Criminal Conversation

by Ed McBain

  RF: Don’t let them fucks bother you, Anth. They’re nothin’.

  AF: It’s not me I care about. It’s Tessie, the kids. What kind of life can it be for them, these bums coming around all the time?

  RF: They’re nothin’, don’t let them get to you.

  AF: Angela and Carol, I don’t think it bothers them as much as …

  RF: They’re beautiful girls, Anth. You got beautiful daughters.

  AF: They love their Uncle Rudy, I can tell you that.

  RF: I’d breath their heads, they didn’t.

  (Laughter)

  AF: But a son. It’s different for a son. How many kids like him get to go to college? But he fucked up, right? I think because he liked Vegas too much.

  RF: Well, yeah, Vegas.

  AF: Tessie was so proud of him. So he gets himself kicked out for drinkin’ an’ fightin’. Have some more of this.

  RF: Thanks. Watch how you’re pouring, you son of a bitch, you’ll get me drunk.

  AF: You know how much I paid for this?

  RF: How much?

  AF: Six ninety-five a bottle.

  RF: Come on.

  AF: I’m serious. I bought six cases.

  RF: Where’d you get this, six ninety-five a bottle?

  AF: The guy around the corner.

  RF: What is it, Spanish? They make cheap wine, the Spanish.

  AF: No, no, it’s Italian.

  RF: Six fuckin’ ninety-five? I can’t believe it.

  AF: It’s delicious, I think.

  RF: It’s fuckin’ superb.

  AF: Six ninety-five.

  RF: But, you know, Anth, when it comes to kids …

  AF: It should all be as simple as wine.

  RF: Nothin’s simple, Anth. Forget anything bein’ simple, there’s nothin’ simple.

  AF: Girls are different.

  RF: Also, they’re both married. You got to remember that. It makes a difference.

  AF: Oh, sure. Nice boys, too, they married. You like them?

  RF: Oh, sure. Well, not Sam so much. He’s a fuckin’ know-it-all. But the other one …

  AF: Larry.

  RF: Yeah, Larry.

  AF: Larry, yeah. He’s okay.

  RF: He’s very nice. A good kid. He likes me, too, I can tell. His fuckin’ Uncle Rudy. He calls me Uncle Rudy.

  AF: You know what I wish. This is if God forbid they ever send me away, what I wish …

  RF: Come on, stop it. Have some more wine. Come on. I don’t like to hear this shit.

  Back to the good cheap wine again, Michael thought. Six ninety-five a bottle from the guy around the corner. Italian wine. It should all be as simple as wine. He wished they’d mentioned the label. At six ninety-five a bottle, he’d buy six cases himself.

  AF: But if they do put me away Rude …

  RF: That’s never gonna happen, so don’t even think it.

  AF: But if they do, you know who I want to take over for me?

  RF: I hope you’re not gonna say me, ’cause I’ll tell you the truth, I don’t want the fuckin’ job.

  AF: Listen, you’d be terrific, Rudy, but …

  RF: Thanks, I don’t want it. Anyway, you’re not going no place, so forget it. Have some more wine, you jackass, stop talkin’ stupid.

  Little more vino? Michael thought. Little more vino, bro? We’ll both go home in a wheelbarrow, you push, I’ll ride. Say when. Plop, plop, plink, plink, plop, plop, plop.

  RF: And I hope you ain’t thinkin’ of Petey Bardo, neither. I got nothin’ against him, I promise you, but he’s got the personality of a fuckin’ rivet. Salute! Jesus, this is truly superb. He’s excellent at what he does ’cause he looks like a fuckin’ judge, those brown suits he wears, I never met nobody likes brown the way Petey does, I swear to God. But can you imagine him sittin’ down with some of the people from Harlem, f’ example, havin’ a few drinks with that bunch? Can you imagine him ever loosenin’ up that way? He’s a fuckin’ stiff, Anth, even if he is married to Josie. It takes more than just brains to keep this thing of ours together, this this we got.

