Sundance

by David Fuller

  “In their pockets?”

  “You truly are a tourist. There’s a city law against carrying. The Sullivan Law, automatic jail sentence if you get caught with a gun. Punks like that sew their pockets closed so cops can’t plant one. They get their girlfriends to carry. If they’re willing to risk that little cop trick, that’s when they’re serious.”

  Longbaugh smiled mirthlessly. Curious that Agrius Hightower had more respect for his woman than for him. He brought his hand out from under his jacket, leaving his pistol hidden. Hightower watched Longbaugh’s hand, but Longbaugh knew Hightower had not seen the Peacemaker.

  “What did you call him, Flexible?”

  “His name’s Felice,” Hightower pronounced it in perfect Italian, feh-LEE-chay, “but I don’t speak Wop, and he’s a twisted little turd, smile at you one minute, kick your cheek in the next. That makes him flexible.”

  “Giuseppe live around here?”

  “Signor Moretti moves around. If he stays in any one place more than a night, I’d be surprised,” said Hightower over his shoulder. Then he stopped, turned, and came at Longbaugh to look him directly in the eye. “Moretti is a man so thin-skinned, he bleeds when he takes off his shirt.” Longbaugh thought about the warning, knowing it had meaning without knowing why.

  They entered a building and navigated tight hallways with scant light. Longbaugh smelled frying onions and garlic, heard a juicy cough through a wall and an aborted scream over his head. He had absorbed the lesson and stayed close to his guide. That way, if anyone took a shot, they risked hitting Hightower. Again to the outdoors, but before he found a street sign they went into another building, out the back, then through another alley. Longbaugh quit trying to memorize the way. They could be anywhere, they could even have circled back to the same building that housed the Tall Boot. He followed until they were into another doorway, up stairs, down a second-story hall to an unmarked door, where Hightower knocked.

  Time passed. No sounds came from within. Hightower waited without knocking a second time. Longbaugh heard nothing until a girl opened the door, a lean and pale creature, not unattractive, with hair unruly as if she’d been interrupted during strenuous exercise, breathing through her slack and puffy mouth. A thin robe hung to her knees, her nipples a distinct shape against the cotton, her bare, thin legs standing on large feet, making her seem young and coltlike. She resented the intrusion, but one look at Hightower and she nodded her head to come in, opening the door wider.

  “He said it was you. Who else’d come unexpected?” she muttered. Her voice was lower, duskier, older than he would have imagined. She closed the door behind them. “Better be important.”

  Hightower nodded, and she looked at him with flat, sleepy eyes, not giving a damn about his problems, standing there in her white skin and blue veins, black hair and white robe.

  She turned slowly, wandering away with one finger trailing along the wainscoting, as if she were numb or stunned and needed support to stay balanced. She was too young to be Queenie, but he had an unexpected memory of the half-Cheyenne girl on the road to the dinosaur excavation.

  Longbaugh looked at the busy hallway, crowded with things, objects, stuff, as if the owner couldn’t decide what he liked and simply bought everything, fitting each new piece into whatever space was available. Longbaugh’s senses were bullied by decorations that may have been expensive but appeared garish, one piece clashing with the next, from the wallpaper to the lamps to the chairs to the rugs to the sculptures to the wall hangings to the paintings. His eyes rested on the girl’s simple thin white robe, but then she stepped into a doorway and was gone. He turned to check the hallway in the other direction. A man in a good suit was half in, half out of a doorframe, and Longbaugh saw one leg, one ear, one eye, and his right hand holding a sandwich. The slick messenger bit into the sandwich and stepped back, out of sight.

  He followed Hightower across the hall through a door into a parlor with yet more opulence, but the focus of this room at least had a theme, framed pornographic daguerreotypes that hung on the walls. The frames were wide, carved, and lavished with gold leaf, almost more eye-catching than the poorly printed nudes. Longbaugh wondered what this place was, thinking they had entered a whorehouse through the back way, but there was no madam, no other girls or musicians, and no offer of watered-down booze. It might have been an immigrant’s idea of a private club. Or perhaps this was what all those Fifth Avenue private clubs were like.

