think you’ve made the right choice.’
Jordan thought he detected a touch of respect in these words. ‘Do you have enough people?’ he asked.
‘Obviously, in this case as many as I want.’
‘Then get someone to tail Johnson. He may not lead anywhere, but you never know.’
‘OK. Are we done?’
‘I think so, for now. Let’s hope I’m wrong and we never find out who Lucy is.’
Burroni stood up and put his hat back on his head. ‘See you, Jordan. Thanks for the drink.’
‘We’ll talk soon.’
Jordan watched as he went out without turning around and disappeared into the New York crowd.
On the TV at the back of the diner, someone had switched to CNN. After a brief item on the Iraq War, there were images of the murder of Jerry Ko, which was the big news of the day. From where he was sitting, Jordan couldn’t hear the commentary, but he saw his brother outside Gerald’s building, being swamped by a horde of reporters. Nobody, either in the morning or now, had paid any attention to the man with a helmet on his head slipping out of the front door of the building. The long shot was replaced by a closer shot of Christopher Marsalis getting into his car, leaving behind him a lot of unanswered questions.
As it drove off, the car bearing his brother away reminded Jordan of another car, in another place, on another evening. The exact moment nearly three years earlier when everything had started.
Or ended.
He had spent the whole of that weekend as a guest in Christopher’s house in the country. The weather was fine and he had decided to stay on until Monday in that splendid villa near Rhinecliff, with its big windows that looked out on the banks of the Hudson, its extensive grounds, private jetty and annex for the security staff. The house and its interior had been designed by a European architect who really knew his business, and charged appropriately.
There was a difference of about twelve years in their ages and an equally big difference in their characters. Christopher was the rich one, Jordan the young athletic one. Christopher was a natural leader and, as such, needed people. Jordan didn’t need anyone but himself. He was a lone wolf, who liked to pass unnoticed.
That evening, after dinner, Christopher had received a telephone call. Through the open door of the study, Jordan had heard him speaking in monosyllables. Then he had appeared in the living room, wearing his expensive camel-hair coat. Jordan had seen a couple of wads of banknotes disappear quickly into his pockets.
‘I have to go out. Just make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.’
‘Is anything wrong?’
Christopher had finished buttoning up his coat. ‘I have to see LaFayette Johnson,’ he replied, without looking him in the face.
‘You mean he’s come all the way from New York?’
‘For money, that piece of shit would be ready to accept an appointment on the
Titanic
.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No point. He’ll protect me.’
Jordan knew the reason for that meeting. Many of the paintings that Gerald sold were bought by Christopher himself. What Jordan had never understood was how much this was done to keep his son out of trouble and how much was due to his sense of guilt.
Christopher had gone out, and a minute or two later Jordan had heard the wheels of his Jaguar crunch on the gravel outside, then the noise of the engine fading away.
The house had sunk back into silence.
Jordan was used to the constant background hum of the city. Every time he was in that house he found the total absence of sound quite strange. It was a winter’s night, cold and dark outside. Inside, it was warm and safe, with the flames leaping in the fireplace. He had switched on the TV and sat down on a couch to watch the Monday night football game. He had with him a bottle of the eighteen-year-old whisky blended specially for Christopher and, without realizing it, he had drunk half of it. He had not even seen the end of
Jordan thought he detected a touch of respect in these words. ‘Do you have enough people?’ he asked.
‘Obviously, in this case as many as I want.’
‘Then get someone to tail Johnson. He may not lead anywhere, but you never know.’
‘OK. Are we done?’
‘I think so, for now. Let’s hope I’m wrong and we never find out who Lucy is.’
Burroni stood up and put his hat back on his head. ‘See you, Jordan. Thanks for the drink.’
‘We’ll talk soon.’
Jordan watched as he went out without turning around and disappeared into the New York crowd.
On the TV at the back of the diner, someone had switched to CNN. After a brief item on the Iraq War, there were images of the murder of Jerry Ko, which was the big news of the day. From where he was sitting, Jordan couldn’t hear the commentary, but he saw his brother outside Gerald’s building, being swamped by a horde of reporters. Nobody, either in the morning or now, had paid any attention to the man with a helmet on his head slipping out of the front door of the building. The long shot was replaced by a closer shot of Christopher Marsalis getting into his car, leaving behind him a lot of unanswered questions.
As it drove off, the car bearing his brother away reminded Jordan of another car, in another place, on another evening. The exact moment nearly three years earlier when everything had started.
Or ended.
He had spent the whole of that weekend as a guest in Christopher’s house in the country. The weather was fine and he had decided to stay on until Monday in that splendid villa near Rhinecliff, with its big windows that looked out on the banks of the Hudson, its extensive grounds, private jetty and annex for the security staff. The house and its interior had been designed by a European architect who really knew his business, and charged appropriately.
There was a difference of about twelve years in their ages and an equally big difference in their characters. Christopher was the rich one, Jordan the young athletic one. Christopher was a natural leader and, as such, needed people. Jordan didn’t need anyone but himself. He was a lone wolf, who liked to pass unnoticed.
That evening, after dinner, Christopher had received a telephone call. Through the open door of the study, Jordan had heard him speaking in monosyllables. Then he had appeared in the living room, wearing his expensive camel-hair coat. Jordan had seen a couple of wads of banknotes disappear quickly into his pockets.
‘I have to go out. Just make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.’
‘Is anything wrong?’
Christopher had finished buttoning up his coat. ‘I have to see LaFayette Johnson,’ he replied, without looking him in the face.
‘You mean he’s come all the way from New York?’
‘For money, that piece of shit would be ready to accept an appointment on the
Titanic
.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No point. He’ll protect me.’
Jordan knew the reason for that meeting. Many of the paintings that Gerald sold were bought by Christopher himself. What Jordan had never understood was how much this was done to keep his son out of trouble and how much was due to his sense of guilt.
Christopher had gone out, and a minute or two later Jordan had heard the wheels of his Jaguar crunch on the gravel outside, then the noise of the engine fading away.
The house had sunk back into silence.
Jordan was used to the constant background hum of the city. Every time he was in that house he found the total absence of sound quite strange. It was a winter’s night, cold and dark outside. Inside, it was warm and safe, with the flames leaping in the fireplace. He had switched on the TV and sat down on a couch to watch the Monday night football game. He had with him a bottle of the eighteen-year-old whisky blended specially for Christopher and, without realizing it, he had drunk half of it. He had not even seen the end of
Similar Books
