Elsinore (19 page)

“Sidney Holden?”

“What other Sid is there?”

“He's not out on the street? I have my sources. They would have seen Holden.”

“I'm not interested in your sources. Don't return without Sid … and Paul, shake hands with some of my mates. It comforts them to know that a district attorney is in the building.”

Paul Abruzzi traveled from bed to bed. He was the cantor's chamberlain, and he smiled, shook hands, made promises he didn't intend to keep.

“Paul,” the cantor screamed. “You disgust me, Paul. Get out of here.”

And the cantor took to crying again. Where's my Sid? That's what Hirsch wanted to know.

17

Frog needed a package man. He couldn't stroll into Bilbao without a bumper's special. He had to pay a king's ransom for some reliable gun. The beauty was packed in silver foil and was waiting for Holden at the Aeropuerto de Bilbao, under a broken chair in the businessmen's lounge.

He didn't unwrap the silver foil on the cab ride into Bilbao. The town sat in its own cradle of hills. He kept passing little factories. Frog wasn't an innocent anymore. His whole involvement with the cantor had led him to this: a bang-bang with Bibo in the anarchist capital of the world.

The Hotel Carlton was on the south side of the Plaza Federico Moyúa, the central crossroad of Bilbao. Holden understood why Bibo had picked the Carlton for their rendezvous. It must have been the grandest hotel in all of Basque country at the time of the civil war, when Bilbao itself had been the capital of the Basque's own autonomous state. The hotel's burnt-red face had fallen slightly into ruin, as if the Carlton had never really recovered from the Basques' loss of independence. It was a sad hotel. And Frog grew to love it the moment he stepped inside with his silver foil and his travel bag. The lobby was like a great open court where merchants and railroad men and dueñas must have sat, drinking coffee thick as blood.

Frog's room overlooked the plaza, with its green and red circular gardens. The room had crazy little closets, a king-sized mirror, and a safe … to protect people's treasure from all the anarchists. Holden unwrapped the silver foil. His bumper's special was a .22 long, like little Judith had carried. It was the same kind of gun he'd used to kill the Pinzolo brothers, Eddie, Rat, and Red Mike.

Frog took a bath in the Carlton's enormous tub … without the .22. He wouldn't baby-sit with his own shooter. He didn't think the boy general would try to bump him off in his room at the Carlton. But you could never tell.

He put on a simple gray suit and went downstairs with the gun. There were no messages in his mailbox. And Frog wasn't going to play cat and mouse. Fuck Bibo. He'd find the best paella in town. Even anarchists had to eat yellow rice.

Then he noticed a tourist guide in the lobby. It didn't seem right for Bilbao. The Basques weren't that fond of tourists. They wouldn't have bothered to advertise themselves. The guide wore a very old shirt. His cuffs were frayed. His parrot-green jacket would have made sense in Pescadores. Bilbao was a land of reds and grays.

“Churches, señor?” the guide mumbled. “Churches, señor?”

And Frog knew that this was Bibo's contact.

“What would you suggest?”

“The Cathedral de Santiago, señor. It's across the river, señor, in the Casco Viejo. You can approach it through the Siete Calles.”

“Ah, the Seven Sisters.” Frog had familiarized himself with local lore. He couldn't bump in a strange town and not have his own little book of knowledge. Siete Calles was the medieval part of Bilbao. All Seven Sisters ran to the riverbank like the ribs of some dead giant. That's what the Basques liked to think. The giant would rouse himself when the Basques were ready to revolt. And the seven ribs would ride on a sea of blood.

“It's a true Gothic cathedral, señor. It will give you much pleasure. But you must be careful of the viejos who sleep outside the church. They are foreigners, señor. And they have scissors in their pants. They will cut your pockets off if you get too close.”

“I'll remember that,” Frog said, and walked out of the Carlton. He was in no hurry to meet the boy general. He went up to the Jardines de Albia, where old men in black berets occupied most of the benches. The hats were like black pies on their heads. The Basques had gone to war in such berets. And Holden wondered if all the old men were anarchists.