  Hightower indicated he should sit, then leaned against the wall behind him. Longbaugh turned in his chair to measure him, then turned back to face the empty room and the exposed women laughing in their gold frames.

  Moretti came in immediately. He was clad much like the girl, but his robe was luxuriant with gold brocade. He had not bothered to belt it and his oily erection shone between the curtain of parted fabric. Its size was impressive, more so for its resilience in the company of men. Longbaugh was unprepared for Moretti’s youth, as power rarely accrued in one so young. Moretti was handsome, with smooth olive skin and black tousled hair, dark eyes and long black lashes. His heavy beard must have been difficult to keep shaved so close. A horizontal scar across his left cheek kept him from appearing too pretty. It was recent, within a year or two, as it still reacted to his changes of mood. Here was the man whose cheek had been bandaged when he came to visit Abigail. Longbaugh noted the sneer on his heavy-lipped mouth, that cruel place women found irresistible, but also the place where his true feelings could not hide.

  Moretti lashed out at Hightower. “If this concerns negotiations with our friend, I have had a conversation with that ingannare Wisher, and you will need to set him straight, and why is there a witness to my words, Agrius?”

  “This is not about our friend.”

  “But have you spoken to him? I want an agreement, I want a partnership, use the information we have on him, I want—”

  Hightower cut him off deliberately. “I will speak to him. This regards another matter.”

  “What other matter?!”

  Longbaugh looked at Hightower, who nodded at him. “You say, tourist.”

  He had taken a chance, letting Hightower stand behind him, but while he imagined Hightower to be a treacherous animal, he didn’t peg him to shoot a man in the back. He’d have someone else do that.

  Longbaugh took his time before he spoke. “Etta Place.”

  Moretti’s erection pulsed. “You know where that puttana is?”

  Longbaugh stood and his feline quickness and brutal eyes disrupted Moretti’s enthusiasm. He did not know the meaning of the word, but he understood it. Hightower came off the wall, but Longbaugh was ready for him if he made a move. Moretti’s erection plunged.

  “This would be her husband,” said Hightower with musical delight in his voice. “I never did catch his name. Mr. Place, I suppose.”

  Longbaugh liked the sound of that. Mr. Place was his maternal grandfather’s name.

  A sneer hooked the corner of Moretti’s lip, but was quickly replaced with unguent charm. He pulled the wings of his robe together to conceal his softening rod. “I did not know she was with spouse. How very interesting. I wish I had known, the things I could have done with that information. I have been looking for her for quite a little bit of time.”

  “I’m sorry you don’t know where she is.”

  “Perhaps you will be the one to tell me.”

  Giuseppe Moretti sat down. He waved Longbaugh back to his seat.

  “You are a supremely lucky man, Mr. Place, to have married such a woman. When first I met her, I am not ashamed to say I was enamored. How she held herself, how she acted. Strong, that one. No fear. She was not so tall, but she appeared tall with confidence.” He watched closely to see how his words affected Longbaugh. “Maybe you did not know her that way. Sometimes it’s not easy for a husband. We out here get to know them better. I even told her she would make a wonderf
ul companion on a cold night by a fireplace. Can you imagine such a thing?”

  Longbaugh said nothing. One of his fingers dug into the fabric of the arm of the chair and pressed hard against the sharp point of an upholstery tack.

  “She reacted, of course. A very quick reaction, I would say. And I will never forget what she said to me next: ‘Some other time.’ Your wife, she was clever with words.”

  He missed the controlled anger in Moretti’s voice, as his own eyes blurred, trying to picture Moretti’s story.

  “But I am acting rude. I have not allowed you speak. You are here for . . . ?”

  “For you.” The room became very distinct with danger, the air sharp and dry, whistling through his nose.

