Abel Baker Charley (53 page)
The man in black shook his head.
“Dr. Sonnenberg?” Baker repeated.
“How the hell would he know?” Harrigan stepped up be
hind Baker, one eye on Stanley Levy. Roger Hershey hadn't
moved. “Ivor Blount, Marcus Sonnenberg, Domenic Tor
tora, and Christ knows how many others. If you want to fig
ure out which is which, Baker, don't count on him to help you. The guy's been so many people, there isn't any
him
anymore. I bet you the old bastard couldn't tell you what
name he was born with.”
hind Baker, one eye on Stanley Levy. Roger Hershey hadn't
moved. “Ivor Blount, Marcus Sonnenberg, Domenic Tor
tora, and Christ knows how many others. If you want to fig
ure out which is which, Baker, don't count on him to help you. The guy's been so many people, there isn't any
him
anymore. I bet you the old bastard couldn't tell you what
name he was born with.”
The man in the pulpit began blinking rapidly again. Tanner
was fascinated. He had the look of someone waking up from
a nap. She was stunned at what was happening but something less than surprised. The answer had been there all the time. It
was there last night, when Charley came out in her room at the
Plaza. Harrigan began to get it then too. What was it? What
was it Charley had said that started Harrigan thinking so hard?
It was that Abel found Tortora's son because Tortora's son was thinking about his father. But then that Charley could
only hear thoughts that were about Baker, or of Tina lately, or
of Sonnenberg. The puzzle had stewed in her brain as it had in Harrigan's. All the time, the solution had been there. The
simple answer. The idea that was too crazy to say aloud. It had
to be that Sonnenberg and Tortora were the same. Charley had
as much as said so. Almost. But not quite, as if even knowing
the pieces of a truth, he'd been kept by Sonnenberg from put
ting that particular whole truth together. It was the block
Baker mentioned outside. It explained why Baker, who knew
so many things, could not know this.
was fascinated. He had the look of someone waking up from
a nap. She was stunned at what was happening but something less than surprised. The answer had been there all the time. It
was there last night, when Charley came out in her room at the
Plaza. Harrigan began to get it then too. What was it? What
was it Charley had said that started Harrigan thinking so hard?
It was that Abel found Tortora's son because Tortora's son was thinking about his father. But then that Charley could
only hear thoughts that were about Baker, or of Tina lately, or
of Sonnenberg. The puzzle had stewed in her brain as it had in Harrigan's. All the time, the solution had been there. The
simple answer. The idea that was too crazy to say aloud. It had
to be that Sonnenberg and Tortora were the same. Charley had
as much as said so. Almost. But not quite, as if even knowing
the pieces of a truth, he'd been kept by Sonnenberg from put
ting that particular whole truth together. It was the block
Baker mentioned outside. It explained why Baker, who knew
so many things, could not know this.
“Sonnenberg!” Baker roared at him, the knowledge sink
ing in that it
was
Sonnenberg who had taken Tina. The head
of the man in black snapped up. He pinched his face shut
and shook his head violently, grabbing the pulpit's railing
for support.
ing in that it
was
Sonnenberg who had taken Tina. The head
of the man in black snapped up. He pinched his face shut
and shook his head violently, grabbing the pulpit's railing
for support.
“Look at this.” Harrigan pointed. Stanley Levy was also
blinking. He stepped uncertainly away from the pulpit's
ba
se far enough so that he could look up as if to confirm the
identity of the person standing there. Stanley's mouth
moved, but he seemed to have trouble speaking.
blinking. He stepped uncertainly away from the pulpit's
ba
se far enough so that he could look up as if to confirm the
identity of the person standing there. Stanley's mouth
moved, but he seemed to have trouble speaking.
“See anyone else you know?” Harrigan gestured toward
Stanley with the muzzle of his gun.
Stanley with the muzzle of his gun.
Baker stared stupidly.
