The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (17 page)

She fumbled for a cigarette and realized she was
fresh out. She always did her best thinking with a smoke, and if she
was going to figure things out she needed a fresh pack. Costello's
was the closest place. She climbed off the turtle and walked through
the park to the Moyamensing side and down Morris—and saw the silver
car with the Springsteen bumper sticker, as it slowly drove past her
and stopped in the middle of the block.

She stopped dead, strained her eyes to get a glimpse
of him, couldn't, but it didn't matter. She knew he was there, she
could feel him in the air. The night had turned evil. lt was as if
she was no longer on friendly Morris Street but had stumbled into
some terrible place. The trees on either side of the street seemed
menacing, their branches and trunks now hideously gnarled creatures
reaching to claw at her and hold her for Peter, the shadows of every
stoop and bush hiding handful upon handful of crawling, slithering
nightmares, lying in wait to bite, sting, and torment her, until
death.

Every sense told her to turn and run, to go for the
police—all except one that she mistook for her sense of duty,
telling her that she had run off once and failed Terri, and not to
make it twice . . . slowly she put one foot in front of the other and
moved toward that waiting silver car.

Suddenly everything was crystal clear to her . . .
this was her trial by fire. Just like they'd learned about in school.
What she had to do was to walk past the car. If she got by it without
Peter knowing her, she was innocent and forgiven. If he recognized
her, she was guilty and deserved to pay for it. She never considered
who had arranged this imagined trial . . .

Step by step, she continued down the block, feeling
Terri's presence now, giving her the courage to do the right thing,
what she should have done right from the first.

Don't look around, just keep walking, she told
herself. As she neared the car, she began to pray. "Dear God,
please bless and keep my family from all evil"—She was even
with the rear fender now, only a few more steps—"and guide
them in the way of the truth and the light"—Out of the corner
of her eye she could see the door, the open window, and the darkness
beyond—"Especially, Lord, please bless my father and keep him
from—"

"Hello Marie," said a gentle voice from
inside the car, shattering the nervous aura around her like a
thunderclap.

The rest of her prayer went unsaid as she stopped in
her tracks.

She was afraid to turn and look, to see her judge,
but when he softly called out, "Come here, I want to talk to
you," she obeyed because this was her punishment.

When she came close to the window the voice from the
darkness said, "It was you, wasn't it? You're the one I read
about in the newspaper. You're the one who saw us and told the
police, aren't you, Marie?"

She didn't answer. There was no need to, she'd
already been judged and found guilty.

"Answer me."

"Yes," Marie whispered.

"Look at me when I talk to you."

Marie raised her eyes to see this evil, but there was
no horned devil . . . only a handsome, bearded man with tinted
aviators, a leather jacket, white scarf, and driving gloves with
holes over the knuckles.

"Was it really like you told the newspapers, you
were hiding outside?" he asked.

"Yes."

"But why, Marie? Why would you do that?"

"Because I wanted to see you," she said,
cooperating in her punishment. She had done the right thing not to
walk past the car. Finally she was being called to account for her
sins, she felt the burden of guilt at long last lifting.

Neither spoke for a moment, they just stared at one
another. And then he said, "It's been hard for you with Terri
gone, hasn't it?"

Marie nodded.

"I miss her, too," he said. "She was a
wonderful girl."

Before Marie could give in and submit herself to him
she still had to know the answer to one question.

"She loved you. Why did you have to do it?"

"Because it was her time."

It was the right answer for Marie. It was the same
for her. She and Terri . . . it was the right time for both of them .
. .

"You know it's a part of life. When the time
comes it must happen to all of us. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Understand that I loved her, too, and that when
I did it there was no pain. I led her through pleasure after pleasure
until she was ready . . . Now I'm back because I cannot leave you
here alone and so unhappy, not when there's so much pleasure . . . So
come around here and get in. It's time, Marie." The voice was
quiet, almost a whisper. Yet for Marie it had all the force of a
divine command.

She looked past him into the darkness of the
passenger seat, and for a moment imagined she saw Terri there,
sitting, smiling, waiting.

Marie did not hestitate. She walked around to the
passenger side and got in, no longer alone or afraid.
 
 

CHAPTER 15

LAURA FINALLY found a parking place on Spruce Street
near Twentieth. A young man dressed in leather jacket, red plaid
flannel shirt and skin-tight faded Levis was leaning against her
parking meter. Up and down the street other men either lolled in
similar insouciant attitudes, chatted in small groups or walked
little yappy dogs. Like many single women she had once lived in this
neighborhood, finding it safe and clean, if a bit raffish and loud in
the early hours of the morning.

She walked to the corner and turned north on
Twentieth, her destination Clarisse's, an intimate, elegant
restaurant in a storefront that had been, in sequence, a pharmacy, a
waterbed store and a used-clothing store specializing in the Joan
Crawford look. The maitre d' saw her almost immediately and came
hurrying over. When he confirmed that Felix had not yet arrived he
led her to a small, four-seat bar in an alcove where she was the only
customer. When the bartender asked for her drink order she considered
a ladylike drink like a white wine or a kir, but decided on a beer.
Whereupon the bartender gave her a look that said the old maxim was
true: you could dress them up but you couldn't always take them out.

While she waited she studied a painting behind the
bar—the  portrait of a young, dark-haired girl. From the way
the girl was dressed Laura guessed it had been painted sometime in
the 1870s and had probably cost the owner of Clarisse's a pretty
penny at auction at either Freeman's or the Fine Arts Company, but
the cost or age of the picture was not what intrigued her. It was the
portrait's subject. Allowing for changes in fashion, her dark-haired,
stormy teenaged Juliet looks reminded her with a start of the picture
of Terri on the handbill she still carried in her purse, the same
combination of sensuality and innocence . . .

