The Crasher Page 31

  The phone rang, but as had happened before, when he picked it up there was no one there. Very James Bondish; but then this drug business could have come straight out of Ian Fleming’s imagination, it was so bizarre—and brutal. Johnny shivered. He’d always suspected he didn’t have his old man’s guts. Now he knew he didn’t.

  It was ironic. He’d received the tip in the first place only because of a mix-up: Trager, one of the FBI contacts he’d made through his Princeton pal, Matt Fisher, had dropped it thinking Johnny was working with the elder Peet

  It hadn’t been much of a tip, more of an eye-opener, which should have been obvious. It had recently been announced that Limpo Delchetto, one of the most famous, fearless—some said foolhardy—journalists based in South America, had won the Pulitzer Prize for the Miami Herald with his series exposing close business connections between prominent South American industrialists and the biggest drug czar in Cali.

  “You and your dad better get busy,” Trager had said casually. “Delchetto’s walked away with the big one this year and I hear he’s moved to Puerto Rico, working on the Venezuelan Villeneva drug connection…”

  Puerto Rico! Of course! The hottest new playing field for the drug business. Why hadn’t he thought of that before. Johnny had immediately called for a transcript of the “war on drugs” Nightline he’d watched back in February, reading and remembering, still with some embarrassment, how smoothly his father had interrupted Tom Constantine, the new chief of the Drug Enforcement Administration, and Constantine’s scowl as QP had sailed right on.

  “I often wonder why it took Cali so long to use it as a major drug corridor into the United States,” Johnny read. “What do they say? With no Customs to worry about, Thursday in San Juan, Friday in South Dakota. Now it’s the number two route after Miami, with about eighty-four tons of cocaine and high-purity heroin coming in a year…”

  When Johnny had finished the transcript, he’d made a few phone calls, including one to Detective Armitage, still working on the Villeneva heist, and one to Alfredo Relato, an influential, well-connected cousin of Dolores in San Juan, a man he’d always liked and the only member of her family who’d taken the trouble to tell him how sorry he was over their breakup. “Marrying you was the only wise thing she ever did,” he’d written.

  With Delchetto’s clips from the Miami Herald, the Pulitzer Prize announcement, the transcript and his own notes he’d gone into Steiner’s office, who hadn’t needed any persuading to fund his trip.

  Steiner came into Johnny’s mind now. He grimaced as he tried to stem the blood flow. His boss had thought that at last he was going to follow in his father’s footsteps—something he’d always hoped for and never bothered to hide. Well, Steiner was going to be disappointed, that was all there was to it. The lead to the Villeneva jewel heist and, more important, its connection to the drug world was as dead as the dodo, as dead as Limpo Delchetto apparently was.

  God, how his father would laugh, for instead of feeling aggressive and determined not to give up, Johnny’s major emotion was immense relief that there didn’t seem much point in hanging around. He could return home without showing how lily-livered he’d discovered himself to be when surrounded by real danger.

  He’d lived with fear since his arrival, when he’d learned from Alfredo that although it had not yet been announced, Limpo Delchetto had disappeared.

  “At eleven o’clock he left La Mallorquina in Old San Juan, saying he wanted an early night, but he never reached home and he hasn’t been seen since.” Alfredo had sighed. “Life is cheap here these days and getting cheaper.”

  Searching for clues, an agent in the San Juan DEA office told Johnny casually, “He’s probably been pulverized in an auto wrecker’s yard.” The agent’s eyes had reminded Johnny of Ben Abbott’s. Cool, piercing, revealing nothing, not even distaste, as the agent added, “It’s the method the Cali drug family most favors to dispose of interlopers.”

  Was this another warning to stay away? In his head Johnny could hear Rosemary say, “Put the pieces together, one by one, until the jigsaw begins to make sense.” With his luck, he’d end up in the wrecker’s yard before he found any pieces to put together.

  He filed a story about Delchetto, “missing in action,” capturing, he thought, the newly sinister atmosphere in San Juan, “the number two drug route into the United States.”

