Holy Terror (11 page)

‘I wouldn't have done anything like that, I'm sure, even if I was hypnotized. I
couldn't
have. It's so much against my training.'

‘I told you, Conor: Hypnos and Hetti can make people do
anything
. They can even make people kill themselves, if they want to. Hypnos always used to boast that he hypnotized Sonny Bono into skiing into a tree.'

‘Why the hell would he want to do a thing like that, even if he could?'

‘Oh, there was supposed to be some mob connection. Bono trod on too many influential toes, and that was the cleanest way to get rid of him. Hypnos said there were others, too – really big names. And the beauty was that nobody could ever prove if he was lying or not.'

‘All right, then,' said Conor. ‘Supposing for the sake of argument that I
did
download the list for them … how come the other robbers had a list, too? And a list which sounds as if it was substantially the same as Hypnos and Hetti's list?'

‘Maybe somebody hacked into your computer and sold it to them on the black market.'

‘That's a possibility, I guess. But it doesn't explain why they were two separate attempts to rob Spurr's strongroom literally within hours of each other.'

‘Coincidence,' Sebastian suggested. ‘I was mugged twice on the same block once. Do you know what I said to the second mugger? “If you want my money it's no good threatening me. Go and chase after that scumbag down there.”'

Conor said, ‘I don't think it was a coincidence at all. I think there's a whole lot more to this than meets the eye.'

‘Well, the two robberies couldn't have been connected. Why storm into a store to steal a whole lot of safety deposit boxes if you know that they're already empty?'

‘Exactly. But none of this really makes any difference, not to the cops. They're convinced that
I
cleared out those boxes and I don't have any way of proving them wrong. My only witness is in a coma and he can't remember what Hypnos and Hetti did to him, either.'

‘In other words, you're up your neck in very deep doodoo.'

‘There's only one way out of this. I have to find Hypnos and Hetti – preferably with some of the stuff still in their possession.'

‘So what kind of stuff are we talking about?'

‘I don't have any idea. It could be emeralds, it could be dope, it could be title deeds. What customers keep in their safety deposit boxes is their own business.'

‘Supposing they
don't
have the stuff on them? Or supposing they do, but you can't prove that it came from Spurr's? I mean, nobody's going to put up their hand and say, “Oh, yes – that three-pound package of Colombia's purest, that's mine!”'

‘In that case, I'll have to find a way to make them confess.'

Ric smiled and shook his head. ‘Ooh no, I don't think so. Not those two. They'd have you in a trance before you even got to the first question.'

‘Beat them with rubber hoses, that's what I say,' put in Sebastian. ‘How about another drink, Conor? You look terrible. You're going to have two gorgeous black eyes tomorrow.'

‘Do you have any idea where Hypnos and Hetti might be?' Conor asked Ric.

‘Not any more. They used to rent a loft in TriBeCa, but I don't think they live there any
longer. I'll tell you what I could do, though. I could give you Eleanor Bronsky's number. Eleanor used to be their agent. Maybe she knows where they are.'

Conor couldn't have a shower that night because of his hands but Sebastian ran him a deep, hot bath and he sat in it for nearly twenty minutes, with his eyes closed.

He dreamed that he was walking along an empty, echoing corridor. Right at the very end stood two dark figures. He knew that he had every reason to be afraid of them, but he kept on walking toward them. He had almost reached them when he realized that they weren't two figures at all, but one, two people intertwined like a tree.

For some reason this filled him with dread, and he turned to run. As he did so, however, there was a deafening metallic clang and a huge door shut in front of him, blocking his escape.

He knocked and knocked, knowing that the two people that were one person was gradually approaching him. But no matter how hard he knocked, he couldn't make a sound any louder than a gentle tapping.

He opened his eyes. It was Sebastian, coyly tapping at the bathroom door.

‘Didn't mean to disturb you. Would you like me to wash your back?'

That night, he dreamed one bad dream after another. He fell down elevator shafts, he ran down tunnels, he was trapped under suffocating heaps of blankets. In spite of the air conditioning, Sebastian's apartment was stifling, and he woke up again and again, smothered in sweat. Pretty little clocks were ticking and chiming everywhere, and he found it almost impossible to get back to sleep.