  AF: So who do you think? If I ever had to retire, you know.

  RF: Probably who you were gonna say yourself.

  AF: Who do you think I was about to say?

  RF: If he wants it, that is.

  AF: Who?

  RF: He may like Vegas too much. Atlantic City too much. This is responsibility here. Girls, he likes girls too much. And gambling. He takes over for you, he’s got to have his head here, Anth, and not up some snatch. His head and his heart got to be here.

  AF: I think we have the same person in mind.

  RF: Sure. Lino, am I right?

  AF: Lino, yes.

  And there it was.

  It had been her own fault, allowing Mollie to go out there without a life jacket, but she’d been doing that forever, and there’d been no reason to believe …

  No, there was no excuse.

  What was she supposed to tell Michael? That she’d almost allowed their daughter to drown? That if it hadn’t been for the bravery of a total stranger, Mollie might now be …

  Well, not entirely a total stranger.

  This was the man she’d said hello to last night outside the restaurant, the one Heather thought had big ears. Standing on the deck of the small boat, dripping wet and out of breath, hands on his hips, head bent, he watched silently as Sarah knelt over her daughter. Mollie was coughing and sputtering and spitting, but she seemed otherwise fine, if totally shaken.

  “Thank you,” Sarah had whispered, more to God than to the tall stranger.

  He nodded, still gasping for breath after the exertion of his hard swim against the chop.

  He introduced himself as Andrew Farrell.

  Said he was here in St. Bart’s on business, staying at the Guanahani.

  She said she didn’t know how to thank him.

  She would later remember all this in minute detail.

  He said all he asked was a ride back to the yacht so he could pick up his shoes. She realized then that he’d dived overboard fully clothed, except for the shoes. White long-sleeved shirt plastered to his arms and chest, pale pastel-blue cotton trousers soaking wet.

  She thanked him again as he climbed the ladder onto the Grand Banks. In a small voice, Mollie piped, “Thank you, Mr. Farrell.”

  It wasn’t until later that afternoon that Sarah called the Guanahani and asked for Andrew Farrell, please. When he answered the phone, she told him who she was …

  “Sarah Welles, you saved my daughter’s life …”

  . . . as if there were a dozen Sarah Welleses whose daughters’ lives he’d saved, and then said she really felt they owed him more than a boat ride back to retrieve his shoes …

  No, don’t be silly, he said, I was happy to be of assistance.

  She would remember all this later.

  Well, she said, my daughter and I feel we haven’t truly expressed our gratitude. Mr. Farrell … if you have no other plans, could we possibly take you to dinner tonight? Mollie suggested that you choose anyplace you like on the island …

  Only if it’s my treat, he said.

  She would remember all this.

  No, no, she said, of course not, that’s not the idea at all.

  My treat, he said. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. I know where the house is.

  Later, she would wonder how he knew.

  Seven thirty is fine, she said, but I insist that …

  See you later, he said, and hung up.

  Michael caught Georgie at home at four that afternoon, packing for his trip to Vail.

  “Few questions,” he said.

  “I’m on vacation,” Georgie said.

  “Regarding Anthony Faviola,” Michael said.

  “
I’m still on vacation.”

  “One quick question, then.”

  “Better make it very quick. I’m almost out the door.”

  “Who’s Lino?”

  “You asked me yesterday, and I still don’t know.”

  “Not Lena, Lino. Or Mick-a-lino.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Never came across that name, huh?”

  “Never.”

  “I thought if anyone would know …”

  “No, I don’t. Michael, I’m sorry, but my plane …”

  “Can I come over there now?”

  “No.”

  “I want to look at your scrapbooks.”

  “No. I’ll be back in the office on the eleventh. We can talk then.”

  “Georgie …”

  “Georgie me not. The slopes are calling.”

  “I need to look at your clippings on Faviola.”

