Willie wondered what Danny Williams would say about the fact that he knew how he and his mother had survived during Danny’s teen years, the blackmailing of rich women. But he never said anything.
When it was all finally on paper, Danny flew with his sister to Paris, where she was to study fashion at a famous house. She wanted to be a designer. Willie read the manuscript. It was all there, his indictment of the Ryer Avenue kids.
By the time Danny returned, he could tell by the uneasy, worried smile on Mischa’s thin lips that Willie was slipping away. Even though he had watched Willie slowly grow thinner and grayer, watched him huddle in sweaters and woolen blankets against the heat of the sun, which could not warm his interior coldness, Danny was shocked by the rapid deterioration Willie had undergone in just a few days.
Willie had had a meeting with his attorney, and put some of his affairs in order. He was leaving the villa to Mischa, with Danny as his guardian. At his death, the villa would be Danny’s.
“He won’t live much longer than me,” Willie said. “He’ll blink out like a star.” He started to laugh, gagged, held a thin hand on his throat. “Mischa, the little star. I want you to know, Danny, I’ve signed over all the rights to my autobiography to you. All legal. You two are my only heirs named in my will. The rest of my estate will be up for grabs.”
The thought of the worldwide chaos among his international survivors amused Willie—his legacy to his large number of uncaring and uncared-for offspring.
“Obviously,” he instructed Danny, “you don’t hit the big legit publishers. You go to the sleaze press. Or you make a deal with one of the gossip rags. Whatever they print will be picked up by everybody. All over the world. No matter who brings it out, that old gang of mine will have to spend the rest of their lives answering charges.”
“How much of it is true?”
Willie grimaced and clenched his teeth against pain. “Enough of it. Danny, you look puzzled.”
“I can’t figure the why of it, Willie. Why?”
In a whisper from his aching throat, Willie said, “I got my reasons. Listen, I want you to take Mischa out tonight. Take him to a restaurant, to a park, a movie, somewhere. I don’t want him to be here when I …”
Danny shook his head. “No. You’re not taking that magic shot tonight.”
Willie squinted and tried to see the expression that went with the odd tone of voice. “Hey, kid, that was the plan all along. I finished what I had to do. So now it’s time. Don’t feel bad, Danny.”
Danny Williams stood up, turned his back on Willie for a moment, then sat down and faced the dying man.
“Willie, I don’t feel bad. But I need a few hours of your time. Then you do what you gotta do.”
“I don’t get it. What—”
“I listened to you for all these months and worked on the manuscript. Now, Willie, it’s my turn.”
“What do you mean, your turn?”
A shudder as strong as a convulsion shook Willie Paycek as he squinted at the tough strong face and tried to read the meaning of the tight smile. The implied threat.
“I got some things to tell you, Willie. And then, when I’m finished, you can take your shot.”
He pulled a chair close to the lounge where Willie was huddled, stiffly facing the sea but trying to read the meaning of the words. Knowing something terrible was about to happen.
“You know the scene you describe about when you faced your old man the night before his execution and told him what really happened that night on the hill? How you told him so that he’d fall apart? Jesus, you even did it in your prison movie, it was so dramatic. Your payback for the rotten life he gave you. Well, Willie, everybody oughta get a chance at that.”
A few hours later, when Danny Williams finished speaking and Willie had stopped listening, it was obvious that the fatal injection was no longer needed.
Willie sat slumped, wrapped in blankets that could no longer warm him, as the early evening breeze ruffled his thin, grayish-blond hair.
Danny studied him for a moment, then walked into the magnificent villa, caught the arm of one of Willie’s servants, and told him to call a priest and an undertaker.
Then he went to Mischa, helped him wash his face and hands and change his clothes, and took him to a nice quiet little restaurant where nobody would stare at him.
CHAPTER TWO
DANTE WAS EXHAUSTED. IT HAD BEEN A typical day, a hell of a day. First a labor-and-management breakfast meeting with the State Civil Service Workers. Then a brief speech dedicating a new yeshiva in Brooklyn. Then back to his Manhattan office, calls to and from Albany, to and from Washington, D.C.
