went back to 16th Street afterwards, and Jane’s steps were quick and resolute down the block and into the lobby of our building. I rang for the elevator and she dug in her bag and pulled out her house keys. We got in and I pressed four. Jane pressed five. She watched the numbers light as we rose. The doors opened on four and I got out.
“I don’t want these things in my life,” Jane said. I started to speak, but the doors began to close, and as they did something shifted in Jane’s face. Her mouth got smaller and the fine creases around it curved downward. And something happened in her eyes like a shutter opening. They grew darker and larger and brimmed for an instant with anger and disappointment. And then the doors shut and the car rose again.
I heard Jane moving around upstairs and I heard music come on: Chrissie Hynde, turned up loud. I checked my messages. There were three from Lauren and I didn’t bother to listen.
I poured myself a large glass of water and drank it while I paced the room and let my anger steep. I thought about Marty Czerka’s mystery client and what he might want with Gregory Danes. I thought about the small handful of people I’d found in Danes’s life and wondered which of them might care enough to hire a guy like Czerka.
I thought about Neary, too, and wondered how his conversation was going. I wasn’t optimistic. It wasn’t that I doubted Neary’s skill at the back-and-forth; I didn’t. I’ve seen him play the good guy, the tough guy, the burned- out-doesn’t-give-a-shit guy, and the fucking-crazy guy, and he’s better at it than most. But Czerka had no doubt played those parts himself, and while Neary might surprise him, I didn’t think he’d get him talking.
No, Stevie was definitely the weak link in that shop; he was the guy I’d go at first. But Stevie might need a little encouragement, and that’s where Neary would draw the line.
I stopped my pacing and thought about Stevie’s broken nose, and about his bruises and stitches and splinted fingers, and I remembered what Richard Gilpin had told me, back in Fort Lee. The office isn’t open to the public, and management gets real nervous about visitors. From what I heard, the last guy who came sniffing around here was lucky to get out with all his fingers attached.
The phone rang and I jumped. It was Neary. He was calling from a car and he sounded exhausted.
“I took a run at Marty,” he said, “and got nowhere.” Neary waited for me to say something, but I didn’t. He went on. “He was surprised, no question about it, but you saw- he dances pretty good for a fat man and he wouldn’t admit to anything. In fact, he seems to know less now than when we saw him this afternoon.”
“What about Stevie?”
“There was no sign of him in the office. I had Juan check out the neighborhood watering holes, but he had no luck. I sent Eddie out to his place in Queens. We’ll keep an eye out there and at the office until he turns up.” Neary yawned deeply. “I’m sorry about this, John.”
“You should get some sleep.”
“We’ll find him, if not tonight, then tomorrow or the day after.”
“Sure,” I said.
Sure, unless Uncle Marty finds him first and tells him to shut the hell up and runs him out of town for a while. I thought some more about Stevie and his broken fingers and about what Gromyko had said, the last time I had seen him.
It is possible that I could be of assistance to you, Mr. March, but I do not operate a charitable organization. My advisory services are valuable, and for them I expect payment in kind.
I sat at the table and thought about how long it might take to locate Stevie and how much coaching he might get by then. I rubbed my eyes and thought about Goran and Gromyko and deals with the devil and payment in kind. I thought about the manila envelope and about the pictures inside. I punched the number for Morgan amp; Lynch in Fort Lee, and a woman answered. She sounded like the tattooed girl.
“This is March,” I said. “I want to talk to Gromyko.” I gave her my number and she hung up. I sat and waited for a call back and listened to the music coming through the ceiling. It was louder now, and punctuated by the angry staccato of Jane working combinations on the heavy bag.
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
24
I slept badly that night and met Gromyko the next morning in the Conservatory Garden in Central Park. I took a long and elaborate route to ensure that I got there unescorted, and I arrived early, at just after eight. I entered at 105th Street, and the sound of morning traffic on Fifth Avenue faded behind me as I passed through the Vanderbilt Gate and into the Italian-style section of the garden. It was a warm morning, with a breeze and some fat clouds in a Wedgwood sky, but it was just past opening time and the garden was nearly empty. There was a well-dressed elderly couple making their slow way south, toward the English garden, and a willowy woman with long blond hair and a flowing flimsy skirt standing near the wrought-iron pergola. I headed north, past a row of blossoming crab apple trees and into the French-style garden. The tulips were still in bloom, and their bright heavy heads bobbed a little in the little wind.
Gromyko was early too, and he was standing by the fountain. He wore loafers and loose white trousers and a band-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was looking at the bronzes- three dancing maidens- and at the water that rose and fell between their elegant arms, and his blond hair shone in the sunlight. The Ukrainian Jay Gatsby. He walked toward me and his movements were precise but also graceful and relaxed. His canted gray eyes were as cold as ever.
“You are more than prompt, Mr. March,” he said.
“It’s a nice morning.”
Gromyko nodded. “And the gardens are particularly nice in this season.” We walked slowly down the path, flanked by vast beds of tulips, and a little of yesterday’s heat seemed to come up at us from the soil. “I walk here every morning, but spring mornings are the best.” Gromyko saw my surprise and a smile disturbed his pale features. “It is not a long walk, Mr. March, I live just over there.” He pointed south and east.
“Not in Jersey?”
Gromyko snorted a little. “No, not in New Jersey,” he said. He came to a stop by a stone bench and put a foot on its edge and folded his arms across his chest. “And now business. You said last night that you wished to consult me.” I nodded. “And you recall that I operate on a quid pro quo basis, yes?”
“I recall.”
“And when the time comes that I require payment?” Gromyko fixed his gray eyes on me, and despite the sunlight a chill spread through my limbs.
“I pull my weight,” I said. “Within reason.”
Gromyko smiled a little. “Always within reason, Mr. March.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. I haven’t asked you anything and you haven’t answered. So it remains to be seen how much help you can be.”
Gromyko smiled again, patiently this time, as if at a quarrelsome child. “I am at your disposal,” he said quietly.
“That day in the garage, you weren’t surprised when I told you I was working a missing persons case. And you didn’t press me about it. You didn’t ask who was missing, or much of anything else.”
The little smile stayed on Gromyko’s face. “No, I did not.”
“I think that was because you already knew who I was looking for.”
A nod. “I did.”
“Because I wasn’t the first person to come looking for this guy and wanting to talk to Gilpin. Someone else had been there before me.”
Gromyko’s smile widened slightly. “Someone much less… civilized, Mr. March.”
“Stevie,” I said.
Gromyko shrugged. “I do not recall his name. He was a bodybuilder, impolite and stupid- an unfortunate combination.”
“But he worked for Marty Czerka?” A look of disdain came and went across Gromyko’s face, and he nodded. “How did you meet?” I asked.
“He accosted Gilpin outside the office, but failed to notice that two of my men were with him at the time.