  “Go to the library. Look up F-A-V …”

  “Georgie, please. I think I’m onto something, but I have to …”

  “Whatever it is, it can wait till the eleventh.”

  “How about whoever took over for him?”

  “His brother did. Everybody knows that.”

  “Maybe not.”

  There was a long silence on the line.

  “Then who?”

  “Somebody named Lino.”

  “I still don’t know him.”

  “Let me look at the scrapbooks.”

  “No.”

  “I can be there in twenty minutes …”

  “I’m leaving here in an hour.”

  “I’ll take them with me. I’ll bring a suitcase …”

  “You’d better bring a trunk.”

  “Can I come?”

  “Come already,” Georgie said, and hung up.

  The place he’d chosen was on one of the island’s highest mountains, an aerie that offered stunning views from the terrace and the restaurant. They had drinks first on the terrace, Mollie ordering a club soda with lime and then launching into a long discourse on how it felt to be drowning and to have your whole life—all twelve years of it—flashing before your eyes like a music video.

  “I’ll never forget the exact minute and hour,” she said, sipping through a straw and batting her lashes at Andrew over the rim of her glass, obviously already madly in love with the man who’d saved her life at twenty minutes to eleven this morning …

  “But how do you know what time it was?” he said.

  “I asked Mom. Did I try to drown you?”

  “No, no.”

  “If I’d tried to drown you, would you have knocked me unconscious?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ve seen them do that in movies.”

  “I didn’t have to. You were very cooperative.”

  They sat on the terrace sipping their drinks, reliving the morning’s experience, Sarah admitting she got really frightened the moment she saw Mollie go under for the second time …

  “Is it true about the third time being the last one?” Mollie interrupted.

  “I think so,” Andrew said. “Unless you’re twelve. Then you get five times.”

  . . . and then virtually panicking, when she went under for the third time.

  “What happened was I think when I hit the water the breath got knocked out of me and I was a little stunned for a few seconds, which is why I sucked in water. Then I started choking and coughing, and I sucked in even more water and all of a sudden I couldn’t breathe! I was never so scared in my life. Well, once before actually. When Luis yanked me out of the way of that taxi.”

  “Who’s Luis?” Andrew asked.

  “The doorman at our building.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “East Eighty-First. I was crossing the street when this cab zoomed around the corner and almost ran me over. If it wasn’t for Luis, I wouldn’t have been, alive today for you to save me.”

  “I think you ought to send Mr. Farrell a dozen roses every year at this time,” Sarah said.

  “Andrew,” he corrected. “And I think the opposite would be better. This is the first time I’ve ever saved anyone’s life.”

  “My hero!” Mollie said broadly, and rolled her eyes in a mock swoon.

  “Mrs. Welles? Another drink?”

  “Sarah,” she corrected. “Are you having one?”

  “I am,” Mollie said.

  “Let’s all have another,” Andrew said.

  “Let’s,” Sarah said.

  “Does anyone call you Sadie?” he asked.

  “Sadie? Oh my God, no.”

  “Isn’t that a nickname for Sarah?”

  “I suppose so. But Sadie?” she said, and turned to Mollie. “Can you visualize me as a Sadie?”

  “Sounds like a shopping-bag lady,” Mollie said.

  “How about Sassy?” Andrew asked.

  “Me? Sassy?”

  “That’s Sarah Vaughan’s nickname.”

  “Who’s Sarah Vaughan?” Mollie asked.

  “A singer,” Andrew said.

  “Sounds like a stripper,” Mollie said. “Sassy.”

  “Does anyone ever call you Andy?” Sarah asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it just doesn’t fit.”

  “Sometimes Mom calls me Millicent,” Mollie said, and pulled a face. “When she’s mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mollie’s a nickname for Millicent.”

  “But is that your full name? Millicent?”

  “Hell, no,” Mollie said. “I know,” she said at once to Sarah, “that’s a dime.” And then, to Andrew, “When I was little, they used to charge me a dime every time I cursed.”

