Speak of the Devil

by Richard Hawke

  SAY WHAT YOU WILL ABOUT WOMEN TAKING FOREVER TO GET DRESSED to go out; Shirley Malone wasn’t issued that chip. I dropped her off in front of her building, and by the time I’d located a parking spot two blocks away and made my way back to her place, she was waiting at the curb looking like the widow Jackie Kennedy herself. Well, as skinny, anyway. I made her go back inside and take off the veil. There are a lot of good things I can say about the woman, but you do have to keep an eye on her. It’s just her temperament that she has a tendency to want to upstage.

  My mother’s apartment is located on Forty-eighth Street, a few doors in from Eleventh. We walked over to the Church of the Sacred Heart on Fifty-first near Tenth. There was already a large crowd milling about outside the church. As many were onlookers and press as were actually there for Tommy Carroll’s funeral service. My mother had her arm looped through mine, and I felt it stiffen when she spotted Phyllis Scott emerging from a limo, followed by her son, Paul.

  Shirley muttered, “Brunhilde and the pussycat.” She stopped and produced a mirror and took a few pokes at her makeup. Phyllis and Paul made their way into the church without seeing us.

  “I’m going to park you inside,” I said. “I’ve got a little business to attend to.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Man stuff.”

  “Can I watch?”

  I got her settled into a pew on the aisle about halfway down. Tommy’s flag-draped casket was already positioned in the front of the church. The place was abuzz with low murmuring. My mother crossed herself and crawled onto the prayer bench. I noticed that there was a run going up the back of one of her stockings.

  I continued to the front of the church and paused in front of Tommy’s casket for as long as I could manage. Just how many police commissioner memorials is a person expected to attend in one lifetime? I moved over to the front pew and spent a few minutes with Betsy Carroll. She was holding up well enough.

  “Bastard went out with his boots on,” she said to me in a soft hoarse voice.

  The press had been lavishing praise on the life and career of Tommy Carroll over the past several days. The impending ravages of his inoperable cancer were the explanation so far as to why the police commissioner had taken his own life. The smarter of the reporters sensed that there was a larger story to be told. I doubted they had any clue as to exactly how large. Soon enough they would.

  “We’ll get him into the ground,” I said to Betsy. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a short-lived peace.”

  She understood. Her husband’s pathetically desperate hopes of going out with a clean legacy weren’t going to be realized.

  “He panicked,” she said. “Big strong man like that. But in the end, he panicked.”

  I said nothing. She was right. Pride and fear. As far as I was concerned, making things right by Margaret King was simply how Tommy Carroll had attempted to justify his actions. Possibly in his own mind, he had believed in those motives. Maybe he had truly convinced himself. But ultimately, it was his determination not to allow Martin Leavitt to set the terms of his final public moment that had stuck in his craw. That was clear from the night I had seen him at home. That was what he couldn’t stomach, and it was what had brought him to his poisonous decisions.

  Betsy looked past me at her husband’s casket. “What about that other thing?”

  “I’m going to check on that right now,” I said. “We’re doing our best.”

  “I know Tommy doesn’t deserve it, but I still hope-”

  I cut her off. “We’ll just have to see.”

  As I headed to the front of the church, I spotted my half sister. Elizabeth was crouched down in the aisle, talking with my mother.

  Sanchez and I met outside the church. As planned. As I approached him, he gave a nod. “It’s done. We’re ready to roll.”

  As if on cue, there was a burping of police sirens and a black limousine was escorted to the open spot cordoned off by traffic cones directly in front of the church. The first to get out of the back was the mayor. He blinked a smile at the crowd, then turned to help Rebecca Gilpin make her way out of the car. Her maneuvering was made a little difficult on account of her crutches. The crutches were a deep maroon, matching the large clip half buried in her hair. The actress gave her high-wattage smile, then seemed to remember where she was and settled her features into pleasant repose.

  Sanchez took a breath. “Here goes.”