At six o'clock a huge dumpster parked outside and garbage collectors started to throw trashcans around. It sounded like the
1812 Overture
. As stiffly as a 70-year-old he climbed out of bed and hobbled to the kitchen where he made himself a cup of arabica coffee and listened to the portable television at very low volume, so that he wouldn't wake up Sebastian and Ric.

He turned to the early-morning news. After an item about a shootout at a grade school in the Bronx, Lieutenant Slyman appeared. He was standing beside the torn awning of Manzi's restaurant, his face made devilish by the red flashing lights of firetrucks and squad cars.

‘…
Conor O'Neil was one of the most skilful and experienced officers in the New York Police Department … today he has also shown himself to be one hundred per cent ruthless and determined … he has successfully engineered a robbery which may have netted him over a billion dollars … if you have any knowledge of his whereabouts, don't try to approach him … Just call this number
…
I have already been told that the owners of the missing property are prepared to pay very substantial rewards for its return
…'

‘Hey, maybe we ought to turn you in,' said Ric, who had been standing behind him in the kitchen doorway. ‘Sebastian and I could use some extra cash.'

‘Don't worry,' said Conor. ‘If I can find this Hypnos and Hetti, I'll make sure that you get the credit for it.'

Ric came into the kitchen. He was wearing a short purple robe and a hairnet. He took a giant-sized guava juice out of the icebox and drank it straight out of the carton. ‘Don't you worry about that. Sebastian and I will get our reward in Heaven.' He sat down and peered at Conor closely. ‘My God,' he said. ‘You
do
look a fright.'

Eleanor Bronsky's office was on the fourth floor of a narrow 1930s building on Broadway, a block and a half north of Times Square. Conor walked there, in spite of the heat and humidity, because he didn't want to risk being recognized by some smartass taxi driver who might have watched this morning's news. He knew from his police experience how closely taxi drivers scrutinize their fares. Scrutinize them and
instantly categorize them: out-of-towner, tourist, minor celebrity, Wall Street broker, crack addict, drunk, harmless lunatic, dangerous lunatic and worst of all, parsimonious tipper.

He crossed Times Square through a host of fluttering, hopping, scabrous pigeons. He was wearing only a white T-shirt and beige canvas pants, no socks, but the perspiration still dripped down his cheeks. Today's forecast was a high of 103. People had been collapsing in the streets.

He reached the narrow doorway and pressed the button marked BRONSKY THEATRICAL REPRESENTATION INC. A down-and-out in a filthy brown shirt was sitting on the step with a small, panting mongrel on the end of a string.

‘Spare some change?' he asked. His eyes were crusted and he was missing most of his teeth.

Conor gave him a dollar bill. He pressed the bell again. There were two cops on the opposite side of Broadway, leaning against their squad car and talking casually to an ice-cream vendor. The sooner he got inside the building the better.

‘You're in trouble, aintcha?' said the down-and-out. ‘I can always smell a man in trouble.'

‘Thanks for your consideration, but I'm fine.'

‘They're after you, ain't they? They're on your heels.'

A ditsy little girl's voice came out of the intercom. ‘
Who whizzit
?'

‘Jack Brown. I'm a friend of Ric Vetter. He called you before?'

‘You want a word of advice?' said the down-and-out. His dog gave Conor the most hopeless look that
he had ever seen from man or beast. Conor didn't answer.

‘The word of advice is: two into one does go, and when they do, you'd better watch your ass.'

‘What?' asked Conor, but then the door buzzer went, and he pushed his way into the gloomy hallway, leaving the down-and-out sitting outside. There was a strong smell of gas and mold inside the building. On the right was a battered row of disused mailboxes, their doors hanging open. On the left was a tiny elevator with a powder-blue-painted door. Up ahead rose a staircase covered in grim green linoleum with metal protective edges, but on the second-story landing shone a stained-glass window, pure art deco, of an airliner flying over the ocean, accompanied by seagulls. In a decrepit building like this, it was weirdly ritzy and romantic.

