’d blocked the only exit with a sidewalk whore, who straightened and looked briefly behind Maggie before coming down the last step and staring her hard in the face.
Heaven’s lights dimmed to blackness.
The crowd surged to the right in a tidal wave of flesh and Maggie felt hands on her body, hips and shoulders slamming into hers. She started to rush back when one of the hands reached out and snagged her arm, hooked it in a death grip, pulled her forward and held her firm. Maggie twisted back, struggled against the man, and was about to scream when his deep voice hissed in her ear: “Shut up, fool.” It was the transvestite. “You wanna live, then you better move your ass outta here now. Right now. Hear me? There’s a crazy fuck in here that wants to kill you.”
***
Spocatti knew the moment Divine leaned toward Maggie Cain’s ear that she was telling her to run. And so he ran through the crowd, leaping over the fat woman pretending to be a dog and a dozen other people behaving like dogs as he sprinted toward the exit.
But in the wild maze of flashing lights and twirling bodies, he couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t seem to move forward without someone getting in his way and slowing him down. With mounting frustration, he saw Cain look over her shoulder, spot him and then, with fear on her face, she rushed up the stairs, which led to open air and freedom.
Spocatti ran toward the white light wavering at the exit, saw the cool glare that was Divine’s face as it slid into shadow and disappeared, but he had no time to seek out that face and bash it in. He hit the stairs as Maggie Cain shot past Frankie the doorman and burst through the door. He caught a glimpse of her dark hair in the sudden blast of sunlight and knew that she was his.
But Frankie, foolish in the bravado of his high, stood in front of the door, pulled off his leather mask and folded his arms around his
muscular chest in an effort to create some kind of intimidation.
Spocatti raced toward him, the gun in his hand exploding along with the back of Frankie’s head. Frankie collapsed in front of him but Spocatti didn’t lose momentum. He was through the door, up the stairs and on the street. Heart hammering, eyes blinded by the white-hot sunlight, he saw only shiny trucks rumbling by and the three whistling whores walking alongside them.
He whirled in a complete circle.
Maggie Cain was gone.
***
Wolfhagen stood at the top of the staircase, listening.
Down below, in the library, Carra was straightening chairs, moving about, wanting to be heard. The only rugs in this house were threadbare antiques worth a fortune and her shoes clicked across them without apology.
He imagined her stopping in front of mirrors and glimpsing the rage on her face. He imagined her damning him and his presence in her home.
He imagined her dead.
Now she was in the hallway, now the living room. Click, click, click. Wolfhagen leaned over the railing and looked down at the bright entryway, remodeled with his money while he was in prison. The central air conditioning hummed but it couldn’t deaden the sounds of those heels. Would she never leave?
Finally, her heels in the hallway, her shadow stretching, Wolfhagen stepping back, floorboards creaking, door swinging open, banging shut.
He hurried into her bedroom and crossed to the window overlooking 68th Street. He parted the heavy damask curtain and peered out. On the sidewalk, Carra was approaching the black limousine waiting for her curbside. She wore a wide-brimmed hat that concealed her face and a tailored red suit that showed off her legs. The driver opened her door and she stepped inside. Wolfhagen had no idea where she was going or how long she would be, but he had threatened her and so she’d left. If he was going to look at this DVD, he’d have to do so now, before she returned.
His suitcase was across the room on the wide iron chair.
Wolfhagen unzipped the bag and removed the disc from beneath the stack of neatly folded clothes. He turned to the cabinet behind him, opened the pale wooden doors, and switched on the television and the DVD player. He inserted the DVD, grabbed the remote, walked backward to the bed, sat down and pushed PLAY. As the screen faded to black, he stared at it.
Time passed. The disc spun. He sat completely still and watched Gerald Hayes tumble through the air and strike the sidewalk. He was shocked by the violence of the act, but not repelled by it. He viewed the scene again and again, marveling at the woman’s cool as she smashed in one side of Hayes’ head and then led him to the open window and shoved him through.
And of course the woman’s words, over and over the woman’s words: “Wolfhagen was your closest friend and you betrayed him. You told all his secrets in court, you sent him to prison for three years, and you’ve never regretted it. Did you really think he’d let you get away with it forever?”
Wolfhagen rewound the DVD, watched it a fifth time. Hayes had just been shoved through his office window when the bedroom door snapped shut.
Startled, Wolfhagen turned.
Carra was at the rear of the room, looking at the television screen, her decorated lips twisted back, her body rigid. He’d been so intent on Hayes’ murder, he didn’t hear her come in.
Immediately, he stood and shut off the television. How much had she seen? Why had she come back? His mind raced. “It was sent to me,” he blurted. “It came in the box with Wood’s head. There was a note-it told me to take it. Someone’s trying to frame me.”
But Carra, whose hat was now in her hand, took a step back.
“It’s the truth,” he said.
Carra’s eyes said it wasn’t and she shook her head firmly. She was a woman known for her composure and she didn’t lose it now.
She reached out a hand and gripped the doorknob. “I was standing right here,” she said. “I heard what that woman said. You killed Gerald. You killed Wood. You’ve killed every one of them.”