"Penny for your thoughts." Thoughts so deep
she hadn't noticed Felix's arrival.

Before she could respond, the bartender appeared to
take Felix's order. Noting Laura's beer, he said, "That looks
really good, I'll have the same." The bartender did not give
Felix the same
down-the-nose treatment he'd
given Laura. "I get tired of all this white wine and overpriced
champagne people seem determined to pour down your throat. Beer is
really my favorite."

"Mine, too," she said.

"Now, about your thoughts . . ."

She told him how the girl in the painting reminded
her so much of the teenager she'd been writing about in her paper.

"Oh, yes, you mean . . . Terri DiFranco."

"Well, I'm surprised but I confess rather
pleased that you knew about that."

"Not just knew about it, Laura, but I read it
carefully, as well as the promo for a follow-up. I was surprised at
first, I admit it, to see your byline . . . putting it together with
the way I met you with Carl and my impression that your beat was the
art world and assorted celebrities. Surprised, but also pleased.
Would it embarrass you to hear that I was moved by the piece? You
made that girl and her life very real, real enough to make her death
something meaningful. I have an idea that you've gotten pretty
involved in it yourself. Or am I being presumptuous?"

"Well, no, you certainly aren't, and I'm
certainly not embarrassed to hear you responded to my work. Believe
me, it's a relief to get out of the features department where my boss
wants to keep me on for the rest of my natural life. I guess I can
tell you that the story on you was his idea, and at first I resisted.
I wanted to concentrate all my time on Terri's story . . . I hope I'm
not offending you?"

"Not at all, and frankly I wish you had had your
way. I'm not much for being interviewed. Besides, Terri and girls
like her are more important than a carpetbagger in reverse from New
Orleans."

Better and better, she thought. The man was truly
charming and even self-effacing. And he seemed genuine enough in his
praise.

"One thing does bother me some," he was
saying. "The last thing I want to do is alarm you, and you've
probably thought of this yourself, but I doubt that this killer
hardly shares my appreciation of your writing about him."

A chilling thought, and the truth was she really
hadn't considered it. Thanks to him, though, she now would. "I
appreciate your concern," she said, "but I think I'm safe.
I have a friend, or at least am friendly with the detective in charge
of the case. And criminals don't usually bother newspaper people or
cops. They'd rather use the former, if they can, and avoid the
latter. But like I said, it's nice of you to worry." Take it
easy with the personal stuff before the interview, Laura. Your
professional persona is slipping badly.

"If you don't mind," he said, "before
we get to me, I am curious about the car . . ."

Thank God he didn't ask about the unidentified
eyewitness; she wouldn't have to dance around that again. "The
car, as I said in the article, is a Datsun 300ZX. The police are
checking that out but they don't expect to come up with anything.
They say there are several thousand of them in Philadelphia."

She smiled. "It seems they call it the sportscar
for accountants."

"Yes, of course, you're right, I did read about
it in the article. I should have remembered . . . Well, so much for
gloomy subjects. How about dinner? I'm starved."

As soon as they were seated, Laura pushed aside how
attractive he was, and how good he made her feel, and got down to
business. "W.C. Fields supposedly wanted his epitaph to read:
'On the whole I'd rather be in Philadelphia.' And comedians are
always making the joke about the first prize being one week in
Philadelphia, and the second prize being two weeks in our fair city.
Question: why would a man like you, a man who could go anywhere,
decide to involve himself in a major real estate project here?"

"Ah, back to work, right?"

"Right. Did you think this was just a social
evening?"

"No, but I admit that's what I hoped."

And then she began to blow it again . . . "If
you wanted that, why didn't you call me?" God, how subtle.

"Because"—and his face reddened
slightly—"when I met you, you were with Carl. I don't make a
habit of poaching on other men's women."

"So you wait for the woman to make the first
move?" Which, of course, she realized as soon as the unfortunate
words were out of her mouth, was precisely what she was doing. "I'm
sorry, we're getting off the track . . . you were, I think, getting
ready to tell me why Philadelphia."

"Well, there's property going begging here,
there's old money and banking to back sizable projects, and over the
past twenty-five years the city has made a transition from blue
collar to white collar, which means now there are people who can
afford this middle-income project when it's finished."

"I thought you did your own financing?"

He looked at her. "You've done some homework. I
understand you had some background from Cyn . . . Cynthia . . . at a
lunch. Anyway, you're right, that's the way it was in the beginning,
but it was very risky and my ego was a few times bigger than it is
now. I even had poetic concepts to describe the way I operated . . .
war and art. The war was capturing the property, the art was trying
to make is aesthetically pleasing. I still try to do that, but a
little differently . . . look, don't you think we should order?"

And so saying he waved over the maitre d' and ordered
such delicacies as sweetbreads and salmon garnished with caviar.
Laura waited until they'd finished their meal to get back to the
interview.

"You said you do things a little differently
now. What did you mean?"

Felix sighed. "Okay, what I meant was that now I
use local partners. They know the lay of the land, no pun intended,
and can get local community support. It works better for all
concerned."

And now Laura understood why Will Stuart was so
strong for the article on Felix. The Globe had a quiet but steady
policy of supporting commercial development in the city on the theory
that it worked out by way of taxes to benefit the whole city.
Entrepreneurs like Felix Ducroit were common in New York City but
still fairly rare birds in the City of Brotherly Love. She took a
deep breath and got ready to launch into what she knew would be a
touchy subject . . . "I'm sort of surprised that you would use
any partners, local or otherwise, after what happened with you and
your partner in New Orleans."