Ezra’s eyes hadn’t left Geiger’s. “Promise?”
“I promise,” Geiger said.
Ezra looked at Geiger for another moment and then let go of his hand.
Geiger nodded at Corley and went to the door. He left without looking back.
Mulberry Street at three o’clock in the afternoon was a narrow stretch of commerce on the verge of gridlock. Even so, it never stopped moving. Delivery boys made their rounds by van and foot, shoppers walked past with bags of cured meats and pastas, old men sat on stoops chewing on dead cigars. A dense efflux of aromas rode waves of heat and the shifting breezes. More than once, Carmine had told Geiger, “If heaven smells, it smells like Mulberry Street.”
Outside the Mulberry Deli, Geiger fed some change into a pay phone. He had never used one before. He listened to the ring. Once, twice, and then a woman answered.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Matheson?”
“Not for a while. Ms. Wayland. Who is this?” Her voice had a “shoot first, ask questions later” edge.
“Ms. Wayland, my name is Geiger. Try not to be alarmed. This is about your son.” He could hear the sudden intake of breath.
“Oh God, I knew something was wrong when he didn’t answer. What’s happened?”
“Ezra is all right. And he is safe.”
“‘Safe’? What does that mean?”
“Yesterday your son was kidnapped by men trying to find your ex-husband, who is hiding-”
“What?”
“Please, Ms. Wayland. I need to finish as quickly as possible.”
“Where is my son-and who the fuck are you?”
Geiger stared at the handset, which felt unwieldy and strange. “I took Ezra from the kidnappers. He is safe now.”
“Where is he?”
“In a safe place. He-”
“Listen to me, you bastard. If you-”
“Quiet!”
Heads on Mulberry Street turned. Geiger clicked his neck and took a breath. “Ms. Wayland, if this was a threat and I wanted something from you, I would have said so. Take a moment to think about that. I want to get Ezra back to you. That’s the only reason I am calling.”
He heard a sob, and then a sniffle. “Go on,” she said.
“You need to get on a plane to New York. Please don’t try to contact the police. It will only make things more difficult. You will just have to trust that I am telling the truth. It is possible the kidnappers have your cell phone number, so when you arrive in New York do not use your cell phone or they may be able to locate you. Go to a pay phone and call my cell phone. They don’t have my number. When you call, I will tell you where to go.”
“But how-”
“Write down this number and repeat it to me: nine-one-seven, five-five-five, four-seven-seven-eight.”
“Hold on.”
Geiger closed his eyes. There was too much of the world around him. He could feel the weight of every sound, sight, smell, and molecule of air pressing on him.
“Okay,” Ezra’s mother said. “I wrote it down.”
“Repeat it to me.”
“Nine-one-seven, five-five-five, four-seven-seven-eight.”
“I know this is difficult, but do not tell anyone about this call. Do not share any of this information with anyone. Make up an excuse to leave, and leave.”
“All right.”
“I’m going to hang up now.”
“Wait! Will you…” She paused and seemed to gather herself. “Will you please tell Ezra I love him?”
“Yes.”
After hanging up, Geiger walked to Mott Street. La Bella was halfway down the block. Carmine had a cell phone and Geiger had the number, but Carmine didn’t talk on the phone. It didn’t matter whether it was business, or pleasure, or something dark and desperate. You didn’t call Carmine Delanotte. You went to La Bella.
The maitre d’ looked up and gave Geiger his composed smile.
“Mr. Geiger. How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Is Carmine here?”
“Of course. Let me tell him you’re here.”
Geiger smelled garlic and oregano, and heard the Stones’ “Beast of Burden” playing on the restaurant’s sound system. La Bella wasn’t a throwback to an old-style Italian eatery with watercolor murals and a nonstop loop of Frank Sinatra and Jerry Vale. It wasn’t a front or a laundry, either. The floor was covered in six-inch-square, hand- painted tiles from Bologna, the lighting was provided by angled pin spots, and the walls were adorned with black- and-white photographs of Italy that could have been from a MoMA exhibit. The waiters moved unobtrusively around the room wearing Armani vests and slacks. Carmine was forward-looking in everything he did, and his obvious pride in what he’d achieved was a product of action, not arrogance. As he liked to say to Geiger and his many associates, “Never make believe you know everything, but make sure you find out.”
The maitre d’ returned and gestured toward the door in the back wall. It was flanked by two bodyguards.
“Mr. Geiger-the office, please.”
Geiger followed the maitre d’ to the back of the restaurant. The sentries gave silent nods, and one of them opened the door. Geiger stepped into a living room-style office of cool gray walls, thick carpets, and bird’s-eye maple and chrome furnishings. Geiger had borrowed the style when he’d designed his Ludlow Street viewing room.
Carmine put aside the Wall Street Journal, rose from the couch, and took off his reading glasses.
“Here he is.” He grinned. “The man from IR.”
Carmine was, by nature, a hugger of both men and women. But he’d learned that Geiger preferred minimal physical contact, so he waved a hand at a large, silk chair.
“Sit,” Carmine said.
The maitre d’ stood waiting in the doorway. Carmine didn’t have to look to know he was there.
“Kenny, a double X for me, black coffee for Mr. Geiger. No sugar.”
The maitre d’ nodded and closed the door softly. Both men sat down. Geiger was silent; he knew not to rush things.
“Strange times, my friend,” said Carmine, and patted the Journal with an elegant hand. “The economy tanks and business has never been better. I picked up three houses on Staten Island last month, dimes for dollars. In a few years I’ll turn them over threefold. Very strange-but very profitable.”
When you went to see Carmine, it was for one of two reasons: you had something to tell him that you believed he would consider worth knowing, or you needed a favor. In either case, you followed Carmine’s lead and waited for the moment when he asked why you’d come.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come,” said Carmine.
The maitre d’ walked in and put the double espresso and coffee on the table between the two men.
“Thank you, Kenny.”
As the maitre d’ left, Carmine picked up his cup. He winced, and then smiled and shook his head.
“Goddamn fingers.” He took a sip of the espresso, smacked his lips with satisfaction, and put the cup down. He flexed his fingers and opened and closed his hand into a fist three times. “They’ve really been bothering me lately. Remember the first time we met, when you told me about the feds, and you said I had a couple of bum fingers?”
