Foul Matter (20 page)

For even though Paul would say “right here in New York,” his writing geography was bound by this even smaller playing field: Manhattan. His childhood had not been contained here; he was from the Midwest. He had lived in Manhattan for only fifteen years and now he knew he could never live anywhere else. Paul considered himself lucky; he had found what people mean by “home.”

Paul had met Ned Isaly only twice, the first time at one of those drunken brawls publishers like to throw for books and writers whom the publishers think deserve them, meaning, of course, the best-selling,
TBR
list writers. The moneyed elite, the Hamptons of writers, the Great Neck, the Back Bay, the Aspen, the Colorado Springs of writers, the Tahoe, the Vail, the Santa Fe of writers; any of the chic and pricey in places—take your pick—
those
writers. Paul was high on the list of the Flashy Few, this despite his living in nothing more than a two-bedroom-plus-study rental on the edge of Greenwich Village. But then the publishing world didn’t know how he lived because it never got invited up.

Paul liked to schmooze at these parties, mostly to see the new arrivals to the list. Whose “debut” novel would be buzzed onto the
TBR
list? What “genre” novel would be touted as having shot the mystery/thriller/sci-fi genre up to the stratosphere? What commercial book would break the literary glass ceiling? And what literary novel would push through the commercial floor? That, of course, was the big prayer answered, to publish a book that would pay back millions, and also be reviewed in
The New Yorker
by John Updike.

Ned Isaly fit none of these categories.

It had been, he supposed, a wretched thing to do and Paul knew he would probably fry in hell, but he couldn’t get rid of the idea. Actually, it had come out of that long conversation with Ned Isaly at one of these cocktail parties.

He could have simply made it all up, but Paul was certain that his own imagination, which had served him so well for years of deadpan genre-noir thrillers—that even he could think of nothing so outrageous as what appeared to be happening. The blackmail angle hadn’t really surprised him. Trust Bobby Mackenzie to think of that.

But even Paul, for whom nothing was too shocking, shameful, twisted, harrowing, whatever—even Paul had not considered they would set a couple of hired killers on the man, and he still thought he must be wrong to think it. He’d expected them to break the contract, to get around the problem of Tom Kidd somehow. Of course, Tom would threaten to leave and take Isaly (not to mention Kidd’s other writers) with him. He’d thought of other things they might do, such as framing Isaly for plagiarism. Any damage to Ned’s reputation Paul would counteract by exposing Bobby Mackenzie.

Well, how to deal with the Isaly dilemma had been their problem. Except it had become his problem with this news about the “consultant” team of Candy and Karl. Jesus Christ. What had he set in motion? He’d put in a call to Sammy Giancarlo, a mob “consultant” about whom Paul had written (wearing his noir hat) a fairly moving novel. Sammy had been pleased as punch and only hoped it had been thinly enough veiled so his momma and the rest of his extended family would know it was Sammy Giancarlo.

“Two guys named Karl and Candy. I don’t know if it’s first or last names. Do you know them?” This was the phone call he’d made earlier.

Sammy said, “I’m not personally acquainted with them, but you know the way they work.”

Paul made his forefinger and thumb into a gun and aimed it at the telephone. Why did Sammy always assume Paul knew everyone in Giancarlo’s world and “the way they work”? Just because Paul had met a few in researching his books? “No, Sammy, I do not know. Else I wouldn’t be calling you. Tell me, how do they work that’s any different from your standard hit man?”

“Because they get to know the mark. You can’t get them just to aim and fire like the rest of the palookas.”

Sammy’s argot was strongly reminiscent of the 1940s or even the 1930s. Paul got a real kick out of it sometimes. “Yeah. What in hell do you mean, ‘get to know’ the person? That sounds like it’s breaking some criminal code.”

“Those guys want to know exactly what kind of person they’re taking out, never mind you wouldn’t think they’d want to know. I wouldn’t want to, you wouldn’t want to. Hell, no. I mean what if it turned out you really liked the guy? What then? It’s like surgeons, ain’t it? I mean if you had a kid needed a kidney you wouldn’t want your wife doing the surgery, would you? If your wife was a surgeon. Anyway, these two, I know once they hung around for nearly six months and still didn’t whack this guy. And those two, I’m surprised they’re even on the road, they hardly ever take a job anymore. Never mind, they don’t need the money. These two are top of the line. They are prime time, believe me. Now, you need somebody put on a bus to nowhere. I can help you. What—”

Paul had started yelling. “Hold it! Don’t send anybody—”

“No no no no. This guy could voice your concerns is all. Or do you want me to do it personal? Never mind, for you I’d do it. Listen, we’re all waiting for the—what’d’ya call it? Prequel? Like maybe
Giancarlo: Learning a Trade.
You know, when I was a snot-nosed kid. Pretty good, eh?”

“Yeah. Wonderful, Sammy.” Paul loved that “voice your concerns is all.” “Now this guy you’re talking about—”

“It’ll cost you; you better be ready with fifty large—I mean up front, with another fifty later. But this guy’s absolutely top of the line.”

“Sounds pretty much like they’re all top of the line. But in that case, Candy and Karl, the two I’m talking about, they’d know him?”

