The bartender eyed him with suspicious curiosity, but answered his questions—all in the negative. He added, finally, that Woody might be in a place on Christopher Street called the Black Bunny.
This time A.C. took a cab, getting out in the sexual noman’s-land that was Sheridan Square. He didn’t know the bar, so he made a slow progress along the narrow sidewalk, peering at every sign and doorway and stepping off the curb to avoid the other pedestrians, following Christopher Street almost to Eighth Avenue.
The wooden sign was high and dark, partly obscured by dirt. He paused at the doorway, thinking of the warehouse district that stretched along the Hudson a few blocks to the west. He and Kitty had been through there once in a cab, looking for a late-night jazz joint to which they’d been misdirected. Under the elevated remains of the old West Side Highway, they’d come upon a milling gang of young men—leather jackets and metal and, in their center, some flailing arms.
Kitty had been terrified, speechless until the taxi had reached Sixth Avenue and was rumbling north toward her conception of safety and normality. She hadn’t gone with him to Greenwich Village again, not even to friends living in a hugely expensive town house on West Twelfth Street.
He stepped inside the Black Bunny. But for some cheery red and yellow light coming from the jukebox and the glow of candles on the tables, the color tones of the interior were the same as the outdoor sign’s, only darker.
It was quite crowded. The heat was palpable, yet the odor of the place was unexpected—a musky smell, laden with perfume. Holding his arms close to his sides, he made his way to the bar. He ordered a gin and tonic, then looked around the room. There was only one black man who looked anything like a male model, but he looked very much like one.
The place was obviously a hangout, where regulars would know one another.
“Excuse me,” said A.C. to a man beside him at the bar. “Is that Jimmy Woody over there at that table?”
The man turned. “He’s taken, darling,” he said.
A.C. moved quickly away. There was no one at the table with Woody, though he looked like he might be waiting for someone. A.C. moved swiftly, pulling up a chair and seating himself before the other man could object.
“You’re Jimmy Woody, the model?”
Disconcerted, Woody nodded.
“I’m A.C. James. I write a column for the Globe.”
Woody reflexively flashed a smile. Normally, he’d likely be pleased and flattered at the prospect of publicity. But, apparently thinking upon his circumstances, he suddenly became very nervous. He was extremely handsome. He could have been the man on the motorcycle, if his features weren’t so feminine.
“A friend of yours sent me,” A.C. said, talking quickly. “Someone you work with. She said you were in trouble over a videotape, an embarrassing tape.”
Woody pushed his chair back a little and looked quickly around the room. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do. The tape was made in Molly Wickham’s apartment.”
“Who sent you? Belinda?” He leaned close now, whispering.
“Never mind who. It’s someone who wants that tape destroyed as much as you do. She asked me to help her find it. She said you’d know who has it—that you’re paying tribute to this person.”
“If it’s Belinda who sent you, she knows who has it.”
“It wasn’t Belinda St. Johns. Please, who has the tape?”
“Are you writing about this for your newspaper?”
“No, no. Certainly not. I’m only trying to help the lady. Nothing will happen to you. Just tell me the name. Please. Two little words.”
“I, I … oh, shit.”
Woody was looking over A.C.’s shoulder, his face full of misery. A.C. turned slightly. Philippe Arbre was coming toward them from the entrance.
“Please go,” Woody said urgently.
“The name,” A.C. said.
“Go. Go away.”
A.C. rose, pushing back his chair with a loud scrape. Arbre looked startled, then indignant.
“What,” he said, with much drama, “are you doing here?”
“I was just out for a walk and stopped in for a drink,” said A.C. He took one of his business cards and gave it to Woody. “If you’d like to talk some more about the modeling business, give me a call.”
Woody took the card and set it on the table. A.C. might as well have handed him a cockroach.
“My, my,” said Arbre, standing with his arms folded, “Quelle surprise.”
“So nice to see you,” A.C. said, which was not what he wanted to say at all.
