Читать книгу Angel of Death - Christian Russell - Страница 7

CHAPTER THREE

Tuesday, October 13

They were walking shoulder to shoulder. Dorothy couldn’t help squinting at her companion. This guy who was walking quietly next to her, with his penetrating eyes, looking over his shoulders from time from time, well, this guy had just shot two men. And she had expected to see him stoop under the burden of guilt, really suffer. Nothing of the kind, though. He was quiet and serene and probably thinking of how to spend the evening. Strangely enough, she wasn’t appalled at all by that attitude. He even managed to pass some of that confidence on to her, making her feel protected.

But Mark wasn’t thinking of how to spend the evening at all. How could he? He was walking next to one of God’s gifts to men. He was no longer himself. The woman was extremely beautiful but acted as if she didn’t know it. Her exotic appearance somehow contrasted with her big kind eyes. She seemed a fortunate combination of Aphrodite and the next-door neighbor. All of a sudden, the agent rushed into the street and waved to a taxi. The actress took him gently by the arm.

“Listen, Mr. Du Nancy, I’d rather take a few steps to calm down. Do you mind?”

“No!” Mark answered and he was by no means lying. It was the first time he heard her voice somewhere other than on the screen. He realized that, with those sensuous modulations, it could make the perfect soundtrack to any man’s dreams. And yet he couldn’t understand how someone could regain peace of mind on Eighth Avenue. “I’m sorry about your bodyguard,” he tried to strike a conversation.

“Actually, he wasn’t my bodyguard. Those at the Kaufman Astoria studios sent him to me two days ago. We only exchanged a couple of words. I only know his name was Dejan Mutic, he was a Croat, recently married. Poor woman! I’ll have to find her address and send her a couple of thousand dollars.”

She still had that look of a rabbit caught between the headlights and Mark tried to reassure her. “Don’t be afraid! This ugly story is over!”

“I’m not that scared any more, you know,” she tried to smile. “Although a drop of brandy would do me good.”

“I know a French place near here, on 43rd Street. It’s not exactly Fashion Club but it’s clean and the food’s pretty good. The owner’s a friend of mine,” he boasted.

Several minutes later Mark pointed to a restaurant sign. The words CHEZ NANCY were written with neon letters on a thistle leaf. The actress was puzzled. “Do I get it that your friend’s named his restaurant after you?”

“No,” Mark answered modestly. “The thistle leaf’s the symbol of the city of Nancy in Lorene where his ancestors came from. That city, though, I must admit, was named after me.”

Dorothy smiled, honestly this time. Then with as much swiftness as long practice could provide, she took out a pair of dark glasses and put them on. “OK, let’s go in.”

It was nice inside. It looked like a country club: big flower bunches on the tables, everything spick and span. Even the light was diffuse and relaxing. From an old jukebox in a corner Nick Cave was singing in a deep voice to anyone about some strange story that had happened where the wild roses grew.

Paul, the owner, came up immediately to greet Mark and his companion. He led them to a snug mahogany-panelled booth. When they had settled comfortably a waitress dressed in a traditional Lorene costume came to take their order.

“Are you new here?” Mark asked.

“Yes, sir. I’ve only been here two days,” the girl said, eager to make herself pleasant.

“Would you like something to eat?” Mark asked the actress.

“I haven’t had the chance to try the food from that part of France yet. But there’s always a start, eh? Anything light would do.”

“Well, Napoleon brandy, ice tea, and two champignons à la parure,” the man ordered.

When the girl left the actress told him, “I’d like some brandy too.”

“Never mind, the tea’s for me.”

Trying to avoid her wondering eyes Mark looked around. At the other end of the room the people were in raptures. At two joint tables a large group of men and women were having a great time. Among them Mark recognized Rudolph Weiss, one of Ernest Montevecchi’s lieutenants. Probably the others belonged to the Genovese clan as well. He was determined to be cautious although none of the guests at the table knew him.

“You have a fascinating job, Miss Wheller,” he complimented the actress.