Petitioners, assistants needing his okay, his suggestions. A quick political get-together with some party boys. A short speech at a NOW unity meeting at the World Trade Center as a favor to Megan, who was conducting some family-violence seminars.
He checked through his correspondence, rapidly tossing letters into one of three baskets labeled Personal Reply, Standard Reply, and Fuhgedaboutit! He read his calendar. This evening, a black-tie dinner at the Waldorf welcoming UN delegates to the city. Note: Call Ben Herskel at the Carlisle; arrange a quick drink with him after the dinner.
Eight A.M. shuttle to Washington tomorrow morning for hearings on—God, whatever and whatever and whatever.
He really wasn’t up to this interview, but he was told he should do it. This Danny Williams was a kid, but he had a good track record. He had switched gears from Hollywood gossip to serious political columnist. And his stuff appeared in fairly heavy national magazines.
Be careful, Dante, this kid is very very sharp. Oh, for Christ’s sake, if he didn’t know by now how to handle a savvy young writer, he should pack it in. But he was tired. He needed a nap. Well, he’d either fit it in before dinner or not.
His chief assistant and confidant, a small, round, bald man named Jerry Maldonato, tapped three times on the door and leaned in, so that he was visible from the waist up. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and said, from the side of his mouth, “He’s here, boss. Don’t look so badass to me.” And then a wink. “But what the hell, better safe than sorry, right?”
Dante peered at him over the top of his half-glasses. Pretty soon he’d have to start wearing those damned bifocals. “Give me five minutes. I’m just touching up this talk for the thing tonight at the Waldorf. That’s definitely, absolutely black tie?”
“Unless you wanna feel awfully outta place, boss. Up to you. I got the suit in your closet already, case you don’t get to the apartment.”
“I will definitely go to the apartment when I finish with this guy. I need a long, very hot shower. Make sure the suit comes with me.”
“You got it, boss.”
A long time ago, Frankie Magee had told him, “Get yourself one special good man you can trust with your life. And tell him everything you need him to know. Almost. He’s gotta be a guy who’d kill for you or die for you. Most important, he’s gotta be a guy with no personal ambitions; his life should be in the shadow of yours. That was J.F.K.’s old trick, and a good one.” Dante’s man was Jerry Maldonato. He was no more than five years older than Dante, but some time ago he had taken on the supportive-father role. He would probably lie for Dante, or kill for him, or die for him. Jerry was not only loyal, but smart and knowledgeable in ways that St. John’s never taught him. He’d been an amateur boxer, a bartender, a CPA, and even, for a short time, a Secret Service agent. They had known each other when Dante first came to Washington as a congressman. Not too many Italian-Americans around the big town in those days. They had hit it off immediately, and Jerry had done a few favors for Dante, mostly information gathering. Through the years, Jerry had developed an us-against-them mentality, and the main man in the us was Dante D’Angelo.
Dante added a few words to his speech notes with his old Waterman pen, the thick one with the dark blue and black stripes his father had given him when he graduated from Columbia Law School. It was the by-the-boo
k, standard after-dinner speech. No promises, nothing offensive, just a courtesy. They just wanted his presence. In black tie.
Three quick taps, and Jerry entered his office followed by a well-dressed young man. Jerry placed a tray on the coffee table, jerked his chin: Anything else? Dante shook his head. Jerry glanced once more at the journalist, then left.
Dante took off his glasses and offered a handshake to Danny Williams. He reacted with surprise at the young man’s hard grasp and at the way he prolonged the contact. They were just about eye-to-eye, and there was an intensity, contained but evident, coming from the younger man. With a nod, he released Dante’s hand.
Dante gestured toward the leather couch and chairs. “Some coffee, Mr. Williams?”
The journalist declined, while Dante took a cup and drank down the energizing caffeine. He glanced at his watch, rubbed his eyes briskly. “I don’t mean to be rude, but we have to wrap this up by six at the latest.”