He hurried out the door. He didn’t slow down until he reached the bright lights of Seventh Avenue.
Lanham, bone weary, got home before eleven o’clock, but found his house darkened. Radio music indicated that his sons had gone to their rooms. He wondered if his wife was out, but he found her already in bed. Her back was turned to him, as though she hadn’t stirred since morning. She didn’t move when he softly called her name, or even, as she usually did, at the noise of his undressing.
He set his telephone beeper on the night table and eased back onto the mattress. It creaked slightly with his weight. She made no sound, though he could tell from her breathing that she was wide awake.
“Jan? You all right?”
There was no answer. He pulled the sheet up to his chest.
“Did they call about Pat Cassidy’s wake?” he said.
“Yes,” she said finally.
“Can you come?”
“I won’t come.”
“You won’t?”
“I won’t come to his funeral, and I won’t come to yours.”
He touched the warm flesh of her back. He might as well have touched the wall.
Camilla had bought the old dress, worn nurse’s shoes, and babushka in a used-clothing store north of Ninety-sixth Street. Her elegant, beautiful hands she’d hidden in rubberized work gloves. She’d removed all her makeup and allowed her hair to dry uncombed, but it hadn’t helped much for disguise. Still, she had been able to crowd into the office building with the others, the bucket of rags she carried and the scarf and the smudges she’d put on her face getting her past the lobby guard.
One of the cleaning women in the elevator with her had looked at her with much curiosity, but no one had stopped her. Camilla knew a few words in Polish. “Do widzenia,” she had said, darting out the elevator when it had reached the floor she sought. It meant “goodbye.”
There had still been a few secretaries and others in the law firm’s vast suite of offices when she’d entered. “Do widzenia,” she’d said again, to the receptionist, bustling by. It had worked.
She’d gone first to the law library, busying herself by emptying several smaller wastebaskets into a larger one and dusting bookshelves with one of her rags. When she’d heard other cleaning women moving into the area, she’d waited until they had finished with a few of the offices and then slipped into the closest, crawling under the desk, curling up into the most comfortable position possible.
The cleaning women, talking in Polish, came and went along the hall, working resolutely but taking a painful hour or more to complete their tasks. Camilla waited until all the lights had been turned out, and then waited endless minutes more. Finally, she crept out from her hiding place and stood, her cramped muscles loosening with as much agony as pleasure.
Her first need was for a bathroom. Those along the corridor were locked, but she found a private one open that served a large corner office, presumably that of a senior partner.
Once she had relieved herself, she set about finding Cyrus Hall’s office, which was easy enough. Locating the cabinet that would most likely contain Pierre’s file was another matter. She had to turn on the main lights. Most of the file cabinets were locked, including those that seemed to contain the files of Hall’s clients.
She had thought of this. A pry bar she had bought in a Second Avenue hardware store was in her bucket u
nder the rags. It took all her strength and two broken fingernails before she got the first one open. She had to break into three more before finding Pierre’s file.
It was very thick, most of it having to do with the criminal charges against Pierre in Washington. A separate manila envelope was labeled WILL AND TESTAMENT. She turned off the lights and took her find back to Hall’s office, clicking on the lawyer’s small, green-shaded desk lamp. Calming herself, she sat down and forced herself to read through the papers slowly.
To her amazement, to the best of her legal understanding, she was the principal beneficiary of the will. Pierre’s parents were dead. Camilla’s mother and a cousin who lived in Kentucky were each left lump sums of $5,000. Jacques was to receive nothing. Molly was not mentioned.
There were no other beneficiaries. There was no reference to the society editor of any South Carolina publication. There was nothing about a safe-deposit box. Pierre had been lying. The threat he had made to her about what would happen if he were killed had been only a bluff. Like so much in his life, it was made out of whole cloth.
