"Mr. Corman," a deep feminine voice intoned.
From somewhere to the left a tall and slender woman approached.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Let's forgo the routine this time. I'm sure that Mr. McGill isn't here to make trouble."
"But Ms. Sanderson-"
"Stand aside," she said. She had a voice that was used to being obeyed.
Mr. Corman backed away as the woman strode forward.
At first I couldn't make out her features because of the light from behind. But then, suddenly, the light of the entryway revealed her face.
It was the mask of a forty-year-old woman perfectly molded to a skull that sat atop a fit seventy-year-old body. She had done her Pilates and eaten acres of broccoli but that hadn't stopped the clock, not completely.
"You'll have to forgive Mr. Corman," she said. "He's a new employee and hasn't yet mastered the subtleties of his position."
"Is another one of your employees an Oscar Shell?" I asked.
"Thousands of people work for me. You can't expect that I would know them all by name."
Twelve feet behind her sat two black sofas on a bright pine floor.
"What do you want with this Mr. Shell?" she asked.
Her steel-gray pants suit and lilac blouse were designed for the forty-year-old she was impersonating. But the backs of her hands were discolored and wrinkled.
I glanced to the left to see what Corman was up to. He watched me with the same purpose.
"Mr. McGill?" Sandra Sanderson III prodded.
"I wanted to ask him a question."
"What's that?"
"Who hired him to frighten and harass my client?"
"You're a lawyer?"
"A dick."
"I see. And who is your client?"
"My business."
"And how much is this client paying?"
"She's paying the going rate. The only rate I ever charge."
"I see."
"You don't know him?"
"No."
"Then why am I here?" I asked.
"I wanted to get a look at you." Her words accomplished their sinister intent.
"May I ask you something?"
"If you wish."
"I never heard of a woman, outside of royalty and cruise ships, called 'the Third.' Did your mother go by 'Junior'?"
"I come from a long line of strong women, Mr. McGill. I believe you will discover that fact at some point in your misguided investigation."
"Are you telling me that you don't own the Leontine Building over on Park?" I said.
That did something to the old woman's eyes.
"Come sit with me for a moment, Mr. McGill," she commanded.
We strode into the block-long living room-Sandra in the lead, me in close pursuit, and Corman bringing up the rear.
She gestured toward one of the black sofas and I sat at the end nearest me. Sandra perched in the middle of her ebony divan and brought her hands together, as if in symbolic, passionless prayer.
"Do you have children, Mr. McGill?"
"I have friends with guns," I said in answer to a perceived threat.
"I have wealth beyond the everyday citizen's ability to comprehend," she said, "and still I could not save my son's life."
"I read about that. I'm sorry."
"I would do anything to make my son's memory a part of the fabric of this city that he loved."
"New York's like a boiling cauldron," I said, only dimly understanding why. "We are all consumed therein."
"That's down in the street you're talking about," Sanderson told me with a dismissive wave of her liver-spotted hand. "Up here it's different. Up here we can make a difference."
I stared out the window, wondering at the nature of the combination of folly and wealth.
"Do you know a man named… Alphonse Rinaldo?" she asked.
"No. Who is he?"
Despite my usual sangfroid, sweat sprouted on my head.
"I could make you a rich man," she offered.
"I'm sure."
"Where can I find Angelique Lear?"
There were no planes in the sky, no rain.
"I don't know."
"Are you a fool, Mr. McGill?"
"That I am."
"I will have my memorial or that child will die, as my son died."
"Not while I'm here."
"You are nothing," she said.
There was a finality to her sentence. I felt as if a high court had just pronounced judgment on my soul.
"Grant," she said then, speaking to Mr. Corman. "See our guest out."
"I can push the button myself," I said.
I stood up on boxer's pins. I might have been wobbled, but I was going to end that round on my feet.
53
I had made it past the green desk and more than half the way across Regents Bank's broad entrance hall.
"Excuse me, sir," one of the burly business-suited guards from earlier said.
I kept walking.
"Excuse me."
Moving at a pretty good clip, I was less than fifteen feet from the revolving door when one of the men got in front of me. His partner was there at my side a moment later.
One was black, the other white, but for the most part they were interchangeable minions of the Corporation. Their suits were both dark blue, their heights indistinguishably tall.
"Yes?"
"Come with us, please," the white one said. "We have some questions."
"No thanks."
"We have to insist."
"You will swallow all your front teeth before I go anywhere with either one of you."
"What?" the black corporate cop said. He put a hand on my shoulder.
For a man in his mid-fifties I'm pretty fast. I crouched down and hooked a good left into the black man's midsection. I felt the wound inflicted by Patrick tear a bit, but it was worth it. I could tell by the guard's deep exhalation that he would need a few moments to recover. I stood up behind a right uppercut that the white guard had no defense for. He sprawled out on his back and I started walking toward the doors again.
People shouted behind me, but my point had been made effectively. No one else tried to block my egress. I exited the building feeling right with the world for the first time in many days.
"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE," a voice commanded on Forty-ninth between Fifth and Sixth.
I stopped and turned. Four uniforms were approaching.
"Yes, officers?" I asked, smiling sincerely.
"Don't move."
"Is there a problem?"
I liked the makeup of the modern NYPD even if they had no use for me. The small group consisted of a black woman, a black man, one Asian gentleman, and a strawberry-blond white rookie who somehow brought to my mind the phrase one-hit wonder.
The black man was the one addressing me. He was solidly built, not a hair over five eight.
"Where you coming from?" he asked.
"Just out for a walk, officer."
"From where?"
"I don't know. Walkin' around is all."
"Let me see your knuckles."
"Why?"
"Show me your hands."
"Give me a reason," I said. I hadn't meant for it to sound like a threat but I could see a jolt go through the assembled constabulary.
THE ARREST TOOK A long time.
When taking a suspect into custody on the streets of Midtown Manhattan the police dot all i's and cross their t's and f 's. They ask you questions and, if you're me, you give them indecipherable answers.
I wasn't worried about assault charges. The fight was on tape, no doubt. Two men had assaulted me in the bank. They didn't have badges or uniforms. I hadn't said a word in provocation-not really.
After a while the police got around to binding my hands behind my back. Maybe forty minutes later I was hustled into the back of a police cruiser driven by the Asian and attended by Blondie.