“What do you need, hints?” said Harrigan. “Okay, try this
one. Stanley Levy is to Domenic Tortora as blank blank is to
Marcus Sonnenberg. You fill in what's missing.”
one. Stanley Levy is to Domenic Tortora as blank blank is to
Marcus Sonnenberg. You fill in what's missing.”
Dumbfounded, almost entranced, Baker looked at Stan
ley. He looked into the softening eyes of a little man whose body seemed to be shrinking and bending as he watched.
Rearranging itself more than changing. Baker could not be
lieve it. But for a gray head of hair tied into a careless bun, he was looking at Emma. Mrs. Kreskie.
ley. He looked into the softening eyes of a little man whose body seemed to be shrinking and bending as he watched.
Rearranging itself more than changing. Baker could not be
lieve it. But for a gray head of hair tied into a careless bun, he was looking at Emma. Mrs. Kreskie.
“Emma Kreskie.” Harrigan said it for him. “What about
you, Miss Burke? Who do you see?”
you, Miss Burke? Who do you see?”
Tanner had seen it even before Harrigan. If anything, hav
ing seen Stanley dress up as his own mother, she was less
surprised. She knew nothing of Emma Kreskie. She was see
ing Mrs. Levy again. Except this Mrs. Levy seemed unable to speak. Stanley had mentioned an Emma. A cousin. “My God,” she mouthed, the full horror of it dawning on her. “There are three of him too.”
ing seen Stanley dress up as his own mother, she was less
surprised. She knew nothing of Emma Kreskie. She was see
ing Mrs. Levy again. Except this Mrs. Levy seemed unable to speak. Stanley had mentioned an Emma. A cousin. “My God,” she mouthed, the full horror of it dawning on her. “There are three of him too.”
“The lady wins a prize,” Harrigan answered. “More ex
actly, this mess is another one of those Chimeras Duncan Peck is so hot to find.” He looked up at the teetering figure
in the pulpit. “Except what, Sonnenberg? What was Stanley
here? Practice? A near miss? What?”
actly, this mess is another one of those Chimeras Duncan Peck is so hot to find.” He looked up at the teetering figure
in the pulpit. “Except what, Sonnenberg? What was Stanley
here? Practice? A near miss? What?”
The name, Harrigan saw, seemed to jerk at the man in the
pulpit each time it was spoken. And each of these tugs in
turn appeared to cause an equal reaction in the man who was
now only on the edge of being Stanley Levy. Emma is to
Marcus, he told himself, what Stanley is to Domenic. Dom
enic goes back to Marcus so Stanley goes back to Emma. And vice versa. What did Sonnenberg call it back
at the
house? His connection with Tortora, I mean. A symbiotic re
lationship, he called it. Symbiotic, my ass. The guy's a skitz
for the record books.
pulpit each time it was spoken. And each of these tugs in
turn appeared to cause an equal reaction in the man who was
now only on the edge of being Stanley Levy. Emma is to
Marcus, he told himself, what Stanley is to Domenic. Dom
enic goes back to Marcus so Stanley goes back to Emma. And vice versa. What did Sonnenberg call it back
at the
house? His connection with Tortora, I mean. A symbiotic re
lationship, he called it. Symbiotic, my ass. The guy's a skitz
for the record books.
“Sonnenberg!” Harrigan had one more hunch to play.
“Sonnenberg!” He called the name again. Both times, the
man in the pulpit twitched as if jerked by a string inside his brain. He seemed caught halfway. He was trying, Harrigan was sure, to be Tortora now. The man in black would be al
most there, almost believing it, almost slipping into the per
sona of Domenic Tortora, but Harrigan could prevent it, he
realized, simply by speaking the wrong name. Sonnen-
berg's name. While Harrigan reminded the man he was
Sonnenberg, it seemed, the man could not believe he was
Tortora.
