Part 10 (1/2)
Nathalie had managed to get up from her bench and walk to the little zoo, much beloved of children, but a rather scruffy place.
She looked at the tiger. It was awfully small for a tiger. But what did she know about tigers? The tiger returned her gaze. No menace. No menace at all.
Perhaps like her, it was left with only a blank page.
Ned thought, how can I leave her there? Is this, then, the last page? It's too indefinite. But what, really, was indefinite about it? Patric had gone.
As far as Nathalie was concerned, yes, it was the last page.
Ned capped his pen and sat back and stared at nothing.
Nathalie sat alone in the Jardin des Plantes.
SEVENTEEN.
Those two hoods, thought Clive (wondering if that appellation was still in use). What had Bobby Mackenzie set in motion? Rather, what had Clive set in motion, going to Danny Zito? If the police ever came into this, you can bet Bobby would fade the heat, play the innocent: ”Did what, officer?” And point the finger at Clive. That's all Clive was, one of Bobby's goons. No, he was main goon, capo goon.
He had just gotten off the phone with Paul Giverney, who'd called to see if they were making any progress. Yes, absolutely, Clive had told him. They had a couple of very good men on the job.
”Like who?”
”No one you know, I'm sure. Trust us.”
That, of course, had been the wrong thing to say to Paul Giverney, who had told him to hang on for a second while he laughed himself into oblivion. ”That's very good, Clive. So I ask you again, who's this 'on the job'?”
Clive had told him about Candy and Karl, explaining that these men were consultants who occasionally did specialized work for Bobby Mackenzie. Clive immediately regretted having told Paul their names when he remembered Paul had written a novel about that Mafia killer, which was only a thinly veiled portrait of the guy. Clive couldn't recall who, but this meant that Paul actually had sources.
”What does that mean? Consulting?”
Clive sighed.
Wondering why in h.e.l.l he had to think of everything, and why didn't Bobby do it, it was his idea, Clive slid out the bottom drawer in his desk-a big handsome desk, a goon gift, Bobby buying him off for little and big things over the years-and brought out a fifth of Bombay gin.
”All right, Paul. I'll be frank with you.” No he wouldn't. ”They're following Ned Isaly.”
”Why?”
”To see if they can find out anything, you know, that Ned might not want made public.”
”What? Are you saying you're looking to blackmail the man? You mean you've got to go to those lengths-?”
Oh, ho. Clive wished those were the only lengths to which Bobby Mackenzie would go. ”You're the one who wants him out of the way, Paul.”
”Oh, for G.o.d's sakes! Just tear up his contract. You've got a raft of lawyers! What the h.e.l.l else are they good for if they can't f.u.c.k with a contract?”
”Paul, that's all I can say at the moment.” There was a longish silence. ”Paul-?”
”I want to know Ned Isaly's movements. Since he's being followed, that shouldn't be a problem.”
The ”since he's being followed” held a definite smack of sarcasm.
”Well, that wouldn't be easy; they made it quite clear this is a 'don't-you-call-us' deal. They report when they're done. We can't really control them.” This admission made Clive extremely uneasy.
”Why not? You're paying them.”
Clive toyed with the image of trying to get the hoods to report in every hour. Fat chance. ”I'll do my best.”
But what Clive would do was between him and his Bombay gin, since Paul Giverney had hung up. Clive broke the seal, twirled the cap off with his palm, tilted it, and drank straight from the bottle. Ah. Ahhhhhh. He recapped the bottle, shoved it back in the drawer, and closed the drawer.
He turned and looked out of his window at the silver flowering of the Manhattan skyline, the Chrysler Building, the Empire State, the Metropolitan Life Building, this juggernaut of light and thought, this rush of night and stars. He thought of the condo in his own prewar building and the view from there, the same skysc.r.a.pers on view from the other side. This office, that condo, these views. Clive couldn't imagine being anywhere else; there was nowhere else. Losing them did not bear thinking about.