“It’s Dorothy,” she corrected him. “I always allow people who’ve saved my life to call me by my first name. As for the job, what can I say? Yours isn’t a cushy one either, is it? Judging by what I’ve seen today, I don’t think you’re the nine-to-five type of guy.”

“Dorothy...I don’t think your life was threatened. The real target was your uncle. And probably the only one, if you ask me. And you can call me Mark.”

Right then the waitress returned with the order. She set the two plates on the table, then, without hesitation, placed the ice tea before the woman and the brandy before the agent.

“I believe that’s your drink,” Mark tried to smile. “You know, I’ve got a drinking problem!”

She looked down embarrassed then tried to change the subject. “What is this, some sort of hepatitis?”

“Just mushroom salad, that’s all.”

“Tell me, Mark, were you afraid back there, in the box? I’m asking you because you didn’t give me that impression at all.”

“I didn’t have time for that. I was too busy. Though I must admit I’m beginning to feel frightened by what might have happened.”

She stared at him not trying to hide her admiration. “Which means you’re really brave.”

“Really? That was quick! You’ve got a degree in psychology or something?”

“No, but I’m an actress, Mark, and a pretty good one too. I like to think I’m a sort of expert in expressing emotions. Let me explain: white-livered people get scared before the danger appears, cowards in the middle of it, and the brave when everything’s over.”

“Finally, thanks to you, for the first time in my life I get to know who I really am,” he said smiling.

“Do ou often get to kill people in your job? You must be used to death.”

“You never get used to that one!” Mark replied. “I’ve done it twice before. The first time I shot a gun dealer who was pointing a gun at me. The second time, though...,” he suddenly kept quiet, overwhelmed by sadness.

“Tell me about it,” she insisted.

Mark ventured to look straight at her. Dressed in that elegant gown, tight-fitted on her splendid body, she would have put Evangelista or Claudia Schiffer out of work by simply attending a fashion show.

“It happened at the Newark airport. We were waiting for a drug dealer to arrive, ready to bust him. We were standing outside Gate 2 when suddenly from Gate 3 came running a small, bald, middle-aged guy holding a briefcase to his chest. A security guard was chasing him shouting, ‘Watch out! He’s got a bomb!’ Suddenly the little guy stopped and, with a bewildered look on his face, started shouting, ‘Everybody down! I’m going to blow everything up!’ He was about ten feet away from me and I had my gun ready. ‘Shoot!’ the security guard shouted at me. I aimed at his hand but he was moving and the bullet hit him in the chest. As my colleagues were getting at him I prayed hard there was a bomb in that briefcase.”

“And was there?” the actress was curious to know as she took out a cigarette from her purse. He lit it for her.

“Sort of. It was an offensive grenade, half-loaded, probably sold as a cracker. It couldn’t have hurt him too bad, let alone somebody else. I drew close to the little guy. His glasses had fallen down and he looked at me with big, questioning, yet kind eyes. He said he was a Harvard professor and his wife had left him. He died on the way to the hospital. Those eyes have been haunting me ever since. So I created my own way of expiating. Every night for almost a year I dreamed of the little guy. And every time his eyes would tell me a different story about someone’s estrangement and broken destiny: a story for each night, a nightmare every night. I hated my job all that year.” He took a sip of tea, and cleared his throat. “For eleven months I’ve been torturing myself. I haven’t touched a drop of liquor. That’s because I used to be an alcoholic for fourteen months.”

She looked at him sympathetically, as if relieved to find that the man before her had his weaknesses too.

“You’re not missing much, you know. This brandy must be megalomaniac if it thinks it’s Napoleon.”

“I’ll talk to Paul about that,” he said.

“There’s no need to. I was kidding.”

Mark thought Weiss was staring at them. Maybe he was just being paranoid. He chased away his fears, resuming the conversation.

“Well, I’ve been talking too much about myself. And that while sitting at a table with one of the greatest actresses in Hollywood. I’ve seen all your movies, Dorothy, and I like the way you put all your heart into your roles.”