Conor took the elevator up to the fourth floor. It clanked as if it were being winched up by Quasimodo. There was a small, dim mirror at the back of the elevator and he took off his Ray-Bans so that he could look at himself. Both of his eyes were so swollen that they were almost closed, and his lips looked like two large slices of raw pig's liver.

The door marked BRONSKY THEATRICAL REPRESENTATION INC. had been left open and Conor stepped directly into a cramped outer office. The ditsy girl was sitting at her desk, a redhead in a sleeveless purple T-shirt with purple lipstick to match. She rattled away at the keyboard of her word-processor and chewed gum at five times the average speed. ‘Mr Brown?' she said, scarcely bothering to
look up. ‘Go ride on through.' Then, ‘Shit!' as she mistyped something.

Conor said, ‘Thanks,' and knocked on the inner door.

Eleanor Bronsky herself was sitting in a tilting chair, her feet crossed on top of a desk which was cluttered with contracts and gilded statuettes and framed telegrams, as well as an overflowing onyx ashtray. Behind her there was a grimy view of Broadway. Despite the efforts of an asthmatic air conditioner, the room was uncomfortably humid and hazy with her cigarette smoke. She was a handsome woman in her middle sixties, thin, etiolated by smoking and decades of late nights, with well-cut white hair and a face that, once, must have been striking. She still had fine cheekbones and large blue eyes, although the skin of her cheeks had softened and withered, and the blue of her eyes had faded, like cornflowers pressed in a bible.

She wore a cream silk dress and a gold chain belt. As Conor stepped in, she was talking on her hands-free telephone and lighting another Marlboro in an amber cigarette-holder. She waved her hand to indicate that he should sit down.

‘No, David,' she was saying. ‘I'm not going to risk Stella's reputation in a production like that. No, I don't believe it will. Not for a moment. It's a
terrible
idea.'

Conor looked around the office. The shelves were crammed with dogeared screenplays and theatrical scripts: the walls were cluttered with scores of photographs of Eleanor Bronsky with Shelley Winters, Eleanor Bronsky with Lee Strasberg,
Eleanor Bronsky with Tony Franciosa and Harry Guardino and Tennessee Williams. Late-night flash photographs of Eleanor Bronsky with drunkenly grinning producers taken at the tables of Sardi's and Downey's.

Eventually she said, ‘
Shalom
, David,' and switched off the phone. She blew out a cloud of smoke and said, ‘Can you believe it? That was David Bramwell. He wants to make a musical based on the life of Hugh Hefner –
Centerfold!
Can you imagine it?
Centerfold
! Indeed! It won't be just the center that's folding, it'll be the whole goddamned ridiculous production.'

Conor held out his hand. ‘Jack Brown. Pleased to meet you.'

Eleanor Bronsky's handshake was dry and surprisingly firm. The handshake of a woman who was used to dealing with powerful men. ‘My God, Mr Brown, if you'll excuse my saying so, you look like you had an argument with Godzilla, and lost.'

‘Minor auto accident, that's all. I'll get over it. Ric Vetter called you this morning.'

‘Yes, he did. Darling, darling Ric. If he wasn't as queer as a three-dollar bill, I could fancy him myself. He brings out the Blanche Dubois in me. Excuse my smoke,' she said, flapping her hand. ‘I've been trying to give it up since the opening night of
Wedding Feast
. Or was it
The Member of the Wedding
?'

Conor said, ‘Did Ric tell you who I was looking for?'

‘Uh-huh. Hypnos and Hetti. What a pair they were. I represented them for three and half years, right from the time they first came over here.'

‘But you don't represent them now?'

She shook her head. ‘They were incredibly good. They could hypnotize a dozen people standing in a bus line and make them gobble like turkeys. But I don't know … there was something I didn't like about them, something
unhealthy
. There was no
joy
in them, you know? And they didn't seem to be very interested in performing for the sake of performing, not like most artistes. They didn't want acknowledgement. They didn't want applause. Quite frankly I don't really know
what
they wanted.'

‘When was the last time you saw them?'

Eleanor Bronsky sucked on her cigarette and peered at him narrowly. ‘Are you a cop?' she asked.

‘Of course not. I'm a theatrical producer.'