  Before he had taken two steps, a figure came out of the crowd and planted herself in front of the couple. It was Tommy Carroll’s assistant, Stacy. She said nothing. She simply stood there, her arms crossed loosely, and gave the mayor a withering look. Leavitt was clearly taken aback for several seconds, then found his footing.

  “Um, Rebecca, I’d like you to meet Stacy…” He hesitated on the last name. “Kendall. Stacy worked very closely with Tommy. Stacy, this is-”

  She cut him off. “I know who she is.” Her normally monotonous voice wavered. “Does she know who I am?”

  Leavitt’s mouth opened, but for once there were no ready words.

  Rebecca smiled sweetly. “Well, who are you, dear?”

  Stacy’s answer came in a hiss. “I’m you.” She glared at Leavitt. “Except I guess I’m stupider.”

  Rebecca turned to Leavitt. “What?” Leavitt’s face was nearly the color of the crutches. The sweet smile had drained from the actress’s face.

  Leavitt sputtered. “S-she’s upset.”

  Rebecca gave him a withering look of her own. Stacy glanced over at Sanchez. Something in her eyes told me. She knew already. Friends in the right places. Sanchez came forward. As far as I could remember, this was the first time I’d ever seen an arrest come as a rescue.

  “Mr. Mayor?” said Sanchez. “I need to see you for a moment.”

  Leavitt’s response came out angrily. “What is it?”

  “Sir? I think in private would be better.” Sanchez tapped his fingers against his lapel.

  Leavitt still hadn’t caught on. “What is it, Captain?”

  Sanchez kept a low, steady voice. “It’s a warrant, sir. For your arrest. Multiple counts.”

  “My- I’m giving Commissioner Carroll’s eulogy, Captain.”

  My cue. I stepped closer. “Actually, Mrs. Carroll says she would prefer it if you didn’t,” I said. “Sir.”

  The mayor grew bug-eyed. He was staring at Remy Sanchez’s lapel. Maybe he could see the slight bulge of the warrant. “But… but it’s been arranged.”

  “It’s been unarranged,” I said. “It’s what the widow prefers. Tommy will receive a perfectly fine send-off, nothing to worry about.” Lord help me, I couldn’t keep the shit-eating grin off my face. “Sir.”

  42

  A WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS, I TOOK MARGO OUT FOR DINNER. THERE was a Vietnamese place in Tribeca that she had been wanting to try. The menu confounded her with so many options that I finally called the waiter over and asked him to bring us six or seven of their most popular appetizers and a main course of fish.

  “The biggest fish you’ve got. Preferably with the head still on.”

  Margo made a face. “Oooh.”

  She loved everything the waiter brought. She had so much fun with the octopus that I asked for a second helping. When the fish arrived, she remarked, “He looks like you.”

  “How do you know it’s a he?”

  She planted her chin in her palms and smiled at me across the crowded table. “Because he looks like you.”

  We had ginger-and-green-tea ice cream for dessert. Margo declared the whole meal “heavenly.”

  “What we did to that country, and now look. I actually feel a little guilty.”

  It was a cool evening, bordering on downright chilly. The temperature had dropped noticeably while we’d been in the restaurant, and we could see our breath. There’d been a prediction of flurries. I asked Margo if she was up for a little walk. She thought I was taking her to the Hudson River Promenade, but instead I turned east at M
urray Street. Her eyes widened with mock delight. “You’re taking me to the Dollhouse?”

  “Sorry. No strip clubs tonight.”

  “Shoot.” She tried to snap her fingers, but they were too cold.

  We skirted City Hall Park and made our way down Fulton Street to the South Street Seaport. Margo darkened as we crossed onto the cobbled market area. “Scene of the crime. How romantic.”

  The sound of singing was drifting our way. In the middle of the cobbled area, a green metal structure had been erected, reaching some thirty or more feet high. The shape of the structure-like the color-was intended to resemble a Christmas tree. There was a red-and-green chain running around the base of the structure, within which were several wrapped “Christmas presents” about the size of hay bales.