“You’re exaggerating. I’m not exactly one of the greatest. Sharon Stone, Jody Foster, they are great, not me. If you put all your heart into your roles you can’t start all over again,” she said with an expert air. “I sell dreams to people, Mark—eight dollars and a half worth of dreams!”

“Do you often get to meet other celebrities?”

“At parties and openings. I’m closer to Kim Basinger. My father’s a friend of the Baldwins.”

“Do you have many friends in Hollywood?”

“Not really,” she admitted frankly. “I can’t see how I could. You don’t make friends in Hollywood. You either have enemies or connections there.”

“There’s a rumor next February you’re going to be nominated for an Oscar for The Price of Fall.”

“It’s not for certain. But I must admit the movie’s good. And that’s because we had a fantastic team, unlike the one I’m working with now.”

“What are you working on?”

“A sixteenth-century cloak and dagger kind of thing. The indoor scenes were shot in Miami, at Villa Vizcaya. For the outdoor ones we came here, at the Kaufman Astoria. When I read the script I was really enthusiastic about it. It won’t come out too good, though. The team’s bad and my partner’s rather stupid. Picture this: during a fighting scene the director asked him for more stateliness, of the kind Douglas showed in Spartacus. The idiot told him that he had seen all of Micky Douglas’s movies but couldn’t remember that one. I took the offer because Aidan Quinn was supposed to be my partner in the first place. But something came up and I got stuck with Freddie Guire. The only acceptable thing about him is his haircut.”

“I’ve seen you kiss your partners many times. I guess there were several takes for each shot. What’s it like to do a love scene with a stranger? Do you feel anything?”

“I do. Scared of getting a virus mainly. What else? Sometimes it’s really embarrassing when your partners’ wives are there.”

“How much do you get for a part?”

“Not nearly as much as Demi Moore or Sharon Stone. About two or three million dollars.”

Two or three million, Mark thought. He was convinced that he wouldn’t know how to spend that kind of money in a lifetime. “Pretty good money, though!”

“Yes, but you never get rich if you take good care of your relatives and friends. Some of the money goes to charity. My father has this saying: ‘Money’s a lot like horseshit: if you scatter it around, it does a lot of good; keep it in one place and it’ll smell awful.’”

She can afford to speak like that. She lives in a palace and rides in cars with the Spirit of Ecstasy on the radiator, Mark said to himself. The woman saw him wrapped in thought and for the first time took a close look at him. The agent was a pleasant, good-looking man, even if his face had none of that angelic perfection of the ‘heartbreakers’ in her trade. His was a somewhat rougher face, as if carved in stone. He was a sturdy, well-built guy. Dorothy read worry in his laughter, though. What would you see if you took off his mask? It was a tempting challenge.

An old Creole in ragged clothes came to their table carrying a big basket full of flowers.

“Here, Mother Rossy,” Mark called her gently, giving her a ten-dollar bill. He then took three beautiful roses from the basket and gave them to the actress.

“Thank you, Mark, you’re so kind. Wait, Rossy, don’t go,” the actress said. She fumbled in her purse and took out a hundred-dollar bill. “Here you are!”

“¡Por Dios! ¡Muchas gracias, señorita!” the Creole said making the sign of the cross.

“OK, now. Vaya con Dios,” the actress dismissed the woman who was trying to kiss her hand.

Suddenly the man felt sad and humiliated.

“She sells flowers but she’s so uncouth,” Dorothy remarked. “She looks like she was taken from a novel by Dickens. I gave her the money to buy herself some decent clothes and stop walking around in those rags. I don’t understand why she doesn’t take her time to dress up a bit.”

Mark got indignant. “I could give you at least five reasons for that: John, Mary, Flo, Tom, and Bob, none of them older than ten. Her daughter’s a prostitute. To those children their mother is the only provider. And I can assure you, their clothes are decent and they are sufficiently well-fed. You see, sometimes hard, honest work doesn’t mean anything, for your fate is sealed when you’re still in your mother’s womb. People like Rossy were born poor and they’ll die poor. If shit was worth anything people like her would be born without an asshole. So don’t judge her too harshly!”

