“So what’s the verdict?” Billy asked.
“It’s a great city,” I said. “But you always knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, and from up here you can’t smell the garbage.”
There was something different about Billy that I couldn’t put my finger on. Up close, there was no doubt that his hair was dyed, and the skin around his eyes had the strange tightness that comes from too much plastic surgery. But the change in Billy was more than cosmetic. Underneath the thousanddollar suit, there was a weariness that no amount of tailoring could disguise. And his voice was different — lower and flatter. It didn’t take long for the truth to hit me. For the first time in his life, Billy Merchant had stopped looking forward to the future. There were no more mountains for him to climb. Billy met my gaze. “Time marches on, eh?”
“Yes,” I said. “Time marches on.”
“You don’t look half bad for an old broad.”
I laughed. “Still a charmer.”
“So shall we cut to the chase?” Billy examined the paper I’d ripped from his notebook. “Kill Vova,” he said. His laugh was short and bitter. “Do you know I truly don’t remember writing those words?”
“You think I faked this?”
He shook his head. “No, that’s my handwriting. And I’m assuming there’s more where this came from.”
“You’re right. The morning I left, I took your notebooks with me. Anyone who wants to know the real story of the King of Charles Street West would find those notebooks very valuable.”
Billy’s gaze didn’t waver, but as he pulled out his checkbook and pen, his hands were shaking. “You’re not capable of pulling this off,” he said quietly. “There are two kinds of people in the world: the ones who betray and the ones who get betrayed. If you were going to betray me, you would have done it long before now.” He tried a smile. “That doesn’t mean you’re not going to get a payoff. You deserve something for keeping quiet all these years. So who do I make the check out to?”
“Mark Edward Lawton,” I said.
Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Jesus, that little putz! What’s your connection with Mark Lawton?”
“He’s my son.”
Billy sighed. “No offense, but he’s a shit. Aggressive. Arrogant. Ruthless. He and I are in a bidding war over some warehouses. I was in a meeting with him all morning. I’ve got him beat, but he won’t back down.”
“He takes after his father,” I said.
Billy took the lid off his pen. “Who’s his father?”
I shrugged. “He’s a real killer. Aggressive. Arrogant. Ruthless. You know what they say, Billy. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, no matter what I did, I couldn’t keep Mark from turning out like his father.”
“Am I supposed to know this guy?”
“Every morning when you shave, you see him in your mirror.” Billy froze. “You’re not saying I’m your kid’s father. That’s impossible. I’ve been married three times. Never knocked up any of my wives. I’ve been tested. I don’t shoot blanks, but I’m not exactly a potentate.”
Despite everything, I laughed. “Oh god, Billy, do you even know what a potentate is?”
“Sure,” Billy said. “A guy who’s potent. Which apparently I am not.” He leaned across the desk. His face softened. “Or am I? Do you have proof?”
“No,” I said. “My husband was listed as Mark’s father on the birth certificate. But Mark was born six months after the night Vova died, and Mark wasn’t premature.”
“Those premature babies are little, right?”
“Right,” I said. “Mark weighed almost ten pounds. He was a full-term baby. I was three months pregnant the night I left the house on Charles Street West.”
I could see the hope in Billy’s eyes. “Jesus, I can’t believe this. I always thought that when I cashed in my chips, it would be the end of Merchant Enterprises, but if I have a son... that would change everything.”
“It could,” I agreed.
“I’ll get one of those paternity tests,” Billy said.
“Be my guest. Or you could just look into Mark’s eyes or listen closely to his voice. He’s your boy, Billy.”
Billy shook his head in wonder. “I have a son.”
“Are you going to hand out cigars?” I said.
He grinned. “Why not? Better late than never, eh? At last, the King of Charles Street West has an heir.” He came around the desk and took my hand. For a moment, I glimpsed the Billy I loved. “So when are we going to tell my boy the truth? I’m trying not to be a prick here, but Mark should know who his real father is.”
I felt a stab of panic. “I’ll be taking a chance,” I said. “I’ve heard Mark talk about you, and what he says isn’t flattering. If he discovers you’re his father, I could lose him.”
“That’s not going to happen. Mark may be a putz, but he’s smart. You and I are a great package deal. I’ve got money, and you’ve got class. He won’t walk away from that.”
“Guaranteed?”
Billy reached out and stroked my cheek. “Babe, there are no guarantees in life. It’s like I always say, You take a chance the day you’re born. Why stop now?”
I removed his hand from my cheek. “Actually, the first person to say that line was Barbara Stanwyck in Golden Boy. Maybe you should start acknowledging her.”
Billy raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that? It’s my signature line.” He held out his arm. “Time to move, our son is waiting.” He took a camera from a shelf near the door.
“Planning to take a family portrait?” I said.
Billy slung the camera around his neck. “This morning when I had that meeting with Mark, I noticed this abandoned shoe factory near his office. It’s a rat-trap, but a great location. If we’re going to be in the neighborhood, I might as well snap some pictures. People would pay big money to be that close to the lake.” His eyes were sparkling with the old lust for the future. “Do you know what a pied-à-terre is?”
“It’s a small second home rich people have in cities they love.”
Billy nodded admiringly. “You always were sharp. Anyway, everybody loves Toronto. Mark and I could turn that shoe factory into a bunch of little condos — except instead of calling them condos, we’ll call them pieds-à-terre. If we give our little shoeboxes a French name, people will be creaming their jeans to get in on the ground floor.” Billy smoothed my hair. “We’re going to make a killing. Now come on, babe. Time for you to introduce me to my son.”
Then Billy and I, the betrayer and the betrayed, linked arms and together we rode the elevator that took us to the shining doors that opened to the city. When we stepped outside, Billy handed the doorman his camera and a twenty-dollar bill. “Take our picture, would you?” he said. “And be sure to get a nice shot of the building.”
As we stepped into position, I put my lips next to Billy’s ear and whispered, “The last person to take a picture of the two of us together was Vova.”
Billy turned and craned his neck so he could see the top of his office tower. “Wouldn’t that old man be amazed if he could see what I’ve done?”
As he had so often, Billy took my breath away. For a moment, I felt light-headed. I took his arm and inhaled deeply, and the moment passed. Even on the tenth day of a garbage strike, there’s something restorative about the smell of Toronto in summer. It’s as seductive as the scent of a lover you can never really bring yourself to leave.
Walking the dog