Danny Williams sat very still. He glanced slowly at his own watch and then said softly, “Oh, I think you can spare me more time than that, Senator.”
There was a bantering tone, a slight smile, as though the young man were amused. Dante became alert for whatever the hell this was all about. He had no time or inclination for games. This guy could just cut the Hollywood theatrical crap right now.
“Look, let’s get on with this, okay?” He rubbed his fingertips over his chin. He’d have to shave again; the damn five-o’clock shadow was a real pain in the ass. The journalist sat watching him with unnerving intensity and a slight smile at the corners of his mouth.
“Look, Mr. Williams, are you having a problem with something? Because I really don’t have time for this. You want an interview or what?”
“I’m not having a problem, I think you are, Senator. Or are about to have one. A problem.”
Dante rose abruptly and pointed to the door. “Look, sonny, that’s it. I don’t know how you usually operate, but as of right now, this is concluded. There’s the door, Mr. Williams.”
The journalist leaned back in his chair. “That’s not my true name, you know. I had it changed for professional reasons.”
Holy Christ, Dante thought. I’m in a room with a total looney tune, never mind his reputation for excellence.
What was he, on something? Dante started for the desk phone. He’d have Jerry get this guy the hell out of here.
Right now.
But the kid moved quickly. He had anticipated Dante, and got between him and the desk. Dante took a sharp breath and stepped back. He became tightly controlled. You don’t provoke a crazy, but you don’t show fear, either.
“Okay, pal. What’s your story?”
Danny Williams grinned. “My story is your story, Dante.”
Because he wasn’t wearing his glasses, Dante couldn’t see the journalist’s face clearly, but he felt the physical closeness. Where the hell was Jerry? He’d seemed to sense something not right; why wasn’t he checking in? Christ, was he about to have a fight with some weirdo right here in his senatorial office?
“Don’t be upset, Senator. Not yet. Take a good long look at me. Hey, we’re exactly the same height—five-eleven—but if we stretch it, we can just make six, right? Do I look familiar to you? Do I remind you of anyone?”
You handle a crazy gently for as long as you can. Humor him, keep things calm. Dante shrugged.
“I think you’d better have Mr. Maldonato cancel your appearance tonight at the Waldorf. You and I have a great deal to discuss.”
“Look, pal—”
“No. We’re not pals. To start with, the name on my birth certificate is Daniel William Paycek.”
Dante went blank. Okay. Relax. Paycek. Willie.
“Your old man’s Willie Paycek?”
“That’s what it says on my birth certificate. Registered in Los Angeles. Hollywood division. Glamour capitol of the world.”
A stillness settled on the younger man. His dark eyes registered intelligence, his mouth amusement, his whole attitude an almost patronizing superiority.
“I’ve been told, by my mother, that I favor my father.”
“What are you talking about? Willie’s a short, thin blond and—” Dante took a step back and leaned against his desk.
“Yeah, Willie was a shrimp all right. Past tense. He died a week ago. Willie was a hell of a talent in movie land, but he never was much of a father. Not even to his biological kids.” He smiled at Dante. “I have something for you.” He saw the sudden alarm on Dante’s face, and lightly touched his arm. “Hey, nothing lethal. Although, in a way, I guess it might be considered lethal.”
Dante watched him retrieve his briefcase from the sofa, dig into it, and come out with a thick, neatly bound, book-sized manuscript.
“Willie’s legacy to me. And a couple of mementos of my own.” He slipped his hand inside the front cover of the book and retrieved a photograph, which he offered to Dante.
“Surely you remember my mother, Maryanne Radsinski? The little kid in her arms, that’s me. Here’s my birth certificate, with Willie’s name and Maryanne’s name, all legal and documented. That was part of the deal, wasn’t it?”
Dante held on to the picture and the birth certificate without looking at them. He sat down and stared at the manuscript on his desk. His head began to throb. Without having given one single thought to it through all the years, without having asked or been told, having left it all in the hands of his uncles, as though it had nothing to do with him, he knew. Deep inside him, it had been there all the time, all his life, and now he was confronted by the secret he had willed himself to forget.