Dorothy was obviously at a loss and surprised by the perceptiveness of this tough agent. She changed her tone. “I’m sorry. But I’ll make up for it. You’ll give me her address and I’ll help her out. Do you think two thousand dollars will see her through?”

It was the second time that evening she wanted to offer money and Mark felt his heart fill with rage. Everything was so simple to these people! They nonchalantly bought good deeds hoping that would book them a ticket to Paradise. Bitterly, but without a trace of anger in his voice, he said, “You’ve got the rich girl syndrome, Miss Wheller. You’re trying to save the world with your money. The trouble is you probably think you’re succeeding too.”

The woman’s first impulse was to stand up, offended, or maybe even slap his face. Something stronger than her forced her to remain seated and wonder how much truth there was in the man’s words. She finally gave in. “You’re very straightforward, you know that?”

“Sure, it saves time,” he raised his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry,” the actress said and meant it, for under no circumstances did she want to upset her rescuer. Whatever the agent had said, she was convinced her life had been endangered that evening as well.

“Shall we call it quits?” he suggested smiling, impressed by her repentance.

“Quits, Mr. Du Nancy!” she answered apparently still scowling.

“Friends, Dorothy?” the man smiled even broader.

“Friends, Mark!” she accepted returning his smile.

As they were eating, the agent tried to draw some of that Hollywood gossip from her but without success. The way Christy Turlington was the good girl of the fashion business, so did Dorothy enjoy the same reputation in the show biz. The kind of woman who would not make a show of herself. The scandals that some of her colleagues started to keep the public interested weren’t exactly her cup of tea.

“I’m glad your uncle’s OK,” he said at some point. “He’s such a nice guy!”

“Yes, but he’s also very strict. When I was a teenager he used to keep a sharp eye on me, worse than my dad. I had an entire list of forbidden things to take care of. Until I caught him red-handed.”

Mark slipped the money under the saucer and helped the woman put on her overcoat.

“How come? Are you into blackmailing, Dorothy?” he pretended to be serious.

She smiled, shrugging her shoulders. “Among other things, I wasn’t allowed to go to striptease night clubs for fear I saw something ‘uneducational.’ Together with a college mate I broke the rule and went to one, though.”

“And what did you see?”

“You mean whom I saw. Uncle Henry, of course!”

They both had a good laugh. The actress realized that, despite the incident before she hadn’t had such fun with a man in a long time.

Leaving the place they found their way barred by two ferocious-looking guys. Mark had seen them before, at Weiss’s table. That stare had been real after all. One of them was short but very well built, with only two or three teeth left in his mouth and the other, a two hundred-pound giant, wearing the most awfully yellow shoes he had ever seen. A couple of Neanderthals plucked from their caves by some unseen force and brought directly into the twentieth century.

“Miss Wheller,” the short guy said, “Mr. Weiss would like you to have a glass of champagne with him. He’s a big fan of yours, you know.”

“Tell him I thank him but I’m tired and I’d rather go home,” Dorothy said being angry she had been recognized despite her glasses and the discreet booth.

The big guy grabbed her by the arm. Mark cut in, “Listen, buddy, I don’t know where you learned your manners but the lady wants to leave, so, get lost!”

The two men grinned fiercely. Mark assessed the shape he was in and came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t take him more than thirty seconds to put them both down. But the woman next to him was a public person and you couldn’t throw a stone in New York without hitting a paparazzo lying in wait for something sensational. And if he wasn’t careful the actress ran the risk of making the ‘Inside Edition’ news the following evening. So he refrained and, removing the big guy’s hand, said, “We’ll be leaving now. Good bye, guys, nice meeting you!”

The big guy grinned again. “I’ve got a black belt, bud,” he boasted.

“You don’t say! Too bad you don’t have shoes to match,” the agent said waving his badge at them and allowing the holster of his gun to be seen. Then he took Dorothy by the arm. She was shaking with laughter. Together they left the restaurant and the two gorillas to chew their helplessness away.