“Nah. This guy’s outta Vegas, just keeps a co-op here for when he visits. There’s lots of them relocating. There’s another good one in Santa Fe. He paints. I don’t think he’s working his day job no more, anyway . . .” Sammy grew reflective.

“I thought your business was kind of like the priesthood, Sam. You go where you’re told.”

Sammy laughed. “Priesthood, that’s rich. Listen, I’ll set up a meet with this guy. He lives in TriBeCa, I think. He likes to move around. I can tell you this: this one’s such a good shadow sometimes I think he
is
one. You won’t see him; they won’t see him. You can meet him in one of them coffee places, maybe. I say that because he don’t drink, not anymore. Only not Starbucks; Starbucks is gettin’ to be worse than a spaghetti restaurant. Just last week another one of the Bransonis was blasted out of his chair in that Starbucks over on Eighth. It was all over the fucking tabloids. You read about that? Gettin’ to be as bad as D.C. Anyway, he’ll know what you look like even if you don’t know him.” Sammy described him—tall, thin, and blond. “But that won’t help you much because he’s like a fucking chameleon. He blends in. Never saw anyone who could blend as good as him.”

“Right away, Sammy, if you can. I’m worried about this fellow Candy and Karl are, well, following, I guess.”

“You got it. I’m makin’ a note. So what are you doing, Paulie, you’re messed up with Candy and Karl? You been seein’ too many Francis Ford Coppola movies?” Sammy laughed at his own little joke.

“ ’Fraid so. What’s this fellow’s name?”

“Arthur Mordred. And for God’s sakes, don’t call him ‘Art.’ He hates it people call him ‘Art.’ ”

Paul wondered just how much Arthur hated it.

The meeting with Arthur Mordred was held in one of those crepe and cappuccino cafés in SoHo off Broome Street. Paul usually avoided such places, just as he avoided the center of Greenwich Village.

The coffeehouse was a yuppie hangout. Paul looked the room over. There were perhaps fifteen customers; he looked at each one of them. Finally, a man at a corner table whom Paul had passed over several times—somehow seeing and not seeing—raised his hand. Arthur Mordred looked like just another yuppie. Paul would never have picked him out. He had a narrow head, a thin mouth, seal-gray eyes, and flaxen hair so lightweight it looked ruffled by the air stirred up by the erratically circling fan overhead. His ears lay so flat against his head they looked cut and pasted there.

“I can’t say how thrilled I am to meet you,” said Arthur Mordred. “I’ve read every one of your books.” Arthur fit his chin into his hand a little like a cupcake and looked volumes at Paul. Before him sat a big cup of cappuccino. Arthur tapped it. “Want one?”

Paul shook his head, pulled the brown envelope containing fifty thousand dollars out of an inside pocket of his raincoat, and handed it to Arthur, who took it with the same soigné manner in which he probably (Paul thought) did everything, including shooting people. Paul’s notion of hit men was obviously antediluvian. Clearly your man didn’t always run to muscles, no manners, and few words.

Because Arthur seemed only to want to talk, as if he’d been locked up for years—well, maybe he had—and was just getting his first taste of freedom. As he peeked into the envelope he asked, “Are you working on a new book?”

Paul didn’t care for the way Arthur was eyeing him. He didn’t want to get trapped in a Stephen King situation.
Misery.
“Not at the moment, Arthur. At the moment I’m sitting here with you.” Perhaps one shouldn’t be so free with the sarcasm around Arthur. So Paul flashed him an I’m-only-jesting smile.

But Arthur simply thought he was being droll. “Where am I to go, Paul?”

“Wherever this guy goes.” From the same pocket the money had been in, Paul brought out the dust jacket for
Solace,
turned it to the back flap and the small picture. “Ned Isaly, another writer.”

Arthur was impressed. “My goodness, this is what you might call the literary event of the year, not to mention the top ten hits.” He laughed at his little joke, his voice chirrupy. “Maybe we ought to put out a little magazine, you know—”

“Look, Arthur. Let’s be sure we’re on the same page here: what I want is for you to
keep
this person from getting shot. A couple of guys might be aiming to do that even as we speak. I can’t believe they really are, but I don’t want to take chances.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “You mean you want a bodyguard.”

“Well . . . yeah, I guess . . . yeah, exactly. A situation has simply gotten out of control. I’ll summarize it for you: a publish—”

Arthur shut his eyes, squinched them shut, and fanned his hands palm out like a metronome. “No no no no! I don’t want to hear the whys and wherefores, tell me nothing I don’t absolutely have to know. Mention no names if you can help it.” He looked at the dust jacket again. “Quite a handsome bloke, this Isaly. I never got around to reading that book. I’ll certainly read it now.”

Bloke? Did people still say that? It sounded like an old Terry-Thomas movie. “I guess you’re really good when it comes to, uh, shadowing people?”

“Ordinarily, I don’t have to. It’s usually not necessary, is it?” Arthur beamed a smile at Paul.

The implication of which made Paul extranervous. “Here it is: there are two guys who always work together who are after him—” Paul tapped the photo with his forefinger. “Sammy said you’d know them. Names are Can—”