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  “What happened?” John asked.

  “Every single one of them turned out to be a mediocrity!” Mr. Wilson laughed cynically. “Yes, despite all Agnes had done, despite all her hard work and plans, despite all she’d read and all her determination, not one of our children distinguished himself in any way. Agnes actually hoped that Robert would become President of the United States someday, believe it or not, but he couldn’t even get elected to the City Council. He ran twice in Republican primaries and couldn’t even get the nomination! I don’t think Agnes ever recovered from that, and naturally she had to find a scapegoat. I was most convenient. She decided the children failed because I hadn’t helped and encouraged them enough, that I wasn’t equal to the responsibility of fathering a family of superior human beings. She’s resented and hated me ever since, a bit more each year. They’ve been a lot of years.” Mr. Wilson blew air through his lips and shook his head.

  “That’s terrible, sir.” John realized too late he wasn’t supposed to say sir anymore.

  Mr. Wilson didn’t notice the error. Both men sat in silence for a few minutes, and John looked at the painting of Mrs. Wilson. She was very beautiful but Mr. Wilson certainly had reason to be glad she was gone.

  “I guess you were married to a sensible woman,” Mr. Wilson said. “Too bad she had to pass away. If I’d been married to someone like her I’d probably be a happy man today.”

  “We have to take the bitter with the sweet,” John said.

  “I suppose so. Didn’t you tell me you had a son?”

  “Yes—Donald.”

  “I remember now. He’s a CPA, isn’t that right?”

  After what Mr. Wilson told him about his wife and children John didn’t feel he could he about Donald, but he had never told the truth about him to anyone at the Plaza. Tiny beads of perspiration broke out on his face. The big hairy ball of lies was caught in his throat.

  “My firm requires the services of CPAs from time to time,” Mr. Wilson continued. “Why don’t you give me your son’s number? I’ll give him a little business, if he needs any.”

  John squeezed the words out of his throat. “Donald’s not a CPA.”

  “Oh? I thought you said he was.”

  “I was lying.”

  “Lying?” Mr. Wilson blinked.

  “I tell everyone Donald’s a CPA because that’s what his mother and I wanted him to be,” John said, looking down at his glass of cognac, “but he’s really a paraplegic veteran of the Viet Nam War. He had both his legs blown off. He sits around in his wheelchair all day and drinks beer.”

  Mr. Wilson placed his glass on the table. “I’m so sorry to hear that, John,” he said solemnly. “I had no idea.”

  “That’s all right.”

  Mr. Wilson stood up, put his hands on his hips, and sat down again. He cradled his chin in his hands. “I find this very upsetting.”

  John felt horrible. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

  “No—no, I understand that. I just think what happened to your son is awful.”

  “It worries me a lot.”

  “Can’t the Veterans’ Administration help him? Maybe he can go to accounting school under the G.I. Bill.”

  “He doesn’t want to go to accounting school. He just likes to drink beer, watch television, and swear.”

  “Has he any friends?”

  “Only one—a boy from Brooklyn who was with him in Viet Nam. He visits from time to time and they get drunk together.”

  “No girlfriend, I suppose.”

  “He has subscriptions to three girlie magazines, but that’s all.”

  Mr. Wilson shook his head. “It sounds very sad, John. You say he has no ambition to do anything?”

  “That’s right. He just drinks beer, watches television, and swears.”

  “And looks at his Playboy magazines.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you suppose we can do?”

  “There’s nothing to do.”

  Mr. Wilson used his long bony forefinger to remove something from the corner of his eye. “It would be nice if there were something.”

  “I hate to say it, but I think Donald’s beyond hope.”

  “Well, there’s one thing,” Mr. Wilson said, “we know he’s interested in girls. We can get him one.”

  John looked up from his glass. “A girl?”

  “The city’s full of prostitutes. Maybe we can find a pretty one.”

  John was shocked, “Prostitutes?”

  “Don’t worry about it—I’ll pay.” Mr. Wilson waved his hand. “Poor Donald was over there fighting for God knows what, and it’s the least I can do.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost ten o’clock. Come on and get your coat.”

