West 57

by B. N. Freeman

  “What are you doing here, King?” Bree asked.

  King wandered around the sharply angled prow and swigged his bubbly like Gatorade. “I am communing with the Captain. His spirit is here.” He ripped off his captain’s hat and recited in a loud voice: “No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more, never, never, never, never, never!”

  “Shakespeare?” I asked Bree.

  “King Lear. You have to admit, he knows his stuff.”

  King spun around and collapsed to his knees with his hat clutched in his fists. I was afraid he was going to sing, but he crawled to the railing instead and threw up into the harbor. I was glad he hadn’t done that on the roof of the Gansevoort.

  “Let’s go, King,” I said. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  King clung to the brass railing, wiping his mouth. He re-positioned the hat on his head, but it was crooked. He wagged a finger at me. “This is where the Captain climbed over the edge. Right here. This is where he offered himself to the goddess of the sea.”

  I was tired of lies.

  “You can cut the crap, King,” I snapped. “The FBI recovered Wolfe’s body. He was shot in the head. No suicide. I know about the safe deposit box, too. I found the gun. The FBI has it now. So no more fake stories, no more heroic poetry, okay? The game’s over.”

  King flopped down on his backside. “Bollocks,” he muttered. He spread his legs wide and put the champagne bottle between them. He gripped the neck of the bottle with both hands. I was glad it was the bottle and not other things.

  “I warned you!” he shouted at me. “But did you listen, Julie Chavan? No, you had to keep pushing pushing pushing pushing pushing pushing. And for what? The truth? I told you the truth would only hurt the people you love.”

  “You want to tell us what really happened?” Bree asked him.

  King stared at the stars. He tried to drink more of the champagne but poured most of it down his bare chest.

  “The Captain knew the end was drawing nigh,” he said.

  Nigh? Really?

  “He was planning his suicide. He would have done it just like I said. He told me about his wish to lose himself in the sea. He would never let himself be locked up in a cage, not the Captain. That wasn’t for him.”

  “Why kill himself?” Bree asked.

  “The rumors had started spreading. The whispers. People were asking questions about the fund accounting for the first time. Investors. Reporters. Attorneys. Private investigators. The government. The net was closing around us. It would only be a matter of days, the Captain said, before everyone knew the truth, that there was no more money, that it was all gone, that it had been a scheme from the beginning. His mood was dark those days. Black even. ”

  “Get to the last night, King,” I said. “Tell us about the boat.”

  King leaned back against the railing. “The Captain loved this boat. He was happier here on the yacht than anywhere else on earth. His finest days were at the helm, miles from shore. I suggested we sail off to an island somewhere to escape, him and me, but he said they would follow us. Sooner or later, they would find us.”

  “The last night,” I repeated.

  “Yes, the last night. I knew from the beginning that it would be our last night. I knew the Captain would lead us out of harbor but not lead us back. The weather was as grim as his soul, spattering rain out of the night sky. Even so, he had a feast prepared for us. It was like the Shah’s table. He wanted a final celebration out on the water.”

  I was losing patience.

  I didn’t want to hear about Irving Wolfe.

  I didn’t want to hear about the Feds closing in.

  I didn’t want to hear about the boat or the weather or the shrimp cocktails.

  “Tell me about Sonny!” I said, my voice cracking. “Sonny went out on the boat with you that night, didn’t he?”

  “The great Sonnymonias! Yes, Julie Chavan. Yes, you are right. He was here.”

  I closed my eyes. Sometimes you know what you’re going to hear, but you still hate it. “What happened?”

  “I told you, it was supposed to be a celebration!” King hollered. “A feast! The Captain was joking, laughing, telling stories, as if he had no cares in the world. However, Sonny kept pressing for the truth, kept asking if the rumors were true. Finally, the Captain admitted it. He laid it all out, everything he’d done. It didn’t go well, of course. The conversation dissolved into terrible arguing and shouting. It was painful. I had to go below, because I couldn’t take it. I covered my ears and tried to drown out their voices.”