  When he’d returned to his hotel room on the third day of getting nowhere, he’d been sure someone had been looking through his things… and wanted him to know it. There had been a broken penknife in the bathroom, which the maid swore she knew nothing about; and his alarm clock had been missing, until he found it, stopped, under his pillow, at twelve o’clock.

  High noon or midnight? The hour of Delchetto’s death?

  He’d toughed it out, wondering every day if his own famous, fearless (but apparently never foolhardy) father would care if, in pursuit of a story to expose a necessary truth, he disappeared off the face of the earth? Would QP expect his son to aspire to his own impossibly high standards, and imperil his life for his work?

  Yes to both. His father would care, well, certainly publicly. Johnny could imagine him proclaiming, “I’ll stop at nothing to bring those responsible for my son’s death (ditto disappearance) to justice.” And dear old Dad really would stop at nothing, yet would manage to stay alive and probably earn next year’s Pulitzer for his trouble.

  Would Ginny care? God damn it, he’d had an erection just thinking about her. Yes, she would care. Dear naive Ginny. She actually thought she could impress his father once they met or at least make him look on her with favor. Johnny could write the scenario.

  “What does Ms. Walker do for a living, Johnny?”

  “She’s a very talented dress designer.”

  “For whom?”

  “For herself—her own label. She just hasn’t made it yet, but she will. And, oh yes, in her spare time she gate-crashes—eh—for me. She’s getting material for a book I’m writing on today’s society, its values—or lack of them.”

  “Gate-crashing. How unusual. And you pay her? How dignified.” The famous Peet eyebrows would do their elevating act and that would be the end of Ginny.

  The cut on his chin still spewed blood.

  He couldn’t even stand the sight of a cut made by his own shaky hand, so what made him think he could act the hero? And why should he? To try to prove something to a father who’d shown for years he didn’t think he was capable of anything?

  Four knocks sounded on the door. It would be Alfredo, but he couldn’t join him until his chin dried up. He looked and felt a mess, but it didn’t matter anymore. He was quitting, getting out before Cali declared him an enemy.

  “I’m on the phone long-distance,” he called through the door. “I’ve decided to leave today on the afternoon flight. I’ll meet you in the lobby around noon to say goodbye.”

  But it wasn’t to be. At noon Alfredo told Johnny that the governor, embarrassed and mortified by Delchetto’s disappearance, had sanctioned a surprise attack by the National Guard on a San Juan housing project, thought to be the headquarters of a major drug supplier. If Johnny wanted to see some action, they could follow behind. Johnny, ashamed of his lack of fire-in-the-belly, agreed.

  It didn’t produce any of the answers he was looking for, but it took three more days of surveillance to penetrate and break up what turned out to be a more sophisticated drug distribution center than anyone had understood.

  It wasn’t the story he’d come down to Puerto Rico to break, but Steiner had been happy with his first piece and now he had another one—about the one-of-a-kind governor, who, to fight the gigantic drug invasion of his island, was willing to go out on a limb against the civil libertarians and install the National Guard inside the housing project, for as long as it took to declare it drug-free.

  The piece almost wrote itself. It touched on another issue Johnny felt fervently about: how “civil liberties” could be interpreted to the detriment of
society. He’d been writing about this on and off since he’d landed at Next! He’d written about the damage done by civil libertarians back home who were sticklers for following the civil liberties movement and laws of the sixties; die-hard types who railed against the concept of taking those too mentally sick to take care of themselves off the street, back into hospitals or institutions. People like the homeless “Madame Sacks of Saks” he’d made famous in his column.

  “The other Rosemary,” as he sometimes thought of the homeless woman, had been a teacher in an Indianapolis suburb. Introduced to “recreational drugs” when hot-tub parties were all the rage, she had had a love affair with a pusher, drifted into addiction and lost her job, her husband, her family. When he’d first looked into Rosemary’s story, she’d already been living on New York pavements for almost a year, screaming awake and asleep, slowly drowning in her own sickness.