  “Didn’t work, though,” Sarah said. “As you can see.”

  They went in to dinner at a quarter past eight. Mollie and Sarah ordered the lobster medallions with kiwi fruit and Andrew asked the waiter what the coulommier was, and ordered it when he learned it was cheese in puff pastry. For her main course, Mollie ordered the lamb in green pepper sauce—“Medium rare, please”—and both Sarah and Michael ordered the grouper fricassee. For no good reason, Sarah suddenly remembered her sister’s running gag about wanting to fricassee the one with the white hair. Unconsciously, she looked at Andrew’s ears to see if they really were big, and then turned away when he noticed her studying him.

  As if reading her mind, he said, “I should have asked your sister to join us.”

  “She’s gone,” Sarah said. “How’d you know … ?”

  “You look a lot …”

  “Aunt Heather’s getting a divorce,” Mollie said.

  “Too bad,” Andrew said.

  “Uncle Doug’s got a bimbo.”

  “Mollie’s had too many drinks,” Sarah said, and smiled.

  Andrew smiled back.

  “They don’t have any alcohol in them, Mom,” Mollie said.

  “Good thing.”

  “Anyway, he knows what a bimbo is.”

  “Sure,” Andrew said. “It’s a tropical drink.”

  “Mr. Farr-ell!”

  “Cross between the limbo and the marimba.”

  “Maybe I’m drinking one,” Mollie said, and peered into her glass, and then looked up sharply and said, “Those aren’t drinks.”

  “Really?” Andrew said, and winked again.

  Mollie winked back.

  “So what are you guys doing down here?” Andrew asked. “Besides drowning.”

  “We’re all on vacation. That’s Grandma’s house we’re staying in. Daddy couldn’t come ’cause he had work to do.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “He’ll be down on New Year
’s Eve.”

  “Or maybe sooner,” Sarah said. “I hope.”

  “What does he do?”

  In the early days of their marriage, when Michael was a rookie ADA, she had learned quickly enough that it was frequently best not to broadcast the fact that he worked for the District Attorney’s office. As an example, they would often be at parties where pot was being passed around. This wasn’t even a crime, it was a mere violation, but what was an ADA to do in such circumstances? Walk away from it? In which case, people would mutter, “Some District Attorney’s office we’ve got!” Make an arrest at the scene? “Some chicken-shit jackass Michael Welles is!” When asked, she’d learned simply to say, “Michael’s a lawyer.” If pressed, she would say, “He works downtown.” If pressed further, she would say, “He works for the city.” And if forced against the wall, she would say, “He’s the city’s corporate counsel on civil suits,” an outright lie. Later on, when Michael began investigating criminals who would as soon shoot you as blink at you, he’d cautioned her specifically against the danger of mentioning he was an ADA. Mollie knew the routine. Together, they went through the drill now.

  “He’s a lawyer,” Sarah said.

  “Works downtown,” Mollie said.

  “For the city,” Sarah said.

  “Mom’s a teacher,” Mollie said, changing the subject.

  “Where do you teach?” Andrew asked.

  “The Greer Academy,” Sarah said.

  “That’s a preppie school for girl nerds,” Mollie said.

  “Where do you go to school?”

  “Hanover.”

  “That’s what you get if you drink too many bimbos,” he said. “A hanover.”

  Mollie giggled.

  “What subject do you teach?” he asked.

  “Me?” Mollie asked.

  “English,” Sarah said.

  “Where’s that? The Greer Academy?”

  “Sixtieth and Park.”

  “Near Christ Church,” Mollie said.

  “I thought you were an actress,” Andrew said. “Or a model.”

  “Me?” Mollie asked.

  “You, too,” Andrew said, and smiled.

  Sarah wondered if she was blushing.

  “Are you here on vacation, too?” she asked.

  “Business,” he said. “I leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, nooo,” Mollie said, and grimaced.

  “Shall we order some wine?” Andrew asked. “Would anyone … ?”