He crossed the river at the Puerto del Arenal, above the Siete Calles, and entered the old medieval town. He could catch the reflection of buildings in the muddy brown water. He walked on the Calle Sombrerería. Hatmakers Street. There were images of the Virgin with a crown on Her head in almost every window. The Queen of Bilbao. One or two men were following Frog. He ducked into the cathedral. It was cool inside the door. The Virgin of Santiago was also wearing a crown. Women prayed near the altar. Frog didn't find one man in the cathedral.

He went outside on the Carrera Santiago. The outer walls of the cathedral looked like they could float. It was under this curious shelter that Frog discovered the viejos, bums who lived here without a blanket.

Frog didn't draw his gun. He recognized Bibo right away. The boy general had hid the scar on his face with a torn handkerchief. Frog could have shot him through the head.

“Bibo, you shouldn't have tried to kill the old man like that … his restaurant is sacred ground.”

“And I suppose he's been an angel with me, eh, El Presidente? I had to move out of Pescadores. He sent his killers. They frightened all my cows. But he has no authority in Bilbao … and I wouldn't touch that splendid pistol in your waistband. It's a booby trap. Did you think you could have a gun smuggled into my airport and not pay the fee?”

“I paid enough for that gun, Bibo.”

“But the smuggler is dead.”

“What if I didn't believe you? I have my own underground, General. It's never failed me before. And I've been to some hairy places.”

“But not Bilbao. You're welcome to pull the trigger. But I should tell you, Presidente. You found the gun under a three-legged chair. It was wrapped in silver. It has a very long nose.”

“Bibo, what the hell is this fight about?”

“Please sit. A caballero who stands too long in one spot always arouses suspicion.”

And so Frog crouched among the viejos, under the flying walls of the cathedral.

“I was Howard's spy. He discovered me in Santander. I was twelve years old and starving. Howard took me in. Not to stroke or kiss. He dangled me in front of rich merchants. He brought me along when he had to bargain with a maricón. We were in Berlin many, many times. I carried papers for Howard. And when our war began, he financed an army for me. I was one more piece of Howard's puzzle. The jigsaw general.”

“You still kept Franco out of Pescadores.”

Bibo laughed inside his throat. The handkerchief dropped from his face. He looked like some scorched lantern.

“Holden, it was Howard's idea. Howard kept the Fascists away from Pescadores as long as he could. I betrayed none of my men. I rode into battle on a horse. I was a ferocious warrior. I earned all my scars. But I was inside a little box … I formed other alliances. And Howard didn't like it.”

“But you had him in your palace. You could have finished him off.”

“Howard wouldn't have come to Pescadores all alone. He brought you.”

“Bibo, I'm just another bumper. I'm last year's news.”

“Don't ridicule your talents. I was thinking of a soldier …”

“I wasn't a soldier. I have flat feet.”

“This soldier arrived in Pescadores in forty-six. He was carrying a money bag for Howard. The whole town fell in love with him. He was very shy. Even my cows worshiped him.”

“If it's my dad, I don't want to hear about it.”

“He'd come to kill me. That was his mission. But somehow he couldn't. Or he didn't want to. He was a complex man. ‘Watch out for Phippsy,' he said. ‘General, don't turn your back on him.' And I never saw him again. So how could I have butchered his son?”

“You shouldn't be that sentimental, Bibo. If he'd bumped you, he might not have taken it out on himself. And he would have been kinder to Mrs. Howard.”

“Yes, Mrs. Howard. The negrita he never married. I know your past, Presidente. I memorized it.”

Frog was one more viejo under that curious wall. “Soon you'll ask me to share some paella with you.”

“The Basques have banished paella. We would have to go to one of the forbidden restaurants behind the Plaza Nueva, where only imbeciles and the very rich eat.”