  It wasn’t too much of a leap to compare the courage of the Puerto Rican governor with the courage of a New York mayor, who despite an enormous hue and cry decided that the meaning of the law had to be changed. That instead of narrowly reading the law as “no one can be removed from the streets who is not in imminent danger to himself or others,” one could read it more broadly to mean “in danger of harming themselves in the reasonably foreseeable future.” Rosemary had been one of those taken away for treatment, cursing every inch of the way.

  He felt a surge of satisfaction as he typed the last word. It was good. He hadn’t solved the Villeneva story, but this piece had heart, lots of heart, linking the streets of San Juan with the streets of New York, and describing the ordinary people who got caught up in the life of the streets and who got lost there.

  “You write so well,” Ginny had once said to him. “What do you want to do… to write…” Ginny, wonderful supportive Ginny.

  He’d talked to her more or less every day he’d been away, and reluctantly had come to the conclusion that absence could definitely make the heart grow even fonder. What had the mighty La Rochefoucauld said? Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind blows out candles and fans fires. One day he might even pass that piece of information on to Ginny. One day. Perhaps.

  She hadn’t mentioned meeting his father again; hadn’t even hinted, let alone nagged him about the Literary Lions dinner, which was now only a few days away. She had obviously forgotten all about it.

  He decided to give her a surprise. He would call and book her for the evening, make up some occasion or other, then arrive early at the loft and announce he was taking her to the library after all. Would he introduce her to QP? Perhaps, perhaps not. It all depended on the old man’s mood, which he could sense from a mile away.

  It would be a perfect coming-home present. For her and for him, too. He couldn’t wait to see her face.

  Johnny had called to say he was coming home and wanted to book her on Tuesday night to stand in for him at some American Cancer fund-raiser.

  What nerve!

  Ginny had never felt so humiliated, so angry, listening to his oh-so-confident voice, “booking” her, assuming that although he’d been away for over two weeks, she wouldn’t have any other plans or worse, that she’d cancel them as soon as she received orders from Mr. Next! Magazine.

  She’d never doubted he’d be home later than the first week of May. He wasn’t coming home because he missed her. As his week away had stretched into two weeks and then a day more, she’d told herself that no matter what, Johnny Peet would not miss his father’s big night at the library, and of course, she’d been right.

  Nothing had changed; she was still Cinderella without the magic slipper; he hadn’t invited her to the library. He’d called to “book” her to take his place at an event, which he’d suddenly found conflicted with the Literary Lions dinner. Well, he was in for a big surprise. It was time Mr. Next! learned he could no longer take her for granted. He would be at the library dinner honoring his father—and so would she.

  In her imagination she saw Johnny watch her arrive, sweeping up the grand library steps on Fifth Avenue. He would be stunned at first, perhaps a little angry, but finally he would be so impressed by how she looked, her magnificent cloak, her panache, her bravery, he would offer her his arm and together they would go to meet his father. It was a wonderful daydream and whenever she felt downcast, nervous, she brought it out until her spirits lifted.

  She’d been working nonstop since Johnny’s departure, helping Lee style a couple of shoots, spritzing perfume at Bloomingdale’s, even swallowing her deep dislike of the runway to fill in for a sick house model to help a friend of Sophie Formere’s.

  With all this part-time work, it had been difficult to get all the clothes finished, hers and Poppy’s. Night after night she’d worked into the early morning, until Poppy’s georgette wraparound number had been delivered and her own cloak and dress needed only last-minute touches.

  Poppy had called almost immediately with rave reviews.

  “Are you definitely wearing it to the library?” Ginny asked. She was depending on Poppy’s presence to help her crash.

  “Right now I am.” Poppy had been laughing, but she’d also sounded slightly hysterical.

  “Good, so I’ll see you there…”

  “Oh, wunderbar. Are you going with Alex?”

  Ginny had gulped. “Have you seen him?” For weeks she’d tried to avoid pumping Poppy for information in case she told Svank and he became suspicious.

  “Nooo, but I thought I heard Svank saying something about meeting him this week.”