***
Carmen’s face glowed in the light of the computer.
She was in the safe house on Avenue A, reading the information she’d downloaded from Maggie Cain’s computer. Her eyes skimmed the information Cain had been compiling since the death of her lover, Mark Andrews.
When she was finished, she sat back in her chair. In all her years in this business, she’d seen some sick shit, usually created by her own hands, but this was a new low. This would be enough for Wolfhagen. Cain and her private investigator were as good as dead.
Carmen picked up her cell and hit Spocatti’s number. The line rang, but he didn’t answer. She hung up the phone and opened another file, this one marked “Marty Spellman.” She read quickly and then stopped at one paragraph. She read it again-and again.
Could this be true?
Again, she tried Spocatti and this time he answered. She told him what she knew and Spocatti told her where to meet him. “His name is Marty Spellman?”
“That’s right.”
“And he’s working with Cain?”
“They’re investigating Wolfhagen. They’ve already involved the police.”
“Run a check on him. Find out where he lives.”
“I already know.”
“That’s resourceful, Carmen, good for you. What do you recommend?”
“It’s no longer just Cain. We take both out. Now.”
“Agreed. Let me call Wolfhagen and tell him our priorities have shifted.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The light in Manhattan had changed to the deeper glow of late afternoon when Marty left Roberta’s. The sun had dipped below the jagged skyline and now deep shadows were stretching across the city, thick fingers reaching out, perhaps in search of a breeze.
Or a neck.
He walked on auto pilot to Washington Square Park, his own shadow dancing before him on the pavement. He watched people he didn’t know step all over him, cars race over his head, a city bus cut him in half, a kid on a skateboard sever his legs. His invincible shadow collided with all of New York and it didn’t hesitate or flinch. It simply charged forward without feeling, rippling over curbs, growing slowly by inches.
Wolfhagen.
Now this was an interesting turn of events. Marty had to smile. So the man might not be out, after all. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled across the park’s wide expanse of cracked cement. Had Wolfhagen really flown 3,000 miles to attend a party given by the woman he was suing for thousands a week in alimony?
Marty read the Post. Like the rest of New York, he knew the Wolfhagens were in the middle of a bitter divorce battle. Carra was fighting him with a team of lawyers hell-bent on giving him nothing of her personal, inherited fortune. She had publicly spoken out against him. Editors continued to showcase the unfolding story with headlines that demanded attention. Had they come to some sort of reconciliation in the few days that had passed since he read the last story? Unlikely. But even if they had, would Carra really have invited him to come cross country to one of her parties? To spend the night at her home? That he couldn’t believe.
He left the park and started up Fifth, allowing his thoughts to wander around the possibilities. If Carra hadn’t invited Wolfhagen to her party, then why had he flown to New York? To confront her face to face about their divorce? That was a possibility. But if it was the case, then why had Carra allowed him to stay with her now?
Did she have a choice?
He turned onto West 8th Street. Ahead of him and to the right, the Click Click Camera Shop reared its ugly face to the world. Marty stepped inside.
A shirtless Jo Jo Wilson looked up as Marty strolled toward him. He dropped the tattered issue of Big Jugs he was holding and scowled, his pitted lips parting in protest. “This better not be about your camera,” he said. “I sent it to you, just like you asked.”
“The camera’s fine,” Marty said. “I need to use your phone.”
“You need to use my what?”
He continued across the narrow, dingy little store and put his hands down on the dusty glass countertop. Jo Jo leaned back on his rusty metal stool. “Your phone,” Marty said. “I need to use it. My cell is almost dead.”
Wilson’s hand skidded left, behind a stack of boxes that had the words “POISON” and “! DANGER-LIVE ANIMALS!” stamped in red all over them, and came back with a dirty gray cordless phone that once had been beige. He handed it to Marty, who dialed Maggie Cain. Again, he got her machine. Still, she wasn’t home. He left another message, this time asking her to call his cell immediately. He hung up the phone and stood there, wondering where she could be. He needed to speak to her. She knew the Wolfhagens.
“Trying to reach somebody?” Jo Jo asked.
“Oh, that’s brilliant, Jo Jo. That’s smart.”
“Tense as usual?”
“I’m not tense.”
“Right. And I’m not sittin’ here dyin’ right in front of you.” He paused to take a breath. Even the shortest conversation could leave him winded. He glanced down at the oxygen tank beside him and put a hand on the cloudy mask. “So, what’s the problem? Ex-wife givin’ you shit again?”
“You could say that.”
“Sorry you divorced her?”
“She divorced me, Jo Jo. Twice. Remember? And no, I’m not sorry. In fact, today I’m particularly happy that she did.”
“Miss your girls, don’t you?”
Marty looked at him.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re missing your girls.”
How could this unfeeling, sloppy grotesque be so intuitive? It made no sense, but it was one of the reasons Marty had come around for the better part of fifteen years. Every once in a while, Jo Jo Wilson tapped into whatever worldly experience he had and was able to see straight through him, cutting right to the core of whatever was bothering him. But Marty wasn’t willing to go there now. “I think you need a hit of oxygen, Jo Jo.”
Running of the bulls wst-2 Page 13
