The Shadow of Your Smile (29 page)

At three o’clock in the morning, he had gone through the alleyway, hoisted himself over Farrell’s joke of a fence, and had taken out his glass cutter. One minute more and he’d have been inside her apartment, but in the dark he hadn’t seen whatever it was that had caused him to stumble. It was heavy and he didn’t knock it over, but it almost made him lose his balance. His foot hit it hard and gave it a push, and it made a scraping sound on the patio. It was probably one of those stupid lawn statues.

Farrell had good ears if she had heard it, Sammy thought, and I guess she did, because the next thing I knew, a light went on inside the apartment. That was it for
that
plan.

Restlessly, Sammy began to consider alternate ways to get at Farrell, but then his eyes narrowed. The place was starting to fill up with the usual losers, but two guys in business suits were being led to a table. They’re cops, Sammy thought. They might as well be wearing their badges.

It was obvious that the waiter who seated them knew that, too. He looked across the room at Sammy, who nodded, meaning he’d spotted them.

Some jerk who’d been pretty loaded when he came in was staggering to his feet. Sammy knew he was heading for the D-list rapper, who was sitting with his groupies in the celebrity section. The drunk had been trying to get that guy’s attention for the last half hour. In an instant, Sammy was on his feet, and with quick steps, surprising for his bulk, was at the drunk’s side. “Sir, please stay right here.” As he spoke he squeezed the guy’s arm hard enough to make him get the point.

“But I just wanna pay my reshpechs . . .” He looked up into Sammy’s face and his vacant expression changed to a frightened stare.
“Okay, okay, pal. Don’t wanna make problums.” He slumped back into his seat.

As Sammy turned to go back to his table, one of the two men he’d spotted as cops signaled to him.

Here it comes, Sammy thought, as he made his way across the room.

“Pull up a chair, Sammy,” Detective Forrest invited, as he and Detective Whelan passed their badges across the table to him.

Sammy glanced at them, then looked quickly at Whelan, remembering that he had been the lead detective on his case and a witness at his trial. He could still remember the disgusted look on Whelan’s face when he was acquitted. “Nice to see you again,” he told him.

“Glad you remember me, Sammy,” Whelan said. “But you always did have a way with threats, I mean words.”

“This joint is clean. Don’t waste your time looking for trouble,” Sammy snapped.

“Sammy, we know this dump could serve as a day care center,” Forrest told him. “We’re only interested in you. Why did you bother to change from your sweat suit to your version of dress-up clothes when you picked up your car at the pound? You remember, Thursday, you were in such a hurry to follow Dr. Farrell when she left the hospital that you didn’t even take time to feed the meter?”

Sammy had been questioned enough in the past by cops that he had trained himself never to appear to be nervous. But he had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach this time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.

“We all know what I’m talking about, Sammy,” Forrest told him. “We hope nothing happens to Monica Farrell, because if it does, Sammy, you’ll think you were caught in a tsunami. On the other hand, we’d be very interested to know who hired you.”

“Sammy,” Whelan asked, “why were you parked in front of the
hospital? Just in case you forgot, as Carl just told you, the security cameras show your car being hauled away.”

“Not feeding the meter cost me big bucks, but no one ever mentioned that it was a crime. And when you look at it, it helps the city. All those extra bucks, you know what I mean?” Sammy was beginning to feel confident. They’re trying to rattle me, he thought, scornfully. They’re trying to get me to say something stupid. They wouldn’t talk to me like this if they could prove anything.

“By any chance do you know Dr. Monica Farrell?” Detective Forrest asked.

“Doctor who?”

“She’s the young woman who fell, or was pushed, in front of a bus the other night. It was in all the papers.”

“Don’t get much chance to read the papers,” Sammy said.

“You should. They keep you abreast of current events.” Forrest and Whelan stood up together. “Always interesting to chat with you, Sammy.”

Sammy watched as the two detectives worked their way through the now crowded tables to the exit. I can’t be the one to take Farrell out, he thought. I’ve got to hand off the job, and I know just the right guy to take my place. I’ll offer Larry one hundred grand. He’ll snap at it. But I’ll make sure it happens while I’m at work so I have a rock-solid alibi. Then those cops will be off my back. And I still come out ahead. I got paid one million to do it, and I subcontract the job for one-tenth of that!

Smiling at the thought, but with a sense of failure, Sammy admitted to himself that for the first time in his long career as a hit man, he had bungled two attempts to carry out his contract to eliminate an unwanted problem. Maybe it
is
time to quit, he thought. But not before I see this one through.

Like I told Dougie, I always keep my word.

56
 

Tony, Rosalie, and little Carlos Garcia went for a drive on Saturday afternoon. They were on their way to visit Rosalie’s sister Marie and her husband, Ted Simmons, at their home in Bay Shore, Long Island.

Tony had been working nonstop for almost two weeks between the chauffeuring jobs and events at the Waldorf, where he was a waiter. As he explained to Rosalie, the minute October came all the big charities had their black-tie dinners. “Sometimes I hear the people I’m driving talk about how many of these affairs they’ve gone to in a week,” Tony told Rosalie. “And don’t think they’re cheap.”

But this Saturday he was off, and it was a nice day to drive to Bay Shore. Tony liked his in-laws. Marie and Ted had three kids a little older than Carlos, and Ted’s mother and brother would be there as well. Ted had opened a hardware store in Bay Shore and was doing great. Their house was a big colonial, and they had a fenced-in yard where Carlos and his cousins could run around with no one worrying about the traffic.

