Sons (18 page)

McGillin’s was the oldest tavern in continuous use in Philadelphia. Steeped in traditions, sedition and revolution being just two of many, the tavern had been a meeting place for revolutionaries in 1776. A hundred years later, it was a hotbed of hatred against the British in Ireland. The joke was, if you entered McGillin’s on Saint Patrick’s Day, you’d better be Irish! Strictly speaking, the Carews hailed from Wales, but the bloodline, and the Welsh struggle against the English, was sufficient to admit him.

Victor pushed through the tavern’s thick oak doors and breathed deeply. The walnut bar stretched three quarters along the left side of the windowless room. An arm’s length from the bar’s rolled edge, backless, leather-clad stools, tanned emerald green, stood bolted to the floor. Rows of colored bottles were stacked against two crystal mirrors, their reflections shooting merry prisms around the room. Between the mirrors, a tintype portrait of Irish patriot Terrance MacSwiney, framed in somber black and swathed in the flag of the Irish republic, held a place of honor. Facing the bar, a wood fire burned gently in a brick and stone fireplace. The rush of cool outside air caused a wisp of pungent fumes to stray from the hearth and tangle with the smell of strong drink and beer. The warm air embraced Victor with a welcome that matched his mood. He slipped onto a barstool and smiled. He liked this place.

A redheaded bartender, appropriately dubbed Red, asked, “What’ll it be, Mr. Carew?”

“Hey, Red, give me a pint of Harp—and a phone book,” Victor replied.

“Comin’ right up, Mr. Carew.”

Victor looked around the half-empty bar and noticed two men who looked decidedly out of place sitting at a corner table. Although listed as a national treasure, McGillin’s was, first and foremost, a neighborhood tavern. The local Order of Ancient Hibernians met here. Tourists, eager to see the place where volunteers collected bales of dollars to pay for Ireland’s struggle for independence, came too. The men at the corner table were neither of these.

When Red returned with the phone book and the pint of beer, Victor lifted his chin toward the two men huddled in whispered conversation.

“New around here are they, Red?”

“They’ve been in a few nights now. Not Irish, that’s for sure. One’s got a heavy Russian accent. The other one’s some sorta Arab type. Your son was just in here a while ago talking to ’em.”

“Really?”

Victor’s frown wrinkled his forehead. He didn’t like the sound of that.

Red moved off to pull another beer. Victor thumbed through the yellow pages until he located the section listing film studios in the city. He found no listing for LC Enterprises. He wasn’t surprised that a porn studio went unlisted, but he had hoped to save time by catching Louis at… what… work? Disgusted with this setback, he pushed the dog-eared phone book aside and proceeded to sip away his troubles.

I guess I’ll have to catch him at home. What the hell is he doing with Russians and Arabs?
Victor wondered.
Ah well, tomorrow’s another day.

A
CROSS
town, Louis Carew sat in the backseat of his limousine. His driver looked in the rearview mirror, waiting for instructions.

“Where to now, Boss?”

“Just drive around, Mario, I need to think a while.”

As the long black car moved off into light traffic, a soft drizzle began to fall.

While Mario drove aimlessly over the glistening macadam streets, Louis switched on the overhead reading light and flipped through a tattered notebook. He read the list of requirements Pytór Krevchenko gave him earlier in the day. The Russian known as Yuri wanted another girl, one of about ten or eleven years of age. The line written in red and underlined for emphasis, “no older than eleven,” jumped out at him. The highlighted words burned against his eyes like neon in the night… so many lives, so many nights.

Louis looked out the limo’s smoked window glass and shook his head. He couldn’t believe the Russian expected him to help Yuri rape and possibly kill another kid, especially after the argument they’d had earlier that day.

Oh no you don’t. Not again!
he vowed.

Louis returned his attention to the book. He turned a few more pages when a notation caught his eye. Added to the list of customers was a newcomer to Philadelphia, an Arab calling himself Ben, who wanted a girl and boy combination. Apparently, this client preferred to be a voyeur rather than a participating party. A dark shadow pressed like a mask over Louis’s face. He smiled as if his part in the murder of a young girl had never occurred.

“Well, Ben, whatever feeds your monkey. Business is business,” he said with a low giggle.

The smile faded from his lips as Louis flipped the page. Frozen on paper was the face of Jan Phillips. Louis yanked the photo from the binder and studied it for a puzzled moment.
Is this some kind of joke?
Flipping the photo over, he read the inscription.

The son of Islam’s sworn enemy.

Name believed to be Colin Phillips.

Capture and deliver.

Money no object.

At first, Louis thought it was a trap, but no, Krevchenko gave him the new additions before they had argued. Pytór wouldn’t have suspected that he would try to break with him. Louis took another look at the picture. He read again the details noted in a hand clearly not familiar with making English letters. The last line appealed to Louis especially, as his cash flow seemed to be perpetually
in extremis
. An evil grin spread across his face as he thought about getting even with Jan Phillips, the man who had publicly humiliated him. Payment for his trouble was an added bonus.

So, they want the kid! This is heaven sent.
“I’ve gotcha this time, mister high and mighty Jan Phillips, gotcha this time!”

“Sir?” Mario said.

“Take me home, Mario, and don’t spare the horses!”

Twenty-Nine

L
OUIS
C
AREW
stepped out of the limousine, pulled his pants up over a newly acquired paunch, and walked across the street’s cobbled surface to his Delancy Place three-story townhouse, a home he rented from his father’s company, PennEagle Inc.

Inside, he walked to a downstairs bathroom, where he eliminated the beer he’d downed while meeting with Pytόr Krevchenko and the Arab, Ben. Relieved, he turned, rinsed off his hands, and looked at his haggard face in the mirror. Splashing cool water wouldn’t restore his lost looks, but he gave it a try anyway, only to find no clean linen on the towel rack.

“Great! Just fucking great,” he swore bitterly.

With that, he wiped his hands down the sides of his pants and stomped out into the hall. Louis was hungry, tired, and eager to contact Ben. Somehow, he needed to separate the Arab from the Russian. He sensed that a great deal of money would go to the man who delivered Jan Phillips’s son… to whom?

“Hmm,” Louis mused aloud, “I wonder who wants the brat? Doesn’t matter, I guess. I just gotta get Krevchenko out of the way. After all, one goes into a check more times than two.”

Just then, the phone rang. Louis hurried to the living room, crossed to a small table flanked by nine-foot windows that looked out onto the tree-lined street. He reached for the receiver. The caller ID flashed, “Victor Carew 388-1257.”

Louis shook his head.

Oh no, you bastard. Not tonight. I’ve got too much going on to argue with you!

Pressing a small button on the phone’s console, he looked at the caller log for the day. Of the dozen or so calls placed to him, clearly ten were from his father.

Pushy asshole!

The phone continued its shrill ring. Louis bent over, addressed the instrument, and yelled, “I don’t care what you want, old man! You think just because you’re a big shot, I gotta do everything you say! Well, I’