Why was he sitting here fooling with the Dwight Staines ma.n.u.script when what he should be doing was trying to figure out what in the h.e.l.l was going on with Paul Giverney? Giverney had sat right there (Clive even nodded toward the chair as if he were recapping the story for some gossipmonger or journalist. Or the police, if he wanted a chilling example). He told himself Karl and Candy at the very worst would only ”rough up” Ned Isaly, just enough to ”persuade” him to leave town and take his new novel with him. If that was all, then why did he keep trying to bury that phrase ”wet work” that Danny had used almost in pa.s.sing?
But how did he know? They were weird, those two. Imagine wanting to know more about Isaly before they took the job. Those two were f.u.c.king weird, as far as he could see across the table in Michael's. What hit man wants to know the kind of person he's going after? What sort won't even commit himself until he does? What sort wants to meet at Michael's, for G.o.d's sakes?
And this Giverney-Isaly thing. Maybe he could talk to Ned Isaly himself. . . . No, not a chance. Bobby would think Clive was warning Ned and get rid of him along with Ned. Clive, unlike Tom Kidd, was thoroughly expendable. Talk to Tom Kidd maybe? Tom Kidd knew Ned through and through, but it's unlikely he'd want to share that knowledge with Clive. No, it would be impossible to get anything out of Kidd.
Giverney's agent. Agents usually knew what their clients ate for breakfast, what they slept in, and with whom. Who they hated and why. Clive grabbed his Rolodex, thumbed through the names of agents (under ”A,” cross-referenced with their clients), and came up with Mortimer Durban. Christ, but he hated Mort Durban, the insufferable egotist, the Donald Trump of agents, interested only in the deal, the deal, the deal. Not the writer, The Deal. He was one of the most powerful agents in the business. Mort Durban negotiated a book contract as if he were orchestrating the Normandy invasion. He thought he was f.u.c.king MacArthur. He was also agent for a couple of high rollers on Clive's list. All Clive wanted to say to him when Durban started turning a contract into a fretwork of arcane bits and pieces, clauses of clauses n.o.body ever paid any mind to or gave a d.a.m.n about, some n.o.body seemed ever to have heard of except Mort Durban-all Clive wanted to say to him was, Here's a pile of money, a.s.shole. Now give me the G.o.dd.a.m.ned book!
Mort Durban wanted you to believe that he believed that agentry was a mission and he a missionary spreading the gospel and prepared to be buried in an anthill for the good of his client, about whom he really cared nothing. This bloated belief in his abilities had him demanding totally inappropriate advance moneys for his authors, meaning, of course, for his own commission. To give him credit (if you could call it credit), he was motivated not as much by the money he himself would collect as he was by the stars in his crown, the rush of the deal.
Clive regarded the bottom desk drawer but decided not to. He started chewing at the bit of dry cuticle on the side of his thumb, thinking. The Giverney thing must have to do with something in the past, some unsettled dispute, some unforgiven slur or slight. Irritated, he hit the intercom b.u.t.ton.
Amy answered with a tentative ”Yes?”
”Get me stuff on Paul Giverney. Facts.”
”He's not one of our authors? I don't understand.”
Clive squinched his eyes shut. I know you don't understand, you simpleton. Then he said, ”He's somebody's author, isn't he?”
Silence. A deduction to be made here, but it was too much for Amy. ”Amy, what I'm trying to hint at is that Queeg and Hyde, Giverney's publisher, would have information like that.”
”Oh. Well, I'm not sure how to get it?”
”Ask your friend Stacey (talk about the blind leading; Amy was Diogenes compared to Stacey) to messenger over a copy of their fact sheet on Paul Giverney. You know what that is; we have them, too. They're no big secret; they're just a source for publicity and promotion who might need a few salient facts for print, interviews, that sort of thing.”
”They do?”
”Amy, I'm not asking you to exhume Elvis's body or excavate Graceland for unrecorded tunes. I only want to know stuff like where he went to school and his mother's maiden name, and so forth.”
”I could call him up? He was just in here a couple days ago.”
Where in the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l had Bobby found this girl? He bet she was recycled from Bobby's outer office. ”No, Amy. Listen. Are you having lunch with Stacey this week?”