“Sonnenberg!” He called the name again. Both times, the
man in the pulpit twitched as if jerked by a string inside his brain. He seemed caught halfway. He was trying, Harrigan was sure, to be Tortora now. The man in black would be al
most there, almost believing it, almost slipping into the per
sona of Domenic Tortora, but Harrigan could prevent it, he
realized, simply by speaking the wrong name. Sonnen-
berg's name. While Harrigan reminded the man he was
Sonnenberg, it seemed, the man could not believe he was
Tortora.
“Mr. Hershey!” the man in black croaked. He staggered against the side of the pulpit nearest Roger Hershey. “Shoot this man,” he rasped, his voice high again. And then at once
he appeared to reconsider. Looking away as if to capture a
thought he'd lost, he flitted a hand toward Hershey, erasing
the order. Harrigan half-turned toward Roger Hershey, ready
to crouch and fire if Hershey raised his rifle. Hershey met Harrigan's eyes. His head shook slowly, sadly. In slow mo
tion, he took both his hands from the grip and stock of his rifle and folded them across his chest.
he appeared to reconsider. Looking away as if to capture a
thought he'd lost, he flitted a hand toward Hershey, erasing
the order. Harrigan half-turned toward Roger Hershey, ready
to crouch and fire if Hershey raised his rifle. Hershey met Harrigan's eyes. His head shook slowly, sadly. In slow mo
tion, he took both his hands from the grip and stock of his rifle and folded them across his chest.
“Sonnenberg.” Harrigan looked up again. “It's time we
cut the godfather bullshit.” His tone was firm but less rough than the words he chose. “You're Marcus Sonnenberg now.
Dr. Marcus Sonnenberg. You can be whoever the hell else
you want after we leave with the kid. Right now you're Son
nenberg. Sonnenberg is who I want to talk to.”
cut the godfather bullshit.” His tone was firm but less rough than the words he chose. “You're Marcus Sonnenberg now.
Dr. Marcus Sonnenberg. You can be whoever the hell else
you want after we leave with the kid. Right now you're Son
nenberg. Sonnenberg is who I want to talk to.”
The man on the pulpit swallowed. He'd begun breathing
heavily. “First . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut once more.
“First you must answer for my son, Baker. Baker must an
swer for my—”
heavily. “First . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut once more.
“First you must answer for my son, Baker. Baker must an
swer for my—”
“That's my line, Sonnenberg,” Harrigan interrupted. “Anyway, you don't have a son. That son was Tortora's and
even that was probably faked. By Sonnenberg. You can't stand up there being a Maf because there isn't any Maf.
There's only Sonnenberg.”
even that was probably faked. By Sonnenberg. You can't stand up there being a Maf because there isn't any Maf.
There's only Sonnenberg.”
“The hell with this,” Baker snapped. He slipped loose the
arm into which Tanner's fingernails had been digging and moved off toward the bank facade.
arm into which Tanner's fingernails had been digging and moved off toward the bank facade.
“Wait,” Harrigan called. “The guy's almost Sonnenberg
again. You want to talk to him or don't you?”
again. You want to talk to him or don't you?”
Baker turned his head but kept walking toward the Greek
Revival building. “Talk to who, Harrigan? Sonnenberg?
Like you said, there's nothing left in there.” Baker climbed the steps of the bank.
Revival building. “Talk to who, Harrigan? Sonnenberg?
Like you said, there's nothing left in there.” Baker climbed the steps of the bank.
“Jared!” It was Sonnenberg's voice. Pleading.
Baker hesitated. He did not want to stop and turn.
“Jared!” Sonnenberg's voice choked again.
Reluctantly, Baker turned to face him. “Doctor?” He spat
the word.
the word.
“I'm . . . sorry, Jared.”
“Tina's all right?” His eyes were blazing.
“She's well, Jared. Sleeping. I'm sorry, Jared.”
Baker took a single step closer. “Why, Doctor? Why did
you take her?”
you take her?”
