Darkfall

exquisitely shaped and harmoniously related features bespoke sensitivity, refinement, breeding. Shelly, on the other hand, was a parody of seductiveness. Her hair had been elaborately cut and styled to achieve a carefree, abandoned look. She had flat wide cheekbones, a short upper lip, a pouting mouth. She wore too much makeup. Her eyes were blue, although slightly muddy, — dreamy; they were not as forthright as Rebecca's eyes. Her figure was too well developed; she was rather like a wonderful French pastry made with far too much butter, too many eggs, mounds of whipped cream and sugar; too rich, soft. But in tight black slacks and a purple sweater, she was definitely an eye-catcher.

She was wearing a lot of jewelry: an expensive watch; two bracelets; two rings; two small pendants on gold chains, one with a diamond, the other with what seemed to be an emerald the size of a large pea. She was only twenty-two, and although she had not been gently used, it would be quite a few years before men stopped buying jewelry for her.

Jack thought he knew why she had taken an instant disliking to Rebecca. Shelly was the kind of woman a lot of men wanted, fantasized about. Rebecca, on the other hand, was the kind of woman men wanted, fantasized about, and married.

He could imagine spending a torrid week in the Bahamas with Shelly Parker; oh, yes. But only a week. At the end of a week, in spite of her sexual energy and undoubted sexual proficiency, he would most certainly be bored with her. At the end of a week, conversation with Shelly would probably be less rewarding than conversation with a stone wall. Rebecca, however, would never be boring; she was a woman of infinite layers and endless revelations. After twenty years of marriage, he would still find Rebecca intriguing.

Marriage? Twenty years?

God, just listen to me! he thought, astonished. Have I been bitten, or have I been bitten?

To Shelly, he said, “So what do you know about Baba Lavelle?”

She sighed. “I'm not telling you anything about the Carramazzas.”

“We're not asking for anything about them. Just Lavelle.”

“And then forget about me. I walk out of here. No phony detention as a material witness.”

“You weren't a witness to the killings. Just tell us what you know about Lavelle, and you can go.”

“All right. He came from nowhere a couple months ago and started dealing coke and smack. I don't mean penny ante stuff, either. In a month, he'd organized about twenty street dealers, supplied them, and made it clear he expected to expand. At least that's what Vince told me. I don't know first-hand 'cause I've never been involved with drugs.”

“Of course not.”

“Now” nobody but nobody deals in this city without an arrangement with Vince's uncle. At least that's what I've heard.”

“That's what I've heard, too,” Jack said dryly.

“So some of Carramazza's people passed word to Lavelle to stop dealing until he'd made arrangements with the family. Friendly advice.”

“Like Dear Abby,” Jack said.

“Yeah,” Shelly said. She didn't even smile. “But he didn't stop like he was told. Instead, the crazy nigger sent word to Carramazza, offering to split the New York business down the middle, half for each of them, even though Carramazza already has all of it.”

“Rather audacious of Mr. Lavelle,” Rebecca said.

“No, it was smartass is what it was,” Shelly said. “I mean, Lavelle is a nobody. Who ever heard of him before this? According to Vince, old man Carramazza figured Lavelle just hadn't understood the first message, so he sent a couple of guys around to make it plainer.”

“They were going to break Lavelle's legs?” Jack asked.

“Or worse,” Shelly said.

“There's always worse.”

“But something happened to the messengers,” Shelly said.

“Dead?”

“I'm not sure. Vince seemed to think they just never came back again.”

“That's dead,” Jack said.

“Probably. Anyway, Lavelle warned Carramazza that he was some sort of voodoo witch doctor and that not even the family could fight him. Of course, everyone laughed about that. And Carramazza sent five of his best, five big mean bastards who know how to watch and wait and pick the right moment.”

“And something happened to them, too?” Rebecca asked.

“Yeah. Four of them never came back.”

“What about the fifth man?” Jack asked.

“He was dumped on the sidewalk in front of Gennaro Carramazza's house in Brooklyn Heights. Alive. Badly bruised, scraped, cut up — but alive. Trouble was, he might as well have been dead.”

“Why's that?”

“He was ape-shit.”

“What? “

“Crazy. Stark, raving mad,” Shelly said, turning the Scotch glass around and around in her long-fingered hands. “The way Vince heard it, this guy must've seen what happened to the other four, and whatever it was it drove him clear out of his skull, absolutely ape-shit.”

“What was his name?”

“Vince didn't say.”

“Where is he now?”

“I guess Don Carramazza's got him somewhere.”

“And he's still… crazy?”

“I guess so.”

“Did Carramazza send a third hit squad?”

“Not that I heard of. I guess, after that, this Lavelle sent a message to old man Carramazza. “If you want war, then it's war.” And he warned the family not to underestimate the power of voodoo.”

“No one laughed this time,” Jack said.

“No one,” Shelly confirmed.

They were silent for a moment.

Jack looked at Shelly Parker's downcast eyes. They weren't red. The skin around them wasn't puffy. There was no indication that she had wept for Vince Vastagliano, her lover.

He could hear the wind outside.

He looked at the windows. Snowflakes tapped the glass.

He said, “Ms. Parker, do you believe that all of this has been done through… voodoo curses or something like that?”

“No. Maybe. Hell, I don't know. After what's happened these last few days, who can say? One thing I believe in for sure: I believe this Baba Lavelle is one smart, creepy, badass dude.”

Rebecca said, “We heard a little of this story yesterday, from another victim's brother. Not so much detail as you've given us. He didn't seem to know where we could find Lavelle. Do you?”

“He used to have a place in the Village,” Shelly said.

“But he's not there any more. Since all this started going down, nobody can find him. His street dealers are still working for him, still getting supplies, or so Vince said, but no one knows where Lavelle has gone.”

“The place in the Village where he used to be,” Jack said. “You happen to know the address?”

“No. I told you, I'm not really involved in this drug business. Honest, I don't know. I only know what Vince told me.”

Jack glanced at Rebecca. “Anything more?”

“Nope.”

To Shelly, he said, “You can go.”

At last she swallowed some Scotch, then put the glass down, got to her feet, and straightened her sweater. “Christ, I swear, I've had it with wops. No more wops. It always turns out bad with them.”

Rebecca gaped at her, and Jack saw a flicker of anger in her eyes, and then she said, “I hear some of the