  Moretti leaned in closer. “She told you about me, then.”

  “Why would she bother to do that?”

  “She didn’t mention me, the last time you saw her? When was it, this morning?”

  “No.”

  “You mean to bargain for her well-being, then? For her physical safety?”

  “You’re not the bargaining type.”

  “You are a visionary as well as a husband.”

  “I came with a question.”

  “And if there is no answer?”

  “That’s an answer.”

  “I will reply to any question, but first tell me—why look so hard for . . . a woman?” Moretti rubbed the scar on his cheek.

  “Why do you?”

  “Oh, your spouse and I have business of the unfinished variety. But to a man like you, she’s little more than,” he shrugged, “a wife. There are marvelous creatures out there to sample, such variety.”

  “Like Queenie?”

  Moretti was startled, darting a glance at Hightower. “How does he know this?” The scar on his cheek reddened.

  Hightower put his hands up in a defensive shrug. “First I heard of it.”

  Moretti was off balance, so Longbaugh pressed, hoping to surprise him, trick out the truth. “And your search for Etta, this unfinished business?”

  “A matter of principle.”

  “Still mad about Queenie?”

  Moretti stood up, glaring, and for a moment Longbaugh thought he had him. “Are you under the impression that Queenie is no longer in my power?” He swung at a lamp and sent it crashing to the floor. “Because she now begs to be in my presence. Begs! All is right with the world.”

  The moment was lost, Moretti had turned his anger to Queenie and not given himself away regarding Etta. Longbaugh changed tactics. “But you’re good to them, your women, a generous employer, although strong when you need to be.”

  “Yes.” Calming down.

  “And you’re consistent. They always know what to expect from you.”

  Moretti was back on earth. He sat down again, closer to Longbaugh. “How well you understand me, Mr. Place. Perhaps you are a better mate than I first suspected. I had to be strong with Queenie, of course, but that was a surprise to no one. Sadly, Queenie outlived her good looks. Happily, I took full advantage of her best years.” He could not resist showing off. “There was a time, Mr. Place, when she had class. She also had a number of high-class clients, which she thought she could keep secret from me. But I always knew and I always collected from them. Of course, now she’s free to go back to them, but who would want a worn-out sack of a whore?”

  “Not you.”

  Moretti smiled grimly. “You have not asked your question, Mr. Place.”

  “Haven’t I?” Longbaugh said nothing more and let the pause crowd the room until the others were uncomfortable.

  “It’s two years since she’s been missing. Why do you come here now?” said Moretti.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  Moretti watched his eyes, then sat forward. He meant to sound calm and reasonable, but Longbaugh knew it was the tone Moretti used to frighten women.

  “I do not give advice, Mr. Place. I prefer action. I am not a man who feels the need to explain himself, or even offer warnings. Someone crosses me, he gets what he deserves, not an explanation. When he thinks back on it, he does not know why he is dead. With that in mind, I think you would be wise to watch yourself. Do not think of getting in the way of the business I have with your wife. You are not up to that. And anyway, that would go badly for you and do nothing to help her. You would not wish to force me to do things you would regret.”

  No one spoke to him that way. No one. But he controlled himself. He controlled himself. He saw himself giving Moretti precisely what he deserved, but he did not act. He controlled himself. If this man had known who he really was, he would not have dared speak to him that way.

  Moretti smiled. “I hope we will meet again.”

  “Assuming I recognize you without your cock.”

  Moretti did not know what to make of that. He stood up, looking at him as if he’d misheard. “I thought you might be helpful to us. I see I was wrong.”

  “You don’t know how to be wrong. That would require the ability to learn.”

  Moretti’s eyes burned, but he did not explode. “I see I was wrong.” He repeated the sentence stiffly and slowly, looking directly at Hightower, as if the words carried a deeper meaning. “You do not even know as much about her as I know.” He left the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

  Hightower whistled. “Oh, but you own a set of leather balls, tourist. You just ran a burr up that man’s backside. I guess I better show you out before he thinks about it and asks me to do something.”