A wonderful suspicion swept into her mind. Did Pierre even have the cache? No one in the family had seen its contents in years. Pierre might simply have been pretending. He was always pretending. They had believed him this time because they were so terrified of what would happen if he were telling the truth.
She went through the rest of the file, reading carefully the catalog of Pierre’s assets. He had listed the shares of his consulting company, a holding that the federal courts could render worthless if Pierre fell victim to the charges against him. The rest of the assets seemed quite real. Bank shares in New York. A town house in Washington. An expensive limousine. A sailing yacht. A condominium in Hilton Head, South Carolina. Real property in Tawabaw County, South Carolina.
Wiping perspiration from her eyes, Camilla looked through the attached folio of real estate papers. They were photostatic copies, rendered in legalese—“All that certain lot, piece, or parcel of land with improvements thereon and appurtenances thereto belonging, lying, and being in Tawabaw County, South Carolina, known as Lot 47 …”
There was another for Lot 48, and 49, and 50, and more. In all, Pierre owned some eighty or more adjoining pieces of property. Accompanying plats showed surveyors’ boundaries—“N 38 o 21′ 07″ E 97.05′.” There were numerous descriptions of coastline.
She leaned back in Hall’s huge leather swivel chair, pressing her hands against her temples, then relaxing completely, closing her eyes.
The land, quite obviously, was on Tawabaw Island. Her mother owned land there, owned much of the island. It had been in the family for generations. Pierre had been taking it from her—in the same way, no doubt, that he had acquired the use of Camilla’s Sutton Place apartment and Jacques’s horse farm in Virginia, in the same despicable way he had wrung so much money out of them.
The money, the apartment, the horse farm—all that she understood. He could make good use of these things in the extravagant life he had created for himself. But why the island? Of what good to him was so much swamp and sand and woods? There was nothing on Tawabaw but a small fishing village and some scattered houses and shacks like the old nana’s. Those hard-working people were among the poorest in the state.
Pierre’s bequest to her included all that land, but he had no intention of dying. The will was an irrelevancy in the present circumstance.
Camilla swiveled in the chair, staring bleakly at the great dark city outside the window. There were a few lights on in some of the buildings. Security guards moved through them at night.
Fear quickened her thoughts. It was time to leave. She had no doubt committed several crimes here this night. She wouldn’t add theft. She’d seen enough. Returning the papers to their proper place, she closed the mangled file drawer. Perhaps they’d blame Jacques. She was sure Pierre would.
Her escape meant descending twenty-one flights of concrete service stairs. In the huge basement area, she came across a loading dock. Beyond was a large, truck-size retractable door and, beside it, a small fire exit. It led to a side street. An alarm sounded when she opened it, but she was quickly gone. After she turned the corner onto Park Avenue, the sound stopped.
CHAPTER 9
The bright, clear weather had held. The wind had shifted from the northwest to northeast, the breeze about ten knots, rising in gusts to fifteen knots or more, ruffling the surface of the river as far as one could see, the high morning sun glittering on the broken water. There were mountains this far up the Hudson from the city, low and rounded to the west, higher and sharper to the north, the ridges and summit a dark, lush green clearly etched against the clean sky.
A.C. was crossing the river on a starboard tack, sailing on a beam reach and a northwest heading to keep a course against the strong current. Their goal was the city of Haverstraw on the Rockland County shore, by line of sight directly opposite their home above Croton Point on the Westchester side. The crossing was ritual. The lights of Haverstraw were the centerpiece of their view at night, a fixture of their lives. Sailing to it made an afternoon’s outing into a voyage. The river here was as wide as a Swiss lake. It was a substantial undertaking for a nine-year-old boy in stiffening weather—even for his father.
It was a rather small boat—twenty-three feet with a rudimentary cabin. Ostensibly, it slept four, but only two with any real comfort. Kitty liked sailing, but only in pleasant, balmy weather. Their daughter, Kathleen, was bored by it. Little Davey considered sailing an essential part of life. He had told A.C. he hadn’t been on the boat since A.C. had left.