  “Right now?”

  “Of course right now. We’ve got to do something for Donald.”

  John stood unsteadily. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

  “It’s the best one I can think of.” Mr. Wilson arose and staggered toward the vestibule. “Come on.”

  John was a little dizzy from the cognac he’d drunk. “I think we’d better talk about this a little more.”

  “I’ve made up my mind—it’s the best and only thing we can do for the boy.” Mr. Wilson opened the closet and pulled out a chesterfield coat and homburg hat. He put them both on and withdrew a silver flask from the chesterfield pocket. He shook the flask near his ear and frowned. “Empty.” With a determined look he made his way to the table, removed the top from the Jack Daniels bottle and the cap from his flask, and poured bourbon into the flask, over the flask, and onto the table and rug. “Damn.” He covered both containers, dropped the flask in his pocket, and licked his fingers. “Let’s go, John. You don’t even have your coat on yet.”

  John walked to the chair and put on his blazer, topcoat, and Irish hat. Then he followed Mr. Wilson out the door.

  Chapter Six

  Sandra Goldstein lived on the third floor of an old brownstone on 76th Street near Lexington Avenue on the fashionable East Side. Adrian climbed the massive wooden staircase, smoothing his hair and adjusting his shirt collar so that it lay neatly. Apprehensively he knocked on her door, and his spine tightened as he heard the approach of footsteps. The little peephole in her door clicked, the door opened, and she stood with one hand on the knob and the other in the pocket of her pink silk quilted robe. A light from her living room shone on her golden hair.

  “Hello, Sandra,” Adrian said.

  “Hello, Adrian.” Her eyes were red from crying.

  He stepped into her living room, closed the door behind him, and took her in his arms. Her body was strong and warm; her large breasts crushed against his chest. Their lips kissed lightly, then more firmly, and finally opened so their tongues could touch. As he held her tightly he realized she excited him more than Julie or anyone else. She was his special woman and he’d have to start treating her that way.

  She drew her lips back and whispered in his ear: “I’m so afraid of you. I should kill you for what you did to me, but instead here I am happy to have you back.”

  “I won’t give you any more trouble. I’ll be on the level with you from now on.”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks and her body trembled. “I don’t feel like I belong to myself anymore,” she sobbed. “I let you do anything you want to me. A few hours ago you were inside another girl, and now I’m going to let you inside me.” She sniffed loudly. “The least you can do is take a shower.”

  “We’ll take one together.”

  “If you lie to me again, Adrian, I will definitely kill you.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  He kissed her forehead, then put his arm around her waist and urged her toward the bathroom. When inside he flicked on the light switch, and fluorescent bars on either side of the mirror illuminated pale-green tiles and dark-blue shower curtain. She unzipped her robe while he unbuttoned his shirt. He remembered that less than eighteen hours ago he showered with Julie Bauman.

  Sa
ndra slipped out of her underpants, reached into the shower stall, and twisted the chromium knobs. Water gushed from the nozzle. She adjusted the knobs and then stepped in, her huge breasts swaying with her movements. Standing under the water, with bubbles streaming down her hair, she smiled bravely at him and held out her arms.

  He joined her, closed the plastic door to the stall, and embraced her underneath the cascading water. As their tongues licked and bodies pressed together he felt he was participating in a ceremony that would bind him to Sandra Goldstein forever.

  * * *

  Johnny Mash watched through slitted eyes as Tino Fernandez sat at a table with his back against the dark wall. The table was in Rita Piscopo’s station and she laughed at something he said while she wrote down his drink order. They had a brief conversation that amused them both, and then she was called away by customers at another table. She had skinny legs and no tits, and Johnny Mash figured he wouldn’t want to fuck her even on a bet.

  Johnny Mash looked toward the stage and saw the singer Elvira Almagro singing “La Bamba.” She rolled her hips and moved her hands as if she were polishing something in front of her, and the band’s trumpet player had a red face from blowing so energetically. But Johnny Mash had lost interest in the music. He wondered what Tino Fernandez had done to deserve a bullet. He returned his eyes to Fernandez, who was inserting a cigarette into a black cigarette holder. He was as good as dead. Johnny Mash raised his arm to attract the bartender’s attention. “Otra cerveza, jefe.”

