The Wrath of Angels Page 0,73

Charlie, we’ve known each other too long. You’re like a son to me now. I judged you in the past, and maybe I found you wanting, but I was wrong. I’m on your side here, no questions asked.’

I sipped my coffee. Walter had also opened a beer for himself, but I had declined one. He was singlehandedly keeping the Brooklyn Brewing Company in business. There had barely been room in the refrigerator for food.

So I began talking. I told Walter of Marielle Vetters, and the story of the plane. I told him of Liat, and Epstein, and the second confrontation in the restaurant. I told him more of Brightwell, because Walter had been there when a woman came to my house asking for help in finding her lost daughter, a request that had led, in turn, to Brightwell and his Believers.

‘I ever tell you that you keep some strange company?’ he said, when I was done.

‘Thanks for pointing that out. What would I do without you?’

‘Spend money on expensive hotel rooms in New York. You sure you don’t want a beer?’

‘No, coffee’s fine.’

‘Something stronger?’

‘Not my bag any more.’

He nodded.

‘You’re going to go back to Epstein, aren’t you? You’re curious about this list, and the plane. More than that, you’re interested in Brightwell. He got under your skin.’

‘Yes.’

‘Doesn’t mean that what Brightwell thought about you was true or right. If you’re an angel, fallen or any other kind, then I’m Cleopatra. That stuff is okay if you’re Shirley MacLaine, otherwise it starts to sound flaky. But if you want some company dealing with the Chosen People, let me know.’

‘I thought you’d signed up for “don’t ask, don’t tell”?’

‘I’m an old man. I forget what I’ve said as soon as I’ve said it. Anyway, it’ll be an excuse to leave the house that doesn’t involve doctors, or a trip to the mall.’

‘You know, you’re quite the ad for active retirement.’

‘I’m going to be a centerfold for the AARP magazine. They promised. It’ll be like that Burt Reynolds pic from Playgirl, but with more class, and maybe more gray hair. Come on, I’ll show you to your bed. If you’re not going to drink beer, then you’re no good to me awake.’

Epstein called my cell phone before I went to sleep. Somewhere in our brief exchange there was an apology of sorts, perhaps from each of us.

I slept soundly.

I did not dream.

21

I met Epstein late the following afternoon at Nicola’s Italian grocery and delicatessen at 54th and First. This part of town was known as Sutton Place, and for much of its history the rich and the poor had lived side by side here, tenements coexisting alongside the homes of socialites, the noise from factories, breweries and wharves providing the soundtrack while artists such as Max Ernst and Ernest Fiene worked in their studios. In the late 1930s, construction began on what was then known as the East River Drive, and subsequently became the FDR. The tenements and wharves began to disappear, and slowly high-rises started to take the place of many of the more civilized, characterful buildings. Still, some of those with long memories remembered a time when the apartments of Sutton Place were occupied mostly by actors and directors, when it was a haven for theatrical folk and, by extension, the gay community. It was said that eighty percent of the population of this small area was gay. Rock Hudson, among others, had an apartment in the 405 building across the street from Nicola’s. In those days, if you told a cab driver to take you to ‘Four out of Five’, he would bring you straight to its door.

The choice of Nicola’s as the venue for the meeting was mine. Nick, who owned the store along with his brother Freddy, was ex-military, having served his time in Vietnam. His genius there lay in sourcing whatever was necessary – food, equipment, booze – in order to ensure the continued smooth running of the US military endeavor in Southeast Asia, but particularly that element of the endeavor which affected the comfort and care of his unit. Whole camps had been sustained thanks to Nick’s abilities to scavenge and procure. Given another thousand men like him, the US might even have won the war. Now he had settled comfortably into the role of a store owner in New York, where his undoubted skills in negotiating and appropriating continued to serve him well.

Nick and Freddy were both behind the counter that morning, each dressed in

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