He looked up as Danny Williams spoke quietly. “That’s Willie’s autobiography. We’ve been collaborating on it. My God, Willie was a real monster. He’s never forgotten one single thing that ever happened to him in his life. I think he’s been keeping notes since he was a kid. He had boxes full of note-books and diaries and documents.” He paused and studied Dante thoughtfully.
“And?”
“And he knew every single thing about all five of you, starting with that night on Snake Hill, right up to the present.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Dante. What I had trouble understanding was his total obsession with all of you. It was a lifelong thing, like a sickness. Almost his reason for living, to keep score, to find out all your secrets. Against the day. Well, Senator D’Angelo, this is the day. And if you’re at all interested, Willie tells the story of my life, too. Things I didn’t realize he knew. Pretty grim stuff. I’ll just have some of this coffee while you read. It starts on a cold winter night, December 28, 1935, and goes on from there.”
Dante buzzed and Jerry Maldonato came quickly into the room. In a tight, don’t-fuck-with-me voice, Dante said, “Give my excuses for tonight. I’ve got a fever of a hundred and two and laryngitis, capice?”
Jerry stared at Dante, glanced at the journalist, then back at Dante.
“And don’t disturb me. In fact, go home, Jerry.”
Jerry locked eyes with Dante, whom he had known for so many years. He did not say one single word, but nodded abruptly and, leaving the office, headed to the banquet to say what he’d been told to say, and then he would go home.
Dante glanced at the first few pages, stopped, rubbed his eyes, then dug into his top drawer for his scratchy old reading glasses. He scanned quickly, then took his glasses off, reached into his bottom drawer, extracted a bottle of old, expensive Scotch, poured some into a crystal tumbler, and drank it down quickly.
He studied Danny Williams, who was relaxed and comfortable on the leather couch.
“What is it you want, Danny?”
“I want all of you to read the manuscript. I have a copy for everyone. Nice that you’re all in New York right now.”
Dante rubbed his chin hard with the side of his fist. He looked up quickly when the journalist laughed.
“Jesus, I do that all the time
when I’m uptight. Do you think it could be genetic?”
CHAPTER THREE
MEGAN LEANED BACK, HER LEGS PROPPED on a hassock Dante had pulled over for her. Ben and Charley sat side by side on a couch, and Eugene sat rigidly on a straight, hard chair. Dante’s apartment hadn’t changed much through the years. He and his wife used it occasionally when they went to the theater or a casual dinner. His daughters and their husbands stayed for a day or two of Manhattan museums or art exhibits, to break the boredom of suburbia.
“How much of Willie’s book is true?” Megan asked.
“What the hell difference does it make?” Ben snapped at her.
“Well, I know what’s true about myself and what he made up.”
“That really isn’t the point, Megan,” Dante said. “If this book gets published, we’ll all be called upon to answer every single allegation.”
“We’d spend the rest of our lives answering allegations. I haven’t got time for that.” Ben Herskel stood up, walked to the small bar, and added vodka to his glass. “I’ll tell you right now, everything he said about Charley and me”—he glanced at Charley O’Brien, who just shrugged—“is true. I killed one SS man at the camps, and Charley helped me kill another one. Big deal. That would be well received in my country. I’ve also provided classified information to Israeli intelligence units about the whereabouts of the “essential Germans” who managed to slip through the government-approved nets. The Israelis have managed to take care of a few, with my help.”
“What about the arms deals?” Dante asked, his voice curt, clear, and crisp.
“What about them?” Ben looked at each of them. “Okay. Here, in this room, among the five of us. Yes. Absolutely. Charley has been my number-one go-between. What we’ve been doing for the last twenty years is absolutely illegal.” As he spoke, his face darkened with anger. “It’s the only goddamn way we’ve ever been able to arm ourselves adequately. A small nation does what it has to do to survive.”
Charley cleared his throat. He had the sweet, bland, round face that Megan cherished from childhood. Even now, as he spoke hard words, his essential decency came through.
The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel Page 45
