Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

“I won’t.”

“After you write this up, let me look it over before you give it to Lomax, okay?”

“You can have it tomorrow. It’s already written; I finished it on the plane.”

“Good.”

“Double byline, right?”

“Hell, no,” I said. “Why share the credit when you did all the work?”

“There wouldn’t have been a story if you hadn’t pointed me in the right direction,” he said. “I think your name should be on it.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

“Up to you,” I said. “Lomax will want to hold the story for Sunday and strip it across page one. It’s gonna make a hell of a splash.”

But first, I owed a couple of people a heads-up.

The maid answered the bell and ushered me into the library, where Sal Maniella was waiting for me. I found him seated on the couch, admiring the autograph on the title page of Ian Fleming’s Moonraker . Copies of Casino Royale, From Russia with Love, and On Her Majesty’s Secret Service were fanned out on the coffee table.

“From the Swann Galleries auction?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I’d looked up the auction results online. The signed first edition of Moonraker had sold for more than fifty thousand dollars.

I sat beside him and placed both volumes of the Grant biography on the coffee table. “Thanks for letting me borrow them,” I said.

“You’re most welcome. Let me know if there’s anything else you want to read. After all, what good are books if you can’t share them?”

“I never got around to reading Moonraker , ” I said, “but if I ever find the time, I’ll buy a used paperback. I’d be afraid to even breathe on this copy.”

“Don’t be,” he said, and placed it in my hands. “You can read it here if you like; it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. But I’m sure you understand why I’d prefer it didn’t leave the premises.”

“Of course.”

“By the way,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your collection of pulp detective magazines.”

“The magazines that were in the boxes you don’t know anything about?”

“Those would be the ones.”

“What about them?”

“Take special care with the June 1935 edition of Black Mask . It contains the first printing of a story by Raymond Chandler, and except for the tiny coffee stain on the spine, it’s in remarkable condition.”

“I suppose it is.”

“If you ever decide to sell it, let me know. The last one that sold at auction brought five hundred dollars.”

“You’ll be the first one I call,” I said. I could sure use the money, but I hated the idea of parting with it.

“So,” he said, “why did you want to see me?”

I told him.

He picked up the crystal decanter, poured himself a shot of Scotch, and offered me one. I shook my head.

“Well,” he said, “this will certainly cause some trouble for the governor.”

“For you, too, I imagine.”

“No, not really. Yolanda will plead me guilty to violating the state campaign finance law, and I’ll have to pay a four-figure fine. But of course the governor’s campaign committee will have to return the money, so I’ll use that to pay the fine and be well ahead of the game.”

“They’ll return the money to the porn actors, not to you,” I said. “I doubt you’ll ever see any of it.”

“Excellent point,” he said.

“When the story breaks, there’ll be a lot of pressure on the governor and the legislature to outlaw prostitution,” I said.

“I imagine so.”

“If they do, it will ruin Vanessa’s brothel business.”

“I very much doubt that.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“How come?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“The story’s going to run Sunday, page one,” I said. “We need some kind of quote from you and Vanessa.”

“Just put us down for a ‘No comment.’”

I walked into Hopes expecting to find Fiona at her usual table. Instead she was holding down a stool at the far end of the bar.

“You look exhausted,” I said.

“I am. I spent last night trying to comfort Daniel and Carla Arruda.”

“The parents of the kidnapped Pawtucket girl?”

“Yeah.”

“How are they holding up?”

“Carla can’t stop crying and begging God to send her little girl home. Daniel has already given his daughter up for dead and wants to shed blood; but he doesn’t know who to kill, and it’s driving him fucking crazy.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that, so I stared at the bar top for a moment.

“I bet you could use some good news,” I said.

“You got any?”

“I do,” I said, and then I told her.

“That’s fantastic,” she said. “How’d you find out?”

“I didn’t,” I said. “It was Thanks-Dad.” And then I told her how he’d done it.

“Pretty slick,” she said.

“I think so, too.”

“Of course, they’ll all wriggle off the hook,” she said. “Maniella will get fined and can grab enough cash to cover it by looking under his sofa cushions. The governor and the two committee chairmen will be shocked, shocked, about where the campaign contributions came from, and they’ll give the money back. But the bastards won’t dare to hold up my antiprostitution bill now. If they do, I’ll make it look like they were all bought and paid for.”

“Which they were,” I said. “You were right all along.”

“Have a drink with me,” Fiona said.

“My doctor has advised against it.”

“Would a little wine hurt? Come on, Mulligan. I’ve got a couple of things to celebrate.”

“A couple? What’s the other one?”

“Rome finally weighed in on my, uh, situation.”

“And?”

“And it’s politics or the church. I’ve been given a week to decide.”

“Aw, crap.”

“I couldn’t have put it better,” she said, and then she threw her head back and laughed.

“What are you going to do?”

Fiona drained her can of Bud and placed it on the bar. She slipped the gold band from her finger and held it before her eyes for a moment. Then she dropped the ring into the empty. She picked up the can and shook it, the ring clattering inside, and suddenly the mischievous smile I remembered from two decades ago was back. “So whaddaya say, Mulligan? Wanna fuck?”

“Uh… what?”

“Don’t look so scared,” she said. “I’m just kidding. Besides, you’re not my type.”

“I’m not?”

“No.”

“Why is that?”

“Can you turn the governor into a pillar of salt?”

“Guess not.”

“Bring a rain of burning sulfur down on the statehouse?”

“Only metaphorically.”

“Well, there you go.” She laughed hard and long, the sound mirthful but with a hint of hysteria around the edges.

“Going to hold a press conference?” I said.

“No. I thought I’d just give you the scoop. Pull your pad out and I’ll answer all your questions.”

So I did. But I already had my lead: the clink of a gold wedding ring hitting the bottom of an empty beer can.

The “Who Are You?” ringtone interrupted my breakfast.

“I’m only going to say this once,” the caller said, “so listen up.” The voice was muffled-a man trying to disguise his voice. The gravel in it again reminded me of Joseph, but I still couldn’t be sure.

“You again,” I said.

“Shut up and write down this address: 8 Harwich Street. That’s H-a-r-w-i-c-h. Got it?”

“Off Blackstone Boulevard?”

“Yeah.”