  The bartender raised one finger to indicate he got the message.

  Johnny Mash nudged the Puerto Rican girl, Olinda, who was totally absorbed in “La Bamba” and keeping time with her foot. “You want another drink?” he asked.

  She looked sideways at him and smiled. “Okay.”

  When the bartender brought the bottle of beer Johnny Mash ordered a glass of wine for the girl and asked for his check.

  “You leavin’?” Olinda asked, surprised.

  “After this drink.”

  She looked disappointed. “But it’s so early.”

  “I got a few things to do. When I finish maybe I’ll come back.”

  “I’ll be here until midnight,” she said.

  Johnny Mash faced Elvira Almagro and sipped his beer, but out of the corner of his eye he studied Tino Fernandez. When Elvira Almagro finished her set Fernandez applauded enthusiastically along with the other patrons of the Borinquen Cafe, his cigarette holder held tightly in his teeth and slanting up. Johnny Mash wondered what made a man wear white pants with red stitching up the sides. He’d put some red stitches in Fernandez’ head pretty soon.

  Elvira Almagro and her musicians left the stage area, and the jukebox went on again.

  The girl turned to Johnny Mash. “You like her?” she asked.

  “She was boss.”

  “Did you know what she was sayin’?”

  “Yeah—I speak some Puerto Rican.”

  The girl looked incredulous. “What was she sayin’?”

  “Things about love and all that.”

  “What else?”

  “I dunno—it all sounds the same to me.”

  She considered him for a few moments. “The music didn’t mean nothin’ to you. I thought you said you liked Latin music.”

  “I like it when it’s fast.”

  “Oh.” In her eyes an opaque barrier arose between them.

  Johnny Mash gulped down the rest of his beer. He was anxious to kill Tino Fernandez and didn’t feel like bullshitting any more. The check lay upside down on the bar before him. He turned it over and reached into his pocket for money, leaving the amount of the check plus a five-dollar tip for the bartender.

  “See ya later, baby.” He tapped Olinda’s arm with the back of his hand.

  “Thanks for the drinks.”

  “Yeah.”

  He slid off his barstool and walked the length of the bar to the door.

  The Impala was parked on 51st Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. The neighborhood reminded Johnny Mash of Little Italy, but Puerto Ricans lived here and the streets were wide and straight, unlike downtown. He got in the car, started it up, and drove around to Ninth Avenue, double-parking about thirty feet from the entrance of the Borinquen. He looked at his watch; it was a few minutes after eleven o’clock. Except for an old black drunk who’d wandered into the neighborhood, the sidewalk was deserted and there was little traffic on the street. If there was no one around when Fernandez came out of the cafe, Johnny Mash would just get out of the Impala, walk over to him, and blow his brains out. It would be easy, and if there were too many people around he’d follow Fernandez to some quiet spot and do it there. Whichever way it worked out, Fernandez would be dead by sunrise.

  But the Borinquen wouldn’t close until four in the morning and he might have to wait a long time. Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out the little plastic bag that held the cocaine he’d bought from Morgan. He transferred the white powder to the five-dollar bill where he usually kept his cocaine, and bending low so he couldn’t be observed easily, took two hits in each nostril with his crucifix spoon.

  He sat bent over and was unable to move for several seconds. A giant turbine whirred inside his head. Then slowly he sat straight and looked out his windshield up Ninth Avenue at tangerine buildings. He closed his eyes and heard his heart beat like a great conga drum. Against his eyelids tiny dots of light played tag with each other. He thought of himself sitting in a rented car waiting to kill someone, and that made him giggle.

  He returned the cocaine to his wallet and buttoned the crucifix spoon into his shirt. The cocaine made him want to run, jump, and sing, but instead he had to sit in the car and wait, perhaps for five hours. He felt anxious and claustrophobic and didn’t think he could last that long. There must be a better way. He pulled out the Colt, laid it on his lap, and looked down. It was shiny and alive, like a snake. He picked it up, ejected the clip, and then slammed it back in.