Sonnenberg raised both hands to his oversized hat and
took it off. Removing it seemed to help him concentrate. He
opened the buttons of the heavy black overcoat, paused as if feeling for the effect, then shrugged the garment to the pulpit's floor. It did help. It was easier for him to be Son
nenberg now. He did not answer Baker's question. But there
was an answer. Harrigan, watching closely, could see it in
his eyes. And he could also see that a full understanding of his actions was beyond him. Absently, sorrowfully, Son
nenberg ran his fingers over the detail of the pulpit's
stonework.
took it off. Removing it seemed to help him concentrate. He
opened the buttons of the heavy black overcoat, paused as if feeling for the effect, then shrugged the garment to the pulpit's floor. It did help. It was easier for him to be Son
nenberg now. He did not answer Baker's question. But there
was an answer. Harrigan, watching closely, could see it in
his eyes. And he could also see that a full understanding of his actions was beyond him. Absently, sorrowfully, Son
nenberg ran his fingers over the detail of the pulpit's
stonework.
“Bitter pulpit,” he muttered to himself. He raised his eyes
to Jared Baker. “Named after Karl Bitter,” he added. “The
man who carved it.” Sonnenberg paused to take a long
breath. ”I intended no play upon his name, but I suppose
there's a metaphor in there someplace. What words does one
speak from a bitter pulpit? Does one preach repentance and
regret? Or do I preach tolerance and understanding to one
who despises me? Understand yourself, Jared, and you'll
understand me. Understand me and you'll understand your
self. There's truth to that, Jared, although I suspect you're
not of a mind to listen.”
to Jared Baker. “Named after Karl Bitter,” he added. “The
man who carved it.” Sonnenberg paused to take a long
breath. ”I intended no play upon his name, but I suppose
there's a metaphor in there someplace. What words does one
speak from a bitter pulpit? Does one preach repentance and
regret? Or do I preach tolerance and understanding to one
who despises me? Understand yourself, Jared, and you'll
understand me. Understand me and you'll understand your
self. There's truth to that, Jared, although I suspect you're
not of a mind to listen.”
“No, Doctor,” Baker answered. “As a matter of fact, I'm
not.” He turned once more and stepped through the doors of
the bank facade. Tanner Burke followed him.
not.” He turned once more and stepped through the doors of
the bank facade. Tanner Burke followed him.
“I'll listen.” Connor Harrigan remained at the base of the
pulpit. A few feet away sat Stanley Levy, or what remained of him, staring indifferently at the floor, shoulders hunched, back bent, looking old. He reminded Harrigan of bag ladies
he'd seen around Grand Central Station.
pulpit. A few feet away sat Stanley Levy, or what remained of him, staring indifferently at the floor, shoulders hunched, back bent, looking old. He reminded Harrigan of bag ladies
he'd seen around Grand Central Station.
Sonnenberg did not look at Harrigan. His sorrowful face
stayed fixed upon the doors that Baker had entered. But he
responded.
stayed fixed upon the doors that Baker had entered. But he
responded.
“To what purpose, Mr. Harrigan?” he asked.
“Like you said. Understanding.”
”I doubt you'd profit by it, sir. Nor am I of a mood to en
dure the snorts of a cynic such as yourself. You view the ca
pacity of the human mind only in terms of corruption and venality. I fear its grander potential is beyond you.”
dure the snorts of a cynic such as yourself. You view the ca
pacity of the human mind only in terms of corruption and venality. I fear its grander potential is beyond you.”
“We're talking grand all of a sudden?”
Sonnenberg ignored the question.
“Grand as in what?” Harrigan pressed. “Grand theft
auto? Grand larceny? Grand juries? What?”
auto? Grand larceny? Grand juries? What?”
”I rest my case, Mr. Harrigan.”
Harrigan reddened. “You're a patronizing old screwball,
aren't you. Where do you get the balls to feel so superior?”
aren't you. Where do you get the balls to feel so superior?”