“It’s going to be so much fun today, Tony,” Rosalie said happily, as they emerged from the gloom of the Midtown Tunnel onto the expressway. “I was so scared when the baby got that terrible cold this week, but he hasn’t even sneezed in four days.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Have you, love?” she asked Carlos, who was securely ensconced in his car seat.

“No, no, no,” Carlos responded in a singsong voice.

“Boy, is that ever his new word,” Rosalie laughed.

“It’s his only word these days,” Tony answered, then thought of something he’d been meaning to tell his wife. “Rosie, I told you about that nice old woman I drove two weeks ago to that cemetery in Rhinebeck? She’s the one who said she knew Dr. Monica’s grandmother. I saw in the paper yesterday that she had died. She’s being buried today.”

“That’s too bad, Tony.”

“I really liked her. Oh, God!” Tony slammed his foot on the accelerator. In the midst of the heavy traffic, the car had stopped dead. Frantically, he turned the key in the ignition as the screeching of brakes from the truck behind him warned him that they were going to be hit. “No!” he shouted.

Rosalie turned to look at Carlos. “Oh, my God!” she wailed.

As Rosalie screamed, they felt a bump that shook them back and forth, but the driver of the truck had managed to brake and slow down before he hit them.

Shaking with relief, they turned to look at their two-year-old son. Totally unruffled, Carlos was trying to climb out of his car seat.

“He thinks we’re there,” Tony said, his voice quivering, his hands still clutching the wheel. A moment later, still shaking, he opened the door of the car to greet the man whose quick reaction had saved their lives.

Three hours later they were in Ted and Marie’s house in Bay Shore, at the dining room table. It had taken forty minutes for the tow truck to arrive. They had caused a massive traffic delay on the expressway. Ted had driven over to pick them up at the service station where they were stranded.

The awareness that if the driver behind them had been tailgating, or if he’d been unable to stop, they might be dead, filled all the adults at the table, Rosalie and Tony, Marie and Ted, Ted’s mother
and brother, with a profound sense of gratitude. “It could have been so different,” Rosalie said, as she glanced out the windows. One of his big cousins was pushing a delighted Carlos on the swing.

“It could still be so different if you don’t get rid of that old car of yours, Tony,” Ted, a heavyset man with a decisive manner, said bluntly. “You’ve been nursing that rattletrap much too long. I know you’ve been putting off buying a new car, and I know why—all those medical bills for Carlos have been burying you. But he didn’t beat leukemia so that all of you could be killed in an accident. Look around for a decent car, okay? I’ll lend you the money.”

Tony looked gratefully at his brother-in-law. He knew that Ted might say that he’d lend the money, but he also knew he would never let him pay it back. “I know you’re right, Ted,” he agreed. “I’m not putting my family in that old heap again. Even before it broke down, I was thinking about a car that would be perfect for us and it can’t be too expensive. It’s a ten-year-old Cadillac. I drove the old lady who owned it, a couple of weeks ago. It was a pretty long trip. You know I know cars. This one is in perfect condition. It’s probably heavier on the gas than the new ones, but I bet I could get it at book value, which can’t be much.”

“Tony, you mean the lady we were talking about on the way out?” Rosalie asked. “The lady whose funeral was today?”

“Yes, Ms. Morrow. It’s her car that’s probably going to be for sale.”

“Look into it, Tony,” Ted said. “Don’t waste time. There isn’t much of a market for a ten-year-old Caddy. You’ll probably get it.”

“I’ll go to her apartment building. Someone there can probably tell me who to call about it,” Tony promised. “I really liked Ms. Morrow and I have the feeling that she liked me.”

And I have the crazy hunch that she’d want me to have her car, he thought.

57
 

Peter Gannon went through the shocking ritual of being fingerprinted, having his mug shot taken, being strip-searched, and finally led to a cell in the Tombs, the crowded and noisy jail where prisoners awaiting trial in Manhattan were incarcerated.

With every inch of his being he wanted to protest his innocence, to shout to everyone within earshot that he could never hurt Renée, no matter how much he hated her. On Saturday morning, he read in his cellmate’s newspaper that the shopping bag and money had been found in his office. Too numb for coherent thought, he sat in the cell until late Saturday afternoon, when the lawyer Susan had found for him came to see him.

He introduced himself as he handed Peter his card. “I’m Harvey Roth,” he said, his tone of voice low but resonant.

Peter looked at him, still feeling as if he was experiencing a nightmare. Roth was a compact man with iron-gray hair, and rimless glasses framing a thin face. He was dressed in a dark blue suit with a blue shirt and tie.

“Are you expensive?” Peter asked. “I have to tell you straight up that I’m broke.”

“I am expensive,” Roth answered, mildly. “Your ex-wife, Susan, has paid the retainer for my services, and guaranteed all the costs of defending you.”

Susan did that, Peter thought. It was one more whiplash reminder of the kind of person she was, and that he had traded her for Renée Carter.

“Mr. Gannon, I assume you know that the money you claimed was in Renée Carter’s possession was hidden in the false bottom of your desk drawer?” Roth asked.

“I didn’t even know that any drawer in my desk had a false bottom,” Peter said, his voice a monotone. At the incredulous look on Harvey Roth’s face, Peter felt as if he were caught in quicksand and sinking into it ever deeper. “Four years ago, when the Gannon Foundation and my brother Greg’s investment firm moved to the Time Warner Center, a decorator was hired to re-do the offices from scratch. I asked that whoever was hired also take care of my new theatre production office. At that time I was doing well, and I had a suite on West Fifty-first Street. Two years ago, when I downsized, I got rid of a lot of the furniture, but kept the desk. No one ever told me about the false bottom in it.”