Part 22 (1/2)
”Mrs. Maniella is only sixty-two,” I said. ”This is the story you're going to stick with?”
”That is our position, yes,” Yolanda said.
”Oh, boy,” I said. ”Captain Parisi is gonna love this. Have you talked to him yet?”
”Not yet, no,” Yolanda said.
”Figured you'd try the story out on me first?”
No reply.
”Well, if that was your plan,” I said, ”I can tell you right now there are a lot of holes in it.”
33.
Vanessa rose from her chair, walked to the hearth, and added a log to the fire. Then we all went to the wall of windows and looked out at the dark, still lake.
”The roads must be treacherous,” Sal said. ”You and Yolanda are welcome to dine with us and spend the night. We have plenty of room.”
Being a p.o.r.nographer's overnight guest wasn't on my bucket list, but it was better than the alternative.
We ate by candlelight, Sal's wife, Anita, joining us at a carved antique table that could have seated twice our number. Two uniformed servants piled slabs of roast beef, grilled vegetables, and mountains of mashed potatoes onto expensive-looking china plates. Cla.s.sical music, something with a lot of strings, played softly from hidden speakers. Sal pulled the corks on three bottles of Petrus, a pricey red wine whose virtues were wasted on me.
The conversation veered from the Patriots' playoff prospects, which we agreed were not good, to the Red Sox's signing of pitcher John Lackey, which we all deplored. I waited for Yolanda to soften up a little and throw in something about the Cubs or the Bears, but apparently she was still on the clock. After the servants cleared away our plates and returned with hot coffee and generous wedges of apple pie, Anita turned the conversation to President Obama's proposal to reform the banking industry.
”What he should do is restore the wall between investment banks and retail banks,” she said. ”Inst.i.tutions that trade in derivatives, equity securities, fixed-income instruments, and foreign exchange should not be allowed to accept savings deposits.”
I didn't understand much of that, but she didn't sound confused to me.
I stared at her, wondering how many plastic surgeons it took to keep a woman looking that good into her sixties. Then I stared some more, wondering what kind of a woman would marry a p.o.r.nographer. She caught me looking and smiled.
”Go ahead and ask,” she said. ”I don't mind.”
”Does it bother you?” I asked. ”The way your husband makes his money?”
”And my daughter, too,” she said. ”Don't forget Vanessa.”
”Her too,” I said.
She laced her fingers under her chin and studied me over the top of them. ”You've never been a woman, have you, Mr. Mulligan?”
I thought it might be a trick question, so I went with a politician's answer: ”Not that I can recall.”
”Being a woman is all about choices. Long ago, I made the choice to support my husband's pa.s.sion. Sal's pa.s.sion is not p.o.r.nography. It's not being surrounded by the naked women on his payroll. Sal's pa.s.sion is making money and using it to buy his family nice things. I trust his path. And I like nice things, too.”
”But-”
”Everyone involved in the business-the performers, the customers, even my daughter-is chasing something they've dreamed about. Most people just don't dream as big as Sal.”
Sal chuckled at that. ”Let me tell you what I'm dreaming about this week,” he said, and steered the conversation to what I gathered was his favorite topic. Swann Galleries in Manhattan had scheduled a January auction of rare British mystery and spy novels, and he was pretty excited about it. I would have been, too, if the pre-auction estimates didn't make me choke.
After dinner, the Maniellas retired to their rooms. I went to the garage, found my parka still hanging on its peg, and pulled my antibiotics prescription and omeprazole tablets from an inside pocket. Then I reentered the house, pa.s.sed Black s.h.i.+rt and Gray s.h.i.+rt standing watch in the foyer, and entered the library, where Yolanda was sitting on the couch.
”Not what you expected, are they,” she said.
”No.”
”You thought they'd be pigs.”
”Maybe they are,” I said. ”All that dirty money can buy a lot of lipstick and deodorant.”
”They're not,” she said. ”They're pretty nice when you get to know them.”
”Nice for p.o.r.nographers, you mean.”
”I didn't realize you were such a puritan, Mulligan.”
”Neither did I.”
She gave me a searching look. ”p.o.r.nography is legal,” she said. ”They're not doing anything wrong.”
”A lawyer's answer.”
”I am a lawyer. I leave the moralizing to the preachers.”
”Perhaps I'd like them better,” I said, ”if they didn't keep sending their thugs after me.”
”What do you mean?”
”The two ex-SEALs followed my car the other day and cornered me in a Subway parking lot.”
”What did they want?”
”To beat me up.”
”What happened? Are you okay?”
”I'm fine. I showed them my gun, and they went away.”
”You carry a gun?”
”Only when I'm feeling threatened.”
”Why were they after you?”
”Because I was asking questions about the Maniellas.”