Sonnenberg bit his lip. A reply had begun to form, but he
seemed determined not to discourse with this man or be dis
tracted by him.
seemed determined not to discourse with this man or be dis
tracted by him.
Okay, Harrigan thought. Let's try sticking the needle a
little deeper.
little deeper.
”I mean, you spend maybe twenty years bouncing be
tween two different people, each as phony as the other.
One's a second-rate Dr. Strangelove and the other thinks
he's Don Vito Corleone. One carves up people's heads and the other breaks legs if people don't pay off his loan sharks. Plus which he causes ice picks to be stuck in the bodies of
people who inconvenience either one of them. And now
crude old Connor Harrigan learns that there's a nuance to all
this that's too delicate for a dope like him to understand.”
Harrigan stepped closer. He began to slide his revolver into
his belt but glanced at Stanley, Mrs. Kreskie, whoever, and thought better of it. Sonnenberg turned his head still farther
from Harrigan and kept it locked upon the bank building.
tween two different people, each as phony as the other.
One's a second-rate Dr. Strangelove and the other thinks
he's Don Vito Corleone. One carves up people's heads and the other breaks legs if people don't pay off his loan sharks. Plus which he causes ice picks to be stuck in the bodies of
people who inconvenience either one of them. And now
crude old Connor Harrigan learns that there's a nuance to all
this that's too delicate for a dope like him to understand.”
Harrigan stepped closer. He began to slide his revolver into
his belt but glanced at Stanley, Mrs. Kreskie, whoever, and thought better of it. Sonnenberg turned his head still farther
from Harrigan and kept it locked upon the bank building.
“Okay.” Harrigan shrugged. “So I have to guess. But
you'll tell me if I happen to hit it, won't you, Sonnenberg?” He held up his left hand and began ticking off his fingers.
“You create Domenic Tortora for these reasons. One. Culti
vated nice guy Sonnenberg needs a cultivated bad guy Tor
tora who is willing to behave in ways that nice guy
Sonnenberg considers indelicate. Sonnenberg, for one thing,
doesn't like to kill. He hardly kills at all except for an occa
sional lapse like knocking off Santa Claus down at St. Eliz
abeths. Tortora doesn't like to kill either, but he'll always
come through in a pinch. Us unrefined types call that schiz
ophrenia and you a psychopath. But what do we know about
grander potential?
you'll tell me if I happen to hit it, won't you, Sonnenberg?” He held up his left hand and began ticking off his fingers.
“You create Domenic Tortora for these reasons. One. Culti
vated nice guy Sonnenberg needs a cultivated bad guy Tor
tora who is willing to behave in ways that nice guy
Sonnenberg considers indelicate. Sonnenberg, for one thing,
doesn't like to kill. He hardly kills at all except for an occa
sional lapse like knocking off Santa Claus down at St. Eliz
abeths. Tortora doesn't like to kill either, but he'll always
come through in a pinch. Us unrefined types call that schiz
ophrenia and you a psychopath. But what do we know about
grander potential?
“Two. It occurs to you that anyone with an upper-class
dago name, as opposed to Mario Greaso for example, plus a
black hat and coat, a fat wallet, a big house in Bronxville,
and lots of mysterious absences, can function very nicely on
the edges of the dago underworld. Automatically, that gives
you the dago Brylcreme set looking to do you favors. It
gives you cops looking to get on your pad, judges looking
for you to get them elected to the Appellate Court, where the
real money changes hands, and it makes everybody else
afraid to fuck around with you.
dago name, as opposed to Mario Greaso for example, plus a
black hat and coat, a fat wallet, a big house in Bronxville,
and lots of mysterious absences, can function very nicely on
the edges of the dago underworld. Automatically, that gives
you the dago Brylcreme set looking to do you favors. It
gives you cops looking to get on your pad, judges looking
for you to get them elected to the Appellate Court, where the
real money changes hands, and it makes everybody else
afraid to fuck around with you.
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