  Oh, Sonny.

  “Then I heard the explosion,” King went on, his voice slurring with grief, “and I knew what had happened. I ran back up to the deck, fearing the worst, and he was here, right here at my feet.” He jabbed at the deck with his finger. “Dead! Shot! My Captain was gone.”

  That didn’t answer my question.

  Why? That was my question.

  I bent down in front of King. “I know my father had a temper. I know he was desperate, but I still don’t understand. What were they arguing about? Why did Sonny shoot him?”

  “Sonny?” King asked.

  “Yes, of course, Sonny. Why did he kill Wolfe?”

  King placed his hat over his heart. He looked sincerely distressed. “Sonny did not shoot the Captain, Julie Chavan. Is that what you thought? If so, then I humbly apologize. No, Sonny tried to stop it. He was a valiant man. I heard him shouting to put down the gun. Sadly, his pleas were in vain.”

  My father did not kill anyone.

  Sonny was innocent.

  He was a valiant man.

  “Darling!” Bree whispered, hugging me in relief.

  I was relieved, too, and I was upset that I had lost my faith. I’d turned my back on everything I knew about Sonny and was willing to believe something awful about him. I should have trusted my father. He was not that man.

  I was so caught up in my rush of emotions that I barely heard King’s next words. They sounded almost inaudible, drowned by the roar in my head.

  “It was that woman,” he said.

  I thought about plugging my ears and singing. I didn’t want to know what he meant. I didn’t want to know any more than what I knew already. Sonny didn’t shoot Wolfe. End of story. Except it was not the end of the story. There were too many other questions that needed answers. There were still people I loved who would be hurt by the truth.

  My voice low and wary, I asked, “What woman?”

  “It was that author,” King said. “She was on the boat, too. It was her.”

  That author.

  Who?

  I wanted him to say it was Stephenie Meyer. I always suspected that pretty little Mormon had a temper.

  Or Janet Evanovich. Can’t you picture Janet hoisting a big gun and blowing someone away? “Here’s one for the money, Wolfie. You don’t mess with Janet E.”

  The trouble is, I knew it wasn’t Stephenie or E.L. or Janet or Nora or J.K. or Jodi or Danielle. I knew exactly who it was. I didn’t need King to tell me.

  41

  The next day, we met back at Tavern on the Green. Me and Libby Varnay.

  She knew the truth was coming out. I’m not exactly a poker face at hiding my emotions. She probably knew when I called her in the morning and said I needed to see her. My voice was a giveaway.

  I arrived early; she was right on time. I watched her approach the table. She was as exquisite as ever as she joined me. Every strand of hair was in place, every lash long and distinct, every fingernail glossy and red. Her silk clothes hung on her in perfect proportion like decorations on a department store Christmas tree. That was Libby – effortlessly elegant. It must be hard to keep up appearances when all your money, all your life savings, everything you’ve built and treasured, is gone.

  Stolen by Irving Wolfe.

  Behind her, I saw Libby’s nephew, Drew, settle into another table nearby, the way he alw
ays did, trailing in her shadow. His suit stretched and strained across his massive shoulders. He had no neck, just a head and torso connected by rolls of fat. Despite his size, he had one of the sweetest, gentlest faces I’d ever seen. He knew the truth was coming out, too. His eyes never left Libby; he was all devotion to her. It made me want to cry.

  A waitress hovered over us. She knew Libby; everyone at the Tavern knew Libby. She brought a glass of Viognier to the table without being asked, and Libby gave her a warm smile. “You are a dear.”

  I ordered nothing at all.

  Libby sipped her wine and stared at me. She didn’t pretend or play the fool. I was glad. “King told you what happened, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course, he did.” She sighed. “I don’t like that man.”

  “Neither do I.”

