When the Thrill Is Gone

55

It took three weeks to get a meeting set with Harris Vartan. First he was on a business trip, and then some kind of emergency arose. I spoke to his assistant, Hamish Oldhan.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McGill,” the assistant to the Diplomat of Crime told me. “But Mr. Vartan wanted me to make sure and to tell you that you are uppermost in his thoughts and that he will call you at the first opportunity.”

In the meantime I went out to see Fawn David, ostensibly to return her locket but actually to see if I could find out anything else about the father whom I had in turns idolized, lost, hated, and forgiven, and who I now saw in a shadowy cleft somewhere between reunion and revenge. I had the jeweler carefully and completely remove the picture of my brother and me. Fawn loved the locket and said that she would carry it always.

I scoured the room where my father had lived while I was acting out a criminal life across the river in Manhattan. There were no more clues. He wasn’t anywhere on the Internet or in any of a dozen libraries I’d sifted through.

Elsa took Gordo home to his rooms atop the building no one knew he in fact owned. Katrina made sumptuous meals and smiled more brightly every day. Only the fact that she drank too much let on that there was something unresolved in her life.

The Artist, Bisbe, disappeared off the face of the earth. Chrystal and her six nieces and nephews moved into Cyril Tyler’s rooftop home with little worry of him slaughtering them in their sleep. Ira Lamont called the office one afternoon and asked if I’d like to give him a rematch.

“You caught me off guard,” the cowboy complained. “If I knew you was a boxer I’d have planned it different.”

I just hung up on him.

Two days later Chrystal called to tell me that Cyril would be out of town for a few days.

“I hear you,” I said. “But you and me both know where that’d go.”

“Are you afraid?” she asked.

“Petrified.”

“So is that a no?”

“Yes, it is.”

And then one evening, sometime after ten and before Katrina returned from her night out with the girls, my cell phone sounded.

“Hello?”

“Mr. McGill,” a man said.

“Hamish.”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Anywhere in Manhattan you want. Shall we say about two?”

“The Red Lantern on Forty-eighth,” I said. “I’ll be bringing two guests.”

Twill, Iran, and I arrived at the Oceanus Hotel’s premiere restaurant at one. I wanted some time with the young men before Vartan arrived. He wasn’t meeting me for the meal at any rate. The young men had hamburgers and I ordered a simple pasta laced with butter and shavings from a black truffle.

“You should come into the gym sometimes, Twill,” Iran said. “I could put some muscles on you.”

Iran was used to the pecking order of the streets. He was a dominant character who liked to keep the younger thugs in line.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Shelfly,” my favorite son said.

“Why?” Iran pressed. “You like gettin’ your ass kicked?”

“It’s the refutation of the three ems.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t need money, mamasitas, or muscle to make me a man. And if anyone wants to question that, I got a whole pocketful of answers.”

I didn’t laugh because Iran was a good kid and deserving of respect. But I did wonder where Twill picked up the word “refutation .” He was full of surprises.

“You hear from your brother?” I asked to head off any possible confrontations.

“Him and Tatyana be home Thursday.”

“Our house?”

“Naw. You know Moms wouldn’t be happy with that. They stayed longer ’cause Taty knew where her man had holed up a little cash. They got me to get ’em a place in Prospect Park.”

I was just beginning to decipher the ramifications of Twill’s statement when Harris Vartan entered the dining room. His three-thousand-dollar suit was the color of raw copper, and the jade ring on the baby finger of his left hand was brighter than emerald.

As he walked up to the empty seat a waiter came out and placed a plate laid out with a broiled chicken breast, Frenchstyle green beans, and two boiled new potatoes. Another waiter waltzed over to place a goblet of blood-red wine at his right hand.

“Twill,” the Diplomat greeted. “Mr. Shelfly.”

No idea how he got Iran’s name, but I wasn’t surprised. Harris Vartan lived in Chicago but knew more about New York than Mayor Bloomberg.

After we’d all muttered our hellos, Harris took a bite of chicken and a sip of wine.

“Excuse me, Harris,” I said, “but it’s hard for me to tell who’s working for whom. You sent me on a journey that nearly twisted my head off.”

“Is he still alive?”

“He was fifteen years ago.”

“Any clue as to where he is now?”

“Why do you need to know?”

Vartan placed both hands on the table and looked me directly in the eye.

“Because,” he said, “Clarence taught me everything of importance that I ever learned.”

I smiled, while my two young charges shifted with mild discomfort.

“You’re his son and you deserve to know the truth,” Vartan said. “You have been working for me because... this is my debt — now paid.”

He ate a little more.

The young men remained silent, and so did I, for a time.

“Iran here has a problem with a stupid man,” I said halfway through Vartan’s meal.

“Oh?”

“If you owe me something I’d like you to solve that problem.”

“Give him Hamish’s number and consider it done.”

After that the ice was broken and Harris engaged Twill and Iran in a conversation about basketball. I listened, mostly. The words meant nothing to any of us.

When the meal was over we all walked out onto Forty-eighth Street and Harris got into a limo sedan.

“Who was that guy?” Iran asked me.

“Nobody,” I said.

“What now, Pops?” Twill asked.

“I’d like to offer both you boys jobs working for me,” I said.

“Sorry, Mr. McGill,” Iran said. “Gordo already said he wants me to be a part-time manager at the gym. I think I’m better suited for that kinda work. I mean, I’ll be happy to help out if you need anything, but the gym’s a better place for a guy like me.”

“Okay. You do what you think is right.”

Iran shook my hand and punched Twill’s arm. He ducked his head and turned to walk away.

“You really want me to work for you, Pop?” Twill said when Iran was out of earshot.

“More than anything, son.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re the finest man I’ve ever met, and because I’m your father.”