I took the pistol from my pocket.
Ira smiled and rose to his full height.
I pointed the gun and he was forced to put another log on the fire of that grin.
I pulled back the hammer.
A thin sheet of worry barely diffused his confidence.
The gun made the sound of a cannon blast when I fired it.
To Ira’s lifelong shame, I’m sure, he flinched and jumped half a step backward. The shot had missed him completely, putting a neat little hole in the wall behind him. He was unharmed but still couldn’t stop the sweat from appearing on his forehead.
I aimed the pistol at his chest.
Our eyes met.
Dimly I realized that I had lost control again. But I felt justified. Lamont had threatened me, called me names, and tried to force information out of me that would put my new client in jeopardy. I had to shoot at him — didn’t I?
I pressed the intercom buzzer four times. This was to tell Mardi to clear out of the office — immediately. We’d set up that signal the first week she came to work for me. And she knew not to come back until I called her on her cell phone.
“One step forward,” I said to Ira Lamont, “and it will be your last.”
The cowboy had his chance. I didn’t know what I’d do if he called me on the threat. He didn’t, either. He actually took a half step backward.
“If Cyril wants what I have to say, tell him to come to me. Not on the phone, but in person. Man to man.”
I stood up suddenly and Ira girded himself so as not to cower.
“Let’s you and me walk to the front door,” I said.
He considered resisting but then realized the futility of such an action. Without a word he turned and opened the door. I followed him down the long aisle of empty cubicles and through to Mardi’s desk. I saw him out the front of the office, knowing that Mardi would have taken the service elevator down and out.
After Ira was gone I put the pistol back in my pocket and went to the larger utility closet that was at the far end of the hall from my office. There I pulled out a framed print of a long-necked Modigliani nude. I carried this down to the soundproofed room and used a hammer and nail to affix it to the wall, over the bullet hole.
46
I’d just stood back to appreciate the yellow-and-tan woman with the long neck and almond eyes when the office phone rang. I let the bell make its six cycles before coming to rest at the answering machine up at Mardi’s desk. The painted lady seemed to be winking at me from her paper canvas.
My heart was still throbbing with vehement anticipation.
The cell phone on my desk made the sound of a harp being strummed by Harpo Marx — the savant, comedian, and maybe patriotic American spy.
“Hey, Mardi.”
“Are you okay, Mr. McGill?”
“Peachy.”
“Did Mr. Peters, I mean, Mr. Lamont give you any trouble?”
“He tried but I dissuaded him.”
“Are you okay?”
“You already asked that.”
“Can I come back to work?”
“It’s late. Go on home.”
“But—”
“Go home, Mardi. I’m fine. Really.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me something before we get off.”
“Yeah?”
“Was Iran in today?”
“He was in at eight and there was nothing to do so I sent him home at four. He said that he was going to a downtown gym to work out with Bug.”
I took the next forty-five minutes to shepherd myself back to normalcy, or at least what passed for being normal in a life like mine.
I had a job to do, a few jobs, and I still wasn’t making any solid headway. Humiliating a cowboy in an eastern high-rise wasn’t going to help. Having sex with a client while investigating her husband wasn’t doing much for me, either.
Cyril Tyler was a billionaire. He had a full-time, six-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer sitting on collapsible furniture on his front porch. I couldn’t get at him the way I took on petty criminals and thieves. His brand of crime came with city, state, and federal seals of approval. He could shoot me between the eyes at midday in Times Square and never see one minute of jail time.
The cell phone growled. Not a bear but a suspicious pit bull.
I grinned and picked the thing up.
“Hey, D.”
“Pops.”
It had been years since he called me that. Twill had picked up the habit from his older brother, but Dimitri dropped the term when Oedipus took up residence in his heart and soul.
“Where are you?”
“Paris.”
“That’s something I never thought I’d hear you say, boy. My son in Paris. Damn.”
“Twill told me that I better call you. I used the special number you said we could call to make the connection. I hope you don’t mind.”
“You in trouble?”
“No.”
“Tatyana in trouble?”
“Not right now. Her boyfriend, Vassily, was in with these smuggler guys. They grabbed him but Tatyana got away. She called me and I met her at the airport and we flew here.”
I closed my eyes and wondered. Was there a celestial bull’s-eye on the top of my bald head?
“Do you speak French, son?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Tatyana there?”
The phone made a rustling sound and then a lovely young voice said, “Hello?”
“Tatyana.”
“Mr. McGill.”
“I thought I told you that I didn’t want you to get my son killed.”
“I was alone and broke. I only asked him to send money.”
“What was your boyfriend into?”
“Army weapons. He was selling them in North Africa.”
“Were you a part of it?”
“I didn’t even know about it until we moved here.”
“Were you a part of it?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me now, girl.”
“I was not part of it. I went out to drinks with him and his friends. I knew the men he worked with but I did not do anything about selling weapons.”
Family, I once read, the gateway to disaster.
“I’m gonna give you a number,” I told the femme fatale who had somehow become like blood to me. “The man’s name is Eric Pardon. I did him a favor once. He owes me. Call him in one hour. He will do what has to be done and send you guys home when the time is right. You understand?”
“Thank you, Mr. McGill.”
“Don’t thank me, girl. You know I’m only doing this because of Dimitri.”
“I know. You’re a good man.”
“I’m a fool.”
Eric Pardon was an old friend. One of the few I had from my days on the other side of the proverbial tracks. He was French but worked for the United States government for a while. He employed me more than once to plant false information on threats to U.S. security. When he was compromised I helped him restructure the evidence so that he was deported rather than shot and planted in an unmarked grave.
I left Eric a voicemail and trusted that he’d do right by me.
Talking to Dimitri, and helping him somewhat, lightened my heart a little. He was in too deep with Tatyana, but there was nothing I could do about that. Hell, I couldn’t even solve my own lady problems.
This last thought made me laugh. At the same moment the office buzzer sounded. Something about the synchronicity of the chuckle and the electric hum made me wary. I waited until the buzzer sounded again before opening the drawer in my desk that contained the monitors for the various cameras in and around my office.
Pale as ever, and even shorter than I, Lieutenant Carson Kitteridge stood looking up at the one camera watching him that he knew about. He was wearing a dark-gray suit that he bought in the late eighties.