  I saw a slight tremble in her fingers as she held her glass of wine. That was the only break in her cool. “I’ve caused you a great deal of pain, Julie. I’m very sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “When you came to me and you were so upset about Sonny, so concerned about what he had done, I almost told you everything then. I should have. He would have wanted you to know the truth, and you should have heard it from me, not from a poseur like King Royal.”

  “I wish I hadn’t heard it at all.”

  “No, it’s better this way. It really is. I would hate to think of you living your life having doubts about your father’s integrity. Sonny was a wonderful man.”

  Was he?

  He’d covered up a murder. He’d paid King Royal four million dollars to hide the truth. To write a book that was a lie.

  “I checked the financial records at West 57,” I said. “Your royalty payments went directly into Irving Wolfe’s investment fund. Twice a year, ever since Morningside Park was released.”

  Libby nodded. “Sonny told me I should put my money in the hands of a pro. I knew nothing about money, because I never had any. So he introduced me to Irving Wolfe. I liked him. I trusted him. We both did. Every dollar I made with the book and the movie, all these years, I put it in Irving’s hands. For me, it was the perfect arrangement. I had no worries. Whenever I needed money, it was there.” She frowned. “I was near the bottom of Irving’s pyramid. I was one of the lucky ones.”

  “You never suspected anything?” I asked.

  “Suspected anything? No, why would I? There were big numbers on my quarterly statements. I had everything I needed or wanted. That’s all I cared about. Whenever I turned on the television, there was Irving, talking about the economy and sharing his stock picks. Everyone else trusted him, too. When the markets went to hell a few years ago, I suppose I should have asked more questions. How was it possible my account balances could seem so stable when everyone else was watching their treasure shrivel? However, like all the others, I persisted in the belief that Irving had the magic touch. He knew things that other people didn’t. To be honest, I wanted to believe him. It was far better that than to contemplate the horror of the truth.”

  She was still Libby. Still eloquent in her downfall.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Her smile alighted on her face and then flitted away like a nervous bird. “Oh, it’s amazing the capacity we have to deny reality until we have no choice. I heard the rumors. I gave them no credence. It was only on that last day, when every newspaper was reporting that an indictment of Irving was imminent, that I finally called to ask him if any of this was true.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was as charming and persuasive as ever,” Libby told me. “He gave no hint that anything was wrong. He told me he was planning an intimate little celebration on his yacht that night, that I should plan to join him. I have to say, for the first time, I felt a ripple of fear. I didn’t want to go on that boat by myself. I couldn’t confront him alone. I had a premonition of what I would learn.”

  “So you asked Sonny to go with you,” I said.

  “Yes, I asked Sonny. He was already concerned by what he’d read in the papers. Naturally, he agreed to accompany me to talk to Irving. He was always there for me.”

  “You picked him up and went to the boat?”

  Libby lifted her wine and put it down without drinking. “Yes.”

  “Who was there?” I asked.

  “Just the four of us. Me, Sonny, Irving, and his odd little man-child, King Royal.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all,” she insisted. “It was intimate, as Irving said.”

  She repeated: “That was all.”

  I let her continue without interrupting her. I felt sad, because she wasn’t good at hiding things.

  “The cruise had a surreal quality,” she went on. “There was this sense of disconnection from the world, like Nero partying during the fire. We drank expensive wine. We ate from this elaborate buffet that could have served twenty. Lobsters, caviar, sushi, truffles…everything the condemned man could possibly want for his last meal. That should have told me something. We spent hours talking about nothing. We danced around the subject and pretended everything was fine. Irving wasn’t going to bring it up unless we did. So, finally, when we were all a little drunk, I asked him straight out. I had to know. I said, ‘Is any of it true?’”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  Libby shook her head. “He couldn’t have been calmer. He said yes. Just like that. ‘Yes, all of it’s true.’ Then he spread some Russian oscetra on a blini with his mother-of-pearl spoon and ate it as if the news were of no importance at all.”

  “I’m so sorry, Libby.”