  “Oh, when?” There was no point in trying to show she didn’t care. Her whole future depended on seeing Alex and getting everything sorted out once and for all.

  Poppy had been as maddening as ever, ignoring her question, self-absorbed, cooing what once-upon-a-long-time-ago Ginny would have longed to hear. “Ginny, you are sooo talented. I’d like a black version of the georgette. Can you do it without a fitting? You know how I loooathe fittings.”

  At least it had given Ginny the perfect opportunity to lock Poppy into turning up at the library. “Yes, if I can see how it drapes, moves on you. I’ll study it when we meet for the Literary Lions.”

  “Goody, goody. I’ll send you a check tomorrow.”

  Poppy had been true to her word and it more than helped defray the cost of the velvet for the cloak, the embroidered border, and new copper patent stiletto sandals Ginny hadn’t been able to resist, spotting them in a theatrical shop in Soho.

  She was sure the cloak was the most majestic, stylish piece of clothing she had ever designed. She was also very happy with the way the bridesmaid dress—or what remained of it— had turned out. Minus the sleeves, with a radically deepened décolletage (held up with shoestring silk straps) it looked like a totally new gown, seductive in its shapeliness, impressive in its formality. Luckily, she’d over-ordered on the crepe, so managed to make two new side panels to flow out from the waist as she walked, increasing the dress’s overall “presence.”

  After Johnny called to “book” her, she’d rushed out to pick up a copy of Next!, hoping to learn what he’d been writing about in Puerto Rico, hoping to see if he revealed the mysterious “something I’ve been following for months.” His byline was on the cover, which showed a photo of a man she’d never heard of, Limpo Delchetto, with the cover line, “Pulitzer Prize Winner ‘Missing in Action.’”

  So Johnny had his cover story. To her surprise, it was mostly about drug trafficking, a very different beat for him.

  She marveled at his use of language, his knowledge. Johnny knew so much of the world. She sighed, thinking of her poor father and his endless posturing and striving to be known as a man of letters.

  In Next!’s movie column she saw that Abel Gance’s movie, Napoleon, was showing in the Village and the next day she went alone to see if there was anything Napoleonic that she could still add to her ensemble. Not really, although one ballroom scene impressed her, where people were dancing with red rib
bons tied around their necks to show that someone in the family had had his head cut off.

  Back at the loft she decided to have a dress rehearsal, deliberating whether or not to add a red ribbon to her own neck. During the last dreadful two and a half months, since discovering the jewelry, she’d often felt her own head was someplace else; in case Quentin Peet knew its historical significance, she decided against it.

  The phone rang soon after she climbed wearily into bed.

  “I’m back. I’m home, Ginny. Did I disturb your beauty sleep?”

  What time was it? She groped for the light switch as she huskily said, “No, no, of course not.”

  It was not the middle of the night. It was only ten thirty-five.

  “Can I come over now?” Johnny sounded keyed up, like an excited schoolboy.

  Ginny sat up in bed, trying to wake up. She looked around the loft. It was a terrible mess, with bits of velvet and blush bridesmaid all over the floor. If the loft looked a mess, she knew she looked worse. Her long pause must have been too off-putting, because before she could answer, Johnny said accusingly, “I think I did wake you up. Go back to sleep. I’ve got a ton of things to catch up on here anyway.”

  As she began to say, “No, it’s okay, really…” he said in a softer, sweeter voice, “Can’t wait to see you. Be ready about six tomorrow. Wear one of your spectacular long dresses. I’ll come over with all the details and tell you who and what to look for.” He laughed boyishly. “Ready to go back to work?”

  Now wide awake, she fumed, trying to think of a suitable cutting reply. He couldn’t wait to see her? So what was he doing all the hours in the day before six o’clock tomorrow evening, when he obviously thought he could just drop in for a quick smooch, deliver her marching orders and then be on his merry way in time for the grand library event?

  Should she tell him to go to hell now or let him turn up on her doorstep and find no one at home? She couldn’t think fast enough. “I don’t know,” she said lamely. “Possibly.”