  Holding the Colt in his right hand, he leaned his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. Maybe he could go in the Borinquen and take him now. It would all happen so fast nobody would be able to identify him and besides there must be thousands of guys in New York who looked and dressed like him. It seemed easy enough. He’d just walk into the Borinquen, shoot Fernandez in the head, and run out to the car. Johnny Mash laughed aloud at the simplicity of it. He felt like a movie star again.

  He turned the key in the ignition and started up the Impala’s engine. As he raced the engine with his foot he pushed the Colt into his belt underneath his leather jacket. He raced the engine for several minutes until he was sure it was warm and wouldn’t stall, and then he got out of the car, leaving the key in the ignition and the engine running. He’d be back in a few minutes and nobody would have time to steal it. He looked to his right and left and could see no one on the sidewalk.

  Electricity zapped through his fingers and his heart chugged as he walked around the front of the Impala to the sidewalk. He crossed the sidewalk and opened the door of the Borinquen. The jukebox blasted a fast Latin tune, the lights were dim, and everything was just as he left it a while ago. Even the Puerto Rican girl Olinda was sitting on the same barstool drinking wine, but she didn’t see him.

  Tino Fernandez sat at his table and looked down at his half-full highball glass. He was lost in thought, and at the end of the bar Rita Piscopo picked up a drink order from the service bartender. Johnny Mash jerked his shoulders and began sidestepping between tables on his way to Tino Fernandez. He had the peculiar feeling that he was watching himself and not moving his feet himself. People chattered around him and he nudged the backs of their chairs as he moved closer and closer to Tino Fernandez, who still stared at his glass. Johnny Mash heard the voice of Al Liggio: “Hit him in the head, so that way you’ll be sure you got him.”

  When Johnny Mash was about eight feet away, Tino Fernandez looked up at him. Johnny Mash smiled his best smile and raised his righ
t hand, as if he wanted to shake hands. Tino Fernandez looked puzzled as he raised himself and smiled, holding out his hand. He was trying to figure out who Johnny Mash was, but when their hands were only inches apart Johnny Mash suddenly dove his to his belt and came out fast with the Colt .45.

  Tino Fernandez’ eyes bugged and his right hand darted toward his suit jacket as Johnny Mash pulled the trigger.

  The Colt’s explosion bellowed through the night club, women screamed, there was a huge cloud of black smoke, and behind it Tino Fernandez sank back onto his seat, a small red hole in his forehead and the wall behind him splattered with blood and brains. With a triumphant smile Johnny Mash looked down and blasted Fernandez one-two-three-four-five more times in the face and chest, and Fernandez’s dead body jounced at the impact of the bullets. Fernandez slumped to his side and gushed blood, and Johnny Mash felt drenched with fire.

  He spun and headed for the door. Women screeched and held their hands to their faces, men ducked under tables, and he pushed tables and chairs out of his way. People scattered from his path and begged him not to shoot them. He felt clean and powerful, as if he could tear down the building with his bare hands. “Yeah!” he shouted. “Yeah!”

  He rammed the Colt into his belt, yanked open the door of the cafe, and ran across the sidewalk to his car. He lunged into the front seat and in seconds was accelerating down Ninth Avenue.

  * * *

  Teddy Holmes was transferred to a large white room that held twelve beds in two rows, and that evening men and women arrived to visit the other patients. Opposite him an old white-mustached man, who slept all day with his mouth formed into an O, was visited by a rickety old lady in a dirty black dress. They didn’t speak much; she just held his hand and stared out the window, and sometimes he fell asleep and made his O.

  To the right of the old man was a spindly fellow of about fifty sitting up in bed reading the Daily News. He didn’t look sick and had no visitors. To the left of the old man was a tough-looking teenager with his leg in a cast. He had long brown hair and Teddy had thought it very erotic earlier in the day when he watched him piss into a bottle. Now the teenager was being visited by a group of five boys and girls, and Teddy overheard that he’d been hurt playing football for his high school. Teddy was very attracted to teenage boys. He liked them to screw him in the ass.