  “I was speechless. Yes, no, innocent, guilty, it made no difference to him. I realized then that Irving was a man without morals, without any conscience. I didn’t even know what to say or what to ask, so Sonny stepped in. He was furious. He demanded to know everything, to know what it meant, to know how much money I’d lost. Irving seemed annoyed to have to explain it, but he did.”

  “How bad was it?”

  Libby stared around the restaurant, allowing its crystal finery to reflect in her eyes. Some people say that when you start with nothing, and then lose everything, the fall isn’t so bad because you already know what it’s like at the bottom. I don’t think so. I think when you start your life as Libby did, in poverty and suffering, you never want to see that place again.

  “It was bad,” she said. “Inutterably bad. I had all of my money invested with Wolfe. Everything I’d made, it was all gone. The account balances were fictitious. More than that, Irving suggested that I would probably find the authorities knocking on my own door. Apparently, because I had been an investor with him for so long, I had profited from his fraud. I had received phantom returns in the millions of dollars, and many investors had seen none at all. So they would be coming to me to recoup what I’d lived on all these years. Not that there’s anything left to take.”

  “That’s why you’re moving,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Libby put her hands together as if she were praying. “I hate to leave the city. This is my home, but I can’t afford to stay. My tax advisor suggested I keep a mortgage on my condo, but there’s nothing left for the payments and taxes. My sister is being charitable in taking me in.”

  “If there was anything I could do – ” I said.

  Libby put up a hand to stop me. “Sonny already tried to rescue me, Julie. The new book, that was his idea. It gave him a reason to get me a contract payment to tide me over and pay some bills. The trouble is, I don’t have it in me. I have no words. I’m sure you saw that when you read the first chapter. It’s not there.”

  I said nothing. She was right.

  “You don’t have to soothe my feelings,” she went on with an ironic smile. “I know good from bad.”

  “I’ll talk to Helmut about a re-release of Morningside Park,” I suggested. “A whole new generation could discover it.”

  “That’s sweet of you, but don’t worr
y about me. I have no cares for myself. I’ve lived with nothing, and I can live with nothing again. What felt so tragic to me was that I can no longer make a difference the way I wanted to. Say what you will about money, but it’s awfully useful in this world. The organizations I’ve supported, I can’t fund them anymore. The foundation I planned to establish in my estate, it will never come to pass. That’s what Irving took from me. My legacy.”

  I glanced at the doorway to the restaurant. I saw Goldy Brown of the FBI. The lady in brown. I was running out of time to hear the truth from Libby’s lips.

  “On the boat, Libby,” I said. “What happened when Wolfe told you about the fraud?”

  Libby’s jaw hardened. Her whole body looked fraught with tension, like a cable holding up a bridge. “You already know what happened. I shot him.”

  I took her hands across the table and held them in my own. “Oh, Libby, no.”

  “Sonny tried to stop me, but I lost control. I was staring into a great sea of nothingness, Julie. I couldn’t let that man treat his crimes as if they were trivial. I couldn’t let him humiliate me.”

  I shook my head. “Libby, you can’t do this.”

  “I’m telling you what happened.”

  “No, Libby, you’re lying.”

  “It was me,” she insisted. “Didn’t King tell you?”

  “King wasn’t on deck. He didn’t see it. You have to tell me the truth. I know you want to protect him, but you can’t do that anymore. I found the gun, Libby. Don’t try to tell me it’s yours. I know better.”

  I saw Goldy Brown coming closer. She had several burly boys in suits with her. Their suits weren’t brown, so it must just be the women who get the beige uniforms.

  “It doesn’t matter whose gun it is,” Libby informed me archly. “I’m the one who pulled the trigger. Me.”

  “You? Fire a gun? Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t take the blame for this. I won’t let you. Are you going to tell me you ran down Nick Duggan, too? Is that your story? The thing is, you’re just like me, Libby. You can’t drive. You didn’t do it.”