A sense of cleanliness invigorated A.C., the wind scouring every rancid cranny of his spirit. He had awakened that morning feeling sleazy and sordid from his encounters with Belinda St. Johns and the male model. The impulse to travel up to Westchester despite his wife’s admonition not to had become overpowering.
Now he felt calm, even relaxed. He tilted back his head, the sun full upon his face.
A.C. had worn clothes good enough for the train trip from the city but comfortable and hardy enough for the boat—a navy blazer, striped gray and white shirt open at the collar, khakis, white socks, and brown Sperry Top-Siders. He’d left his blazer in the Jeep Cherokee he’d borrowed from the house and left parked at the yacht harbor. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves. As he held the tiller, he noticed how much the tan on his arms had faded living in the city.
Davey was standing at the forward end of the cockpit, leaning against the bulkhead by the steps that led into the cabin, peering under the foot of the jib at the traffic on the water. He was tall for his age and very slender, giving the impression that he was growing before one’s very eyes. He had brown eyes and an incipient handsomeness resembling A.C.’s. His narrow hands and feet were like his mother’s. He was very tan for so early in the summer, and the sun had turned his curly, reddish brown hair to a coppery gold.
“Barges coming, Dad.”
It was as wide as a Swiss lake but it was still a river. A large raft of coal barges was churning along in the downstream channel, a large tug pushing from the rear. A.C. calculated its speed and his own. He could cross ahead of it without insurmountable risk, but he was of no mind to take any. He loved this boy as much as he did his wife and had missed him terribly. He wanted nothing to mar this reunion, certainly not any frightening excitements.
“Ready about!”
“Ready!” responded Davey, leaping to the winch that held the jib sheet.
“Helm’s a’ lee!” A.C. said, thrusting the tiller away from him.
The boat began to swing on its axis, as Davey’s arms worked hurriedly on the winch, hauling the jib around to starboard. The boom shifted and the mainsail snapped full, Davey’s jib filling almost immediately after. He locked the winch and smiled, the veteran sailor. A.C. smiled back.
They sat idly, watching the barges grow large in their approach, a huge, curling bow wave spreading to either side. As the tug passed, its chugging engine loud
, they waved to a crewman. He waved back, a constant part of his job on a waterway strewn with so many pleasure craft.
The heaving wake came at them like a tidal wave.
“Ready about!” A.C. cried.
Davey was at his post again in an instant. They changed tack as swiftly and smoothly as America’s Cup racers, resuming their original course under full sail in time to breast the wake effortlessly on the port quarter. The boat heaved up and down, the mast stays and halyards clanking.
When they returned to calmer water, A.C. eased forward along the cockpit seat.
“Take the helm, Mr. James.”
“Yes sir,” said Davey. He slipped under A.C.’s arm and, sitting close beside him, took the tiller with both hands.
“Heading on the Haverstraw buoy.”
“Yes sir.”
“Mind the river traffic.”
“I will.”
A.C. gripped the boy’s shoulder briefly, then rose and went below. He found some gin and a bottle of tonic in a storage bin beneath the cabin’s small sink and made a drink for himself in a large plastic cup. He poured some warm Coca-Cola into another cup for Davey and brought both back up to the cockpit, sitting opposite his son, even though it caused the boat to heel slightly.
“Thank you, Dad,” said Davey, hooking his arm over the tiller as he reached to take the cup. He sipped. “What are you drinking?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“Dad? Are you drinking a lot?”
“What?”
“Mom says you’re drinking a lot.”
“She said that to you?”
“No. To a friend of hers she had over. Mrs. Lambrecht. I could hear her in my room. She was crying.”
“No, Davey. I’m not. Not really. I’m sorry your mother got upset.”
Annie Lambrecht was Kitty’s most frequent golf and bridge partner at the country club—a good friend, but not an intimate.
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