prove of immense value.
“Okay. That’s fine,” she said. “I look forward to meeting your gangster pal.”
He laughed again. She sipped more of her drink. The Peacock started to resemble rocket fuel, and she was on the runway. Then she realized he was looking at her very contemplatively, as if there were something else he wished to bring up.
“What?” she asked.
He reached directly to her. She held her position, not knowing where his hand was going. It went under her chin to the neckline of her blouse; she allowed it. He fingered the pendant that she wore, the one fashioned by a child for her in Venezuela. He looked at it thoughtfully.
“You still wear this,” he noted.
“I do.”
“You used to wear a little gold cross. I had almost forgotten. That’s what you had when we first met.”
She opened her mouth to remind him what had happened, but he continued the line of thought for her.
“But you lost that little cross in Kiev,” he said. “The same day you lost the man you were in love with.”
“That’s correct,” she said.
“Life is strange,” he said.
“It can be. Cruel too.”
He gently pulled his hand away. In doing so, he eased away from the subject. “I’ve done many rotten things in my life, hurt people I should not have, things I regret,” he said. “Kiev. Moscow. New York.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I think I should clear my ledger, like I did with the tax people. What does your religion say about that?”
“About what?”
“Forgiveness. Asking for it.”
“From another person or from God?”
“Suppose it would be from you.”
“If you did something heinous, and I know you have done many such things, I’d be more worried about God than me,” she said.
“What if I cared more about you than God?”
“Then I’d say you had your priorities wrong,” she said. “Where are you going with this?”
He shrugged, retreating from the subject. “I’m just asking,” he said. There was a grave expression on his face, as if his mind had jumped to a place that was very painful.
He glanced at his watch. “Let’s get a taxi,” he said. “We’re going way downtown. Traffic can be terrible.”
“I’m ready when you are,” Alex said.
Federov found another fifty-dollar bill. He signaled to the waiter that they were leaving and left the fifty on the table. Alex had the impression that the waiter would be sorry to see Federov check out. They finished their drinks. When she stood, she was mildly buzzed. Crossing the lobby, Federov took her hand to guide her to the front entrance on Park Avenue. She made no motion to object, even when he gave it an extra squeeze.
TWELVE
Yuri Federov and Alex arrived by yellow cab in front of a restaurant named Il Vagabondo on Carmine Street in Little Italy and stepped out into a light, cold drizzle that had begun on the drive downtown. Manhattan in November; the weather was typical.
If the New York restaurant critics gave an annual award for Most Sinister Atmosphere, Il Vagabondo might have been in strong contention. Three long black limousines sat outside the restaurant; once she and Yuri stepped inside, Alex saw an array of thick-browed guys at the bar, watching the entrance, watching everyone arrive. The congregation at the bar was solidly male; it looked like the waiting room in a urologist’s office.
From the bar, the eyes of those assembled suspiciously jumped from her Russian escort, to Alex, then back to Federov again. She knew the routine: check out who is entering, check out the female companion, keep your eyes on the guy. Look for trouble and get a lid on it if you find it. Yuri’s appearance started a few conversations. She wondered how many other Feds were in the place this evening and further wondered if anyone had dropped a wire on it. Probably, she decided.
The place was decorated in expensive Italian-American eclectic, a style that Robert used to refer to as “Early Al Capone.” There were murals of Sicily on the walls and replica Roman columns at the doorway that led to the dining room. The only things missing were Mount Vesuvius and a signed portrait of Sinatra. The Italian food, however, promised to be outstanding, judging from the atmosphere.
A captain in a black jacket met them. His name was Mario and he knew Federov. Mario quickly led them to a table where a man was waiting. The captain dutifully held the chair for Alex as they sat down.
Yuri introduced Alex to his friend, Paul Guarneri.
“This is my friend, Alex LaDuca of the US Treasury Department,” Federov said to Guarneri. “Alex, I’ve mentioned you to Paul many times.”
“Favorably, I hope,” she said politely.
“Always,” Federov said.
Guarneri was fiftyish, dark, and handsome, with a little gray at the temples. He had a strong face, what some might have called a Sicilian face, but with something else mixed in. Alex, having a mixture of Italian and Spanish-Mexican blood in her own veins, was always alert to such things.
“Usually I don’t like to hear from anyone at Treasury,” Guarneri said with equal politeness. “Maybe tonight will be an exception.”
“I’m here socially, not professionally,” Alex said.
“That makes three of us,” Guarneri said. “I guess it’s a check-yourgun-at-the-door sort of night.”
“Really?” she answered, “I didn’t check mine.”
Guarneri laughed. “What are you carrying?” he asked.
“If everything goes well, no one will find out.”
Even sitting, Guarneri came across as tall and powerfully built. He also came across as smart.
Alex could always pick up when a man she was meeting showed some interest. There was something about the eyes on her, the body language, the tone of voice. She sensed it from Guarneri, just as she had the first night in Kiev with Federov.
“See?” Federov said. “I told you Alex was my type of broad.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Yuri,” she said back.
In no way did she expect to feel anything in return for this new acquaintance. If she had felt ready for any sort of new relationship, it wouldn’t have been with either of these men. It would have been with her longtime friend and sporting partner, Ben, or it could have been with someone like Peter Chang, whom she had worked with in Madrid. But the bottom line was that Guarneri was an attractive man. Even though he was twenty-some years older, she picked up on something primal. And it surprised her.
“Just visiting the city?” Guarneri asked her.
“I live in Washington right now,” she said. “Treasury sent me up to keep tabs on Yuri. Nothing new about that, the US government seems to think I’m his babysitter.”
“Ha! We should all be so lucky,” Guarneri answered.
“What about you, Mr. Guarneri?” she asked. “Yuri says you live here?”
“I have a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights,” he said. “And my name is Paul, if I may call you Alex.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “And a brownstone in Brooklyn isn’t the worst thing that ever happened to you.”
“No, it’s not,” Guarneri said. “I bought it a year ago when the market was down. I have room for my kids.”
“You’re married?”
“Divorced. Joint custody. Two girls, fifteen and twelve. My angels. A boy, eight. My devil.”
“I get it,” she said.
“I grew up on Long Island,” he said. “Glen Cove. Know it?”
“I know where it is. I’m from the West Coast. So it’s just a short three thousand mile walk from where
Guarneri had lived in the New York metropolitan area all his adult life, he said. He added that he had gone to parochial schools in Glen Cove, “run by some of the world’s toughest nuns,” as he put it, and then had gone to Cornell University where he picked up an undergraduate engineering degree while nearly freezing to death for six months of each of the four years. “My old man made plenty of money,” he said. “Not all of it legal, but he made it anyway. So I got sent to good schools. I try to do the same for my kids.”
“That must cost you a few bucks,” she said.
“Yeah. About fifty grand a year. Three private school tabs in the city.”
“I’m told you used to be able to buy a house for that,” Alex said.
“Now you can barely buy a judge,” Federov added.
“Your father? Is he still in business or is he retired?” Alex asked, staying with Guarneri.
“Neither. He’s dead. Someone shot him.”
A beat, then, “Recently?” she asked.
“My father was shot to death as he walked to his car in South Philadelphia,” Guarneri said. “Easter morning, 1973.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“So am I,” Guarneri said, “but it was a long time ago.”
