Woodroffe shook his head. ‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s okay, we go with it whichever way it’s supposed to go. We’ll do a body count later and clean up the battlefield.’
‘Always the way,’ Schaeffer said. ‘Always the way.’
‘And Ducane? When do we start knocking on his door and asking who’s home?’
‘Right now we don’t,’ Schaeffer replied. ‘That is not part of our gameplan, and as far as I know it never will be. It’s our job to find the girl, and once the girl’s found then whatever happens to Charles Ducane is gonna be someone else’s business.’
‘What d’you think?’ Woodroffe asked.
‘About Ducane?’
‘About Ducane.’
Schaeffer shook his head. ‘I don’t think anything. I cannot afford to think anything. I start sidetracking into whether or not Charles Ducane is in some way involved in all the shit we’ve been hearing then I’m gonna get into discussions I don’t want with people I don’t want to meet. You understand what I’m saying?’
Woodroffe nodded. ‘As clear as daylight.’
‘So until we’re invited we don’t show up, because whatever the hell kind of garden party that is I can guarantee you we’ll not be welcome.’ He rolled down his shirtsleeves, put on his jacket, and then held the door open for Woodroffe.
Woodroffe rose from his chair. ‘One day it’ll make sense,’ he said.
‘Who told you that?’ Schaeffer asked.
Woodroffe smiled sardonically. ‘The patron saint of liars.’
‘There you have it,’ Schaeffer said, and smiled. ‘Only man that can be trusted in this line of work.’
Two blocks down Hartmann stopped at a callbox. He called information for the number of Verlaine’s Precinct House. When he was put through he found Gerritty once again on the desk.
‘He’s out somewhere,’ Gerritty said when Hartmann asked for Verlaine. ‘You want his cellphone number?’
Hartmann took it, hung up, dialed the cellphone number and found Verlaine in transit.
‘Where are you?’ Hartmann asked.
‘About three blocks from the Precinct. Why? This isn’t another one of your insane fucking ideas, is it?’
‘No,’ Hartmann said. ‘I wanna ask if you’ll do something for me. Don’t worry, it’s harmless enough… it’s something personal.’
‘Meet you on the corner of Iberville,’ Verlaine said. ‘You know where that is?’
‘Sure.’
Hartmann drove over there and pulled up. He waited no more than three or four minutes and then saw Verlaine’s car approaching.
Verlaine parked up against the curb and Hartmann made his way over there.
Once inside he asked Verlaine if he could do him a favor.
‘Shoot,’ Verlaine said.
‘Thursday night – if we’re still in this on Thursday night – I want you to call my wife in New York.’
Verlaine didn’t say anything.
‘I want you to call her and tell her I’m on an official thing. Obviously you can’t tell her where I am, but I want you to tell her I’m on an official thing, and there might be a chance I won’t make it back to New York for Saturday.’
‘Sure,’ Verlaine said. ‘I can call her, but why don’t you call and tell her yourself?’
Hartmann shook his head. ‘Let’s say there’s a possibility she will read it as a cop-out or something. There’s a good possibility she won’t believe me, but if you call and tell her there will at least be a shred of credence to it.’
‘Trouble?’ Verlaine asked.
‘You could say that.’
‘Things gonna work out for you?’
‘I hope so.’
‘I’ll call her,’ Verlaine said. ‘You tell me what to say and I’ll say it, okay?’
Hartmann nodded and smiled. ‘Thanks, John… much appreciated.’
‘Not a problem, Ray. You okay?’
‘Sure,’ Hartmann said, and reached for the door lever.
‘Where you headed now?’
‘The Marriott,’ Hartmann said. ‘Got one bitch of a headache and I gotta get some sleep.’
‘Sure thing. You take it easy, okay?’
Hartmann made his way across the street to his own vehicle and drove slowly back to the Marriott. From his room he called for a sandwich and a glass of milk to be sent up. By the time they arrived he wondered if he had the strength to eat. He did anyway, the better part of half of it, and then he pulled off his clothes and collapsed on the bed like deadweight. He slept, slept like deadweight too, and even the alarm call didn’t manage to wake him.
He did wake though when Sheldon Ross got a passkey and let himself into the room.
It was a quarter of eight, morning of Wednesday 3 September, and Ross waited patiently outside the door while Hartmann showered and dressed.
They left together, drove across to Arsenault Street, and once there Hartmann found Schaeffer and Woodroffe seated exactly where they had been the evening before.
‘You boys even go home?’ Hartmann asked.
Schaeffer smiled and rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t fucking remember,’ he said, and before he could say another word there were voices and people, and Ernesto Perez, two men ahead of him, two men behind, and for all the world to see it appeared that he had become someone of importance all over again.
Once they were again seated across from one another, Hartmann looked at Perez and wondered if what he had said hadn’t been the truth. Had he in fact started to re-evaluate his own life? Had he started to truly accept that he was exclusively responsible for the situation he was in?
Hartmann shrugged the thought away. How could someone such as Perez precipitate anything of any worth? The man was an unconscionable psychopath, a hired killer, a brutal and unforgiving murderer. Surely there was nothing about him that could provoke any sense of mitigation or temper. Hartmann – despite himself – even considered the possibility that there might be something vaguely human within this individual, and then he closed such a thought down.
‘You are okay, Mr Hartmann?’ Perez asked.
Hartmann nodded. He tried to think of nothing at all. ‘You were going to tell us about New York.’
‘I was indeed,’ Perez replied. ‘In fact I was listening to Mr Frank Sinatra only last night in my hotel room, singing about that very same city. You care for Mr Sinatra?’
‘A little. My wife likes him a great deal.’
Perez smiled. ‘Then, Mr Hartmann, you have a wife with exceptional taste.’
Hartmann looked up. For a moment he was angry, felt invaded almost, as if mention of his wife from Perez’s lips was a personal affront.
Perez pre-empted any possibility that Hartmann could speak by smiling, raising his hand in an almost conciliatory fashion, and saying, ‘Enough, Mr Hartmann… we shall speak of New York, yes?’
For some reason Ray Hartmann went cool and quiet inside.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘New York… tell me what happened in New York.’
SEVENTEEN
‘You gonna stay here with these people then you gotta get it right,’ Don Calligaris told me.