“What about tourists like me?”

“Bilbao doesn't encourage tourists. There are bombings twice a month. And you're a businessman passing through a town without many strangers.”

“You have to promise not to hurt Phippsy … or I can never leave. If I get you your bonds, will that be enough?”

“The bonds and a million a month. I will have to nurse my cows after what the viejo has done.”

“General, I'm sorry. The cows might have to suffer.”

But before Holden could finish, a face was upon him. It was the broommaker, Kit Shea … and a comrade from the Westies. They had pistols inside their hats, which they held belly high.

“Jesus, Kit, will you get out of here while you have your arms and legs? Go back to the Copenhagen.”

“No more closets,” Kit said.

“How did you find me?”

“You're losing your touch. I trailed you right to JFK. That wouldn't have happened a year ago. You always book five or six flights. But I followed you, Holden, door to door.”

“Who's that?” Holden asked about the other man, who was as thin and wiry as Shea.

“No questions. Now ease yourself. Slowly, slowly. So I can have a better look.”

“Does Phippsy know you're here in Bilbao?”

“He doesn't have to know. I'm on retainer. Me and my friend.”

Holden crouched in front of the boy general, who wouldn't blink or acknowledge the two Westies. And Holden had a bumper's melancholy. He didn't know how to keep Bibo
and
Kit from dying, and he didn't want to choose. Kit had been a loyal rat. And Bibo's history had gone back to Holden Sr. Frog began to feel more and more like the shell of his dad. He could see little men with strangling wires approach the cathedral walls.

“I'm not giving up Bibo, Kit. You'll have to take me. I won't move.”

“You'll move,” Kit said, and Frog could recognize the classic Westie. The thought of murder made Kitty's eyes dance. “I always loved to splinter kneecaps.”

“Phippsy might not appreciate that.”

“Yeah, I worked for him when you were in diapers. You're his chauffeur, that's all. Like your dad.”

The little men stood behind the Westies with their wires. And Holden was at some zero hour.

“General,” he whispered. “I need them alive.” He wasn't sure whether Bibo had signaled to the little stranglers, who put their wires away and knocked both Westies to the ground, took their pistols and their hats.

And Kit Shea, who'd survived Sing Sing and the Tombs and the worst waterfront wars, lost that quickness in his eyes. “Holden, where am I?”

“You're with me, Kit”

He collected the two Westies and marched them out of the Casco Viejo, leaving the Calle Sombrerería to stranglers and other murderous old men.

18

He'd been a nursemaid in Bilbao, nothing more. He'd had a conversation with Bibo outside a cathedral. He'd rescued a pair of bumpers who were older than himself. Bilbao had defeated him. Its snaking river, its black-pie hats, its parks and streets that were anarchist hunting grounds. He'd solved Paris and Rome. He'd danced along the Tiber, read all the riddles in the walls of Notre Dame, but the language of Bilbao looked like children's Greek. He couldn't read all those crazy letters in a row. Mintegitxueta. Erakustazoka. Santutxu. Solokoetxe. Ibaizábal.

He returned to Esterhazy. Howard wasn't in the dorm. Not even the president of Hester Street Hungarian could help the Frog.

“Morton, I was counting on you. He was your favorite cantor.”

“Not my favorite,” Morton said. “He turned our home into a factory. He built shelves for us. It was like a bribe. He made himself our captain. That's how it is with billionaires. They're always taking over. He had a fax machine near his bed. He was buying and selling on his personal phone. His hoodlums ran in and out. We became part of his circus … and I couldn't forget Kronstadt. I'll never forgive the great Hirsch.”

“But if he was so comfortable here, what happened?”

“He got a phone call. His head turned blue … he abandoned all his friends. It was cozy while it lasted. But Hirsch didn't need us anymore. He wrote us a check and disappeared from our lives.”

“People have been trying to kill him.”

“That's no excuse,” Morton said. “A captain has to be nice to his men.”