  Longbaugh, still flush with confrontation, let himself be led out of the room to the hallway and to the stairs.

  On the way down, Longbaugh separated himself from his rage and found his voice. “What’s your part in this, Hightower?”

  “I promised Moretti I’d find her.”

  “Why does he care after all this time?”

  “He said it himself, a matter of principle. And these Sicilian guys never forget and never let go. Ever.”

  “Still mad about the Triangle fire?”

  Hightower stopped on the stairs and looked back up at him. “Too damn smart for your own good, tourist. But no.”

  He turned and headed down again, and Longbaugh followed him out into the alley.

  Hightower took him in the other direction, and was quiet for the first block. Then he said, “Notice his scar?”

  “I saw it.”

  “She gave it to him.”

  Longbaugh stopped. “She? Etta?”

  “Your wife went to see him, to see if Queenie really had betrayed her trust and gone back to him. That time, her pride was injured. Queenie had promised she was through with him. But the fire scared the little whore and she ran back to his protection. He’d won and he knew it, and when Etta showed up, he laughed. She knew he was planning to send people to hurt her, but she showed up anyway. She had serious guts, your wife. Even he respected that. Once she was there, he sent his boys away and moved in to taunt her. Got a little too close. Said he’d let her live if she’d take Queenie’s place. Then he asked her to join him at that fireplace. She pulled something out of her purse.”

  “Something?”

  “Something sharp. Swung it at his face, cut him across the cheek. That’s when she said it.”

  “‘Some other time,’” said Longbaugh, fitting her words into the story.

  “He was too stunned to act. Too much blood. She walked out of there with her head held high. By the time his boys came back in and saw him bleeding, she was gone. But she got his attention.”

  Longbaugh thought, Oh yes she did. Two years’ worth of his attention, and counting. Moretti was waiting for that “other time.” No wonder Hightower was more impressed with her than with her husband.

  Hightower continued to lead him through a maze of buildings and alleys, and Longbaugh thought it was to keep him fr
om memorizing the way back.

  He knew what she had used to cut Moretti. She had bought the toy because she was planning to plant it for her husband. And Hightower was right, she knew Moretti’s reputation, she knew even when Moretti had Queenie back, he would want his revenge. But she couldn’t help herself, she had to go back, she had to know if Queenie’s betrayal of Etta was Queenie’s choice alone or if Moretti had forced it. So Etta had had it in her purse when Moretti made his proposition. Now he was sorry he had left the toy at the boardinghouse. He wanted to know if there was blood on the flame.

  Hightower brought him out to the middle of an empty, dark street that dead-ended behind them.

  “You’ll find your way from here.”

  “How’d you get involved with him?”

  “He pays.”

  “I hope he pays well.”

  “Better than Pinkerton. Good as Tammany, although Tammany was more regular.”

  “You were a Pinkerton?”

  “Strike buster. But the country’s changing, going progressive. Never liked being on the wrong side of history.”

  “Mano Nera’s the right side?”

  “Crime has a future, tourist.”

  Longbaugh thought about his own criminal past. Then he thought about the dime novel version. Crime ran through the future’s filter and came out as romance.

  “Interesting run, Hightower. Pinkerton, Tammany, Black Hand.”

  “Tell me my next stop and you’ll tell me my future.”

  “Appreciate your help.”

  “Didn’t do it for you.”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  “You got a funny way.” Hightower scratched under his armpit. “First you’re the concerned husband, then you’re nothing like it. I’d like to split you open, tourist, see what’s inside. Although I’m starting to think you’re no tourist. Like the opposite. What do they call that?”

  “Irony.”

  “I was thinking native. You’ve been somewhere that doesn’t match those clothes and that hat.”

  “Just looking for my wife.”

  “Let me know if you find her.”