  A sign hanging from the chain identified the structure as “The Chorus Tree.” We didn’t need the sign to tell us. Perched on small platforms running in increasingly shorter rows all the way up to the top of the tree were the carolers. They were singing a cappella, their frosty breath swirling up into the blackness. They were dressed in identical green coats and caps and were holding red flashlights made to look like candles. None of the carolers looked to be older than sixteen. A standing sign identified them as students of La Guardia High School for the Performing Arts. A person I assumed was their teacher stood facing them, conducting them through the range of holiday standards. As we watched, they segued from “Joy to the World” to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Margo tugged on my sleeve.

  “ ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ ” she said in a low voice. “The path to madness.”

  I scanned the faces. There were thirteen girls and seven boys. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper clipping. It was from the Post. It was the lead story from the day after Margaret King’s body had been found by the jogger in Prospect Park.

  SISTER SUICIDE

  Nun Ends Life in P’spect Park

  The story included the photograph taken of Margaret King when she was in her early twenties. Dirty-blond hair. Slightly upturned nose. Large, dark eyes.

  “There,” I said, indicating a caroler about halfway up the tree. She was one in from the end. Margo looked back and forth between the newspaper photo and the caroler.

  “That’s her.”

  I nodded. “Grace Maynard.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “How do you think? I’m not a shoe salesman, remember?”

  “Right. Of course.” She took the clipping from me and looked at it once more. “Margaret was already a mother when this picture was taken.”

  “Grace would have been around three at that point.”

  She handed the clipping back to me, and I put it back in my pocket. She looped her arm through mine and shivered. We rode out the rest of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” five golden rings and all. It turned out to be the final carol. At the conclusion, the small gathering of onlookers applauded. The conductor thanked us, and the carolers began coming down from the tree.

  “She doesn’t know a thing, does she?” Margo asked.

  “About her mother?”

  “Or about her father.”

  “If you were her parents, what would you do?”

  Margo was silent a moment. Finally, she said, “I’m thinking I’m glad I don’t have to figure that out.”

  Grace Maynard was goofing with the boy who had been standing next to her. They wielded their flashlights like sabers and were engaged in a mock swordfight. In his enthusiasm, the boy stumbled and nearly fell from his perch. A man in a huge fur hat standing next to me called out, “Come on, Lucius! Be more careful, will ya?”

  Grace Maynard shined her little flashlight over at him. “It was my fault, Mr. Tuck! I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  I looked back just once as Margo and I headed for the street. Grace Maynard was chattering excitedly to a man and a woman. Her breath was popping from her mouth in bursts. Margo and I paused at the corner as a string of available taxis went by.

  Margo looked up at me. “None of them good enough for you?”

  “I thought maybe we’d walk some more. It’s starting to snow.”

  I hadn’t even noticed it until I’d said it. It was a very light snow. It could have almost been mistaken for ash.

  “Where do you want to walk, big guy?” Margo asked. “Just around and around in circles?”

  I thought about it. I couldn’t say it sounded like a bad idea.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Word on the street is that it’s tedious to hear writers or actors or other such types giving gushing thanks to their agents. Well… too bad, this guy’s earned it. My great thanks to Richard Pine of Inkwell Management-Mr. Cool-for his steadfast confidence in my work, his aplomb under fire, and his wise counsel and assistance while I was working on this book.

  In addition, I want to thank Jonathan Karp for taking Richard’s calls in the first place and for championing my book so powerfully at Random House. Likewise Gina Centrello (she of the astonishingly good taste) for all her enthusiastic support. And of course my shrewd and skillful editor, Mark Tavani, for bossing me around just the right amount in the name of getting it as right as right can be.

  I’ve also received immeasurable support and guidance before, during, and after the writing of this book from Kadam Morten and the great loving crew at the Chakrasambara Buddhist Center in Chelsea. Everyone should be so fortunate.

  RH

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Richard Hawke resides in New York City. This is his first novel. Visit his website at www.RHawke.com.

  ***

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