Peril

MORTIMER

Stark sat in the living room, stern and upright in the leather chair, his eyes on Mortimer as the two men faced each other silently.

Finally, Stark said, “What was the arrangement? The one you made with Labriola?”

“Just that you would find this woman,” Mortimer said. “His daughter-in-law. She run out on his kid. He wants to talk to her.” He shrugged. “He offered thirty grand.” He dropped his head slightly. “I was gonna give you fifteen, keep the rest. But things got screwed up. This other guy you had. Complicated, you know? So the thing is, I figure I’ll just tell Labriola that the deal’s off. That you’re out of it. Maybe you got sick, something like that. Dying. Anyway, you can’t do the job.”

Stark studied Mortimer’s face a moment, then rose, walked to a small wooden cabinet, took two glasses, and poured a splash of scotch in each of them. “The whole thing reminded me of Marisol,” he said as he handed one of the glasses to Mortimer.

Mortimer took a quick sip. “Yeah, I figured you thought it was maybe like that.”

Stark returned to his seat, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs. “Is it?”

Mortimer took another sip from the glass.

“You know where she is, don’t you?” Stark asked.

Mortimer looked up from the glass.

“I want to see her,” Stark said sternly.

Mortimer stared at Stark silently, helpless against the fierce nature of his purpose, the odd nobility he added to every word he said.

“Where is she?” Stark asked.

Mortimer put down his glass. “She’s working at a bar in the Village.”

“Who else knows this?”

“The guy, the one who works for Labriola.”

“How does he know?”

“I told him.”

“Why?”

“To get you out of the deal,” Mortimer said. “He wouldn’t do it otherwise. But he won’t tell Labriola where she is.”

“What makes you think he won’t tell Labriola?”

“He won’t,” Mortimer said. Suddenly he heard Caruso’s voice, the tone of finality within it, the sense that something had changed. “I mean, he told me he wouldn’t let Labriola… hurt her.”

Stark’s gaze would not be turned aside. “Hurt her?” He leaned forward. “Mortimer, is this woman in danger?”

Mortimer saw Sara as she made her way down the block, toward the florist shop on the corner, so utterly exposed. He knew how it would go down, that Caruso would watch her in the rearview mirror of his car, wait until she reached a predetermined distance, then fall in behind her, steadily increasing his pace, reaching for his pistol as he did so, finally pressing the barrel so close to the back of Sara’s head that a wisp of her hair actually touched it.

“Mortimer, is this woman in danger?” Stark’s eyes bore into him.

Mortimer shuddered with the vision of what happened after that, Sara Labriola stumbling forward, a geyser of blood shooting from the back of her skull.

“Is this woman in danger?” Stark repeated.

Mortimer could scarcely imagine how badly things had gone or how out of control they’d now become. He took a moment to retrace the steps that had gotten him to this place. A death sentence from a doctor, a need to leave Dottie a few bucks, then a ridiculous bullshit scheme to cheat Stark, all of it finally leading to the terrifying truth that Sara Labriola, his best friend’s woman, was in dire peril.

“Yes,” Mortimer answered softly.

Stark grabbed the telephone and thrust it toward Mortimer. “Call Labriola, or whoever this guy is who works for him,” he said. “Tell him I want to have a meeting with the two of them.”

“I ain’t got a piece,” Mortimer said weakly.

Stark looked at him darkly. “I do,” he said.