either.
Abatangelo folded the paper over slowly, then heaved it against the wall. He put his head in his hands, thinking, Just another dumb fish. Then he reached for the phone and kept on dialing Waxman’s number till at long last he got through.
Waxman greeted him with, “I just tried to reach you.” A curious distance abstracted his voice, a skeptical civility that hinted at defensiveness. “I’ve just had a call from Frank Maas.”
Abatangelo laughed acidly. “Don’t fuck with me, Wax.”
“I couldn’t be more sincere.”
“Is she with him?”
Waxman hesitated. “Shel? He didn’t- ”
“Tell me what he said.”
Waxman cleared his throat. “First, I gather from your tone you’ve had the chance to read the article. I realize it may not be everything you would have wished. But understand- ”
“I loved the article,” Abatangelo said. “Read it twice. In particular I liked your art. Tell me what he said.”
Waxman replied, “I don’t think it’s entirely apropos I tell you.”
Abatangelo squeezed the receiver and fought an impulse to bang it against the wall. “You want apropos? Before I showed up last night you were stewed, plowing through hate mail. You wouldn’t even be on this story if it weren’t for me. How’s that for apropos?”
“I have a duty- ”
“You shit little green apples as soon as you’re in a room alone with a few cops. They spot this lovely trait and play you like a goddamn flute. You hand up my name, hang me out to dry. For all I know you’re wearing a wire right now.”
“That is insulting.”
“What did this Frank guy have to say?”
“He’s bitter. He says he had nothing to do with any killings.”
“No fooling.”
“He wants money.”
“How much?”
“What difference does it make? It taints whatever he intends to tell me.”
Abatangelo could hear a cat purring in the background. It was nuzzling the receiver on the far end. Waxman shooed the animal away and resumed with, “He says he’s willing to meet, if I bring five thousand dollars. He’s giving me half an hour to think it over.”
“Offer him three,” Abatangelo said, “and ask him where he wants to meet.”
Waxman groaned. “This isn’t the tabs. We don’t pay sources. Even if we did, I can’t get an editor to front me lunch, let alone three thousand dollars.”
“I’ll pay it,” Abatangelo said.
He did the tally in his head. He could sell the Dart, that’d bring maybe half a thousand. If he gave the Sirkis back, he’d never get the full three hundred, not from the likes of Toretta, but two would do. He could pawn Mannion’s camera equipment; that might get him the rest. It wasn’t his to pawn, of course. If caught, it meant back to prison for sure. No wiggle room at that point. Five more years.
“I’m dead serious, Wax.”
“Yes. I gathered that.”
“Tell him it isn’t payment for his story. It’s to cover the cost of food, a safe place to stay. He’s on the run, we understand that. I understand that. But first he talks. Otherwise no deal.”
In the background, the cat’s purring grew loud again. Waxman didn’t bother to shoo it away this time.
“I guess,” he said finally, “if we’re careful, check out his story so it doesn’t look like we’re just paying for some ruse.”
“There you go.”
“It’s intriguing, your offer, don’t get me wrong. It’s just, ethically speaking, I mean- ”
“Ethics is for philosophers, Wax. Get him to sit down with you. Serve the story, remember?”
Frank approached the restaurant bar of the Brighton Hotel and ordered a double Tanqueray rocks. Taking a stool, he checked his watch, shook it, put it to his ear. He told himself, Sit quiet now, try.
Another restaurant, he thought, bad news. His thumb, courtesy of Waldo, felt hot from infection and large as a bar of soap. His midriff cramped with each breath. Christ, why did I agree to this? Because the reporter insisted. Because the reporter doesn’t want to be alone with you. He watched with relief as his drink arrived and he wrapped his hands around the glass.
The restaurant was new, catering to the icy fashion crowd- ambitious cuisine, stark decor, an intense unpleasant swank among the staff. Artwork of a sort hung here and there. Glass dominated the bar to where it seemed to emit a faint, high sound.
Behind the bar, a television offered the morning news, a segment called “Local Edition.” A bit about hepatitis in the gay community segued into a helicopter shot of the ranch house, beneath which the words SITE OF GANGLAND-STYLE KILLINGS appeared. Shortly an Asian woman with bangs and wearing a peach-colored suit was holding a microphone against a blurred backdrop. The sound was turned too low for Frank to hear everything the Asian woman was saying, but he did catch the word “methamphetamine,” pronounced like it was a kind of napalm. Then the camera cut to a close-up of Felix, standing on his porch. Frank couldn’t tell at first if this was stock footage, a segment shot earlier or what. He strained again to hear, catching through the static bits of what Felix was saying- he had no clue, he said, what anyone was talking about. He mentioned something about a “doctor,” then smiled like a harmless aging redneck, gestured good-bye with his cane, and reached behind him as his wife, Cheryl, offered her shoulder and they hobbled side by side to the car. Going to the doctor, Frank guessed. Can’t get much more harmless than that. Unless you take a good look at his eyes.
Frank glanced around, to see if anyone else was paying attention to the program, or him. The bartender was bent over, stocking his fridge. The owner, a slight balding Persian in a double-breasted suit, patrolled the dining room with hands clasped behind his back, leading with his chin. The hostess, a thin blonde maybe thirty years old, wearing makeup so garish it made her look fifty, stood at her lectern, fussing with the brunch menu.
Frank reached inside his jacket, removed his hand-worn copy of the newspaper piece and smoothed it out on the bar. He’d given it maybe three dozen readings, feeling more naked each time, an effect only enhanced now by the television coverage. But the worst of it wasn’t the fear. The article talked about this smuggler just out of prison, a guy with a long and difficult name. It said he and Shel had been an item years ago, before they both went down on federal charges. Worse, it said that he was the man Shel had run to after Frank had tried to murder her. The article actually used the word “murder.” It also used the word “lovers,” referring to Shel and this other guy. It all made sense now, he thought. What a sick, pathetic, piss-driven fool you’ve been. This was who Shel was secretly mooning over all that time, not Mooch. She’d never said a word about the guy, not once in over two years. How many other secrets had she kept? How many times, when I sat there, pouring out my heart, telling her my plans- not just for me, for us, that was the sick part, for us, damn it- how many times had she really been thinking of this Danny Grab-Your-Banjo, or however the fuck you pronounced his name?
He glanced one last time at the picture of Shel, winced, then folded the paper over again and returned it to his pocket. Shortly a plump, redheaded professor-type came through the entrance, stumbling on the door saddle. He was garbed in tweed and corduroy, checking every face as he came aright, catching his balance. Frank watched in the mirror above the bar, biting his lip, heart pounding.
Spotting Frank at the bar, the professor made the proper mental connection and came forward ardently, extending his hand the last few steps. “I’m Bert Waxman,” he said. Frank detected in the voice traces of jug wine, chalk dust, arguments in the library. He’d sold crank to voices like that. “I appreciate your willingness to meet with me here.”
“You have to pay for my drink,” Frank told him.
They sat at a table against the wall and the waitress appeared shortly. She had chubby legs and wore a crucifix nose stud; a cold sore as large and white as a chancre filled the corner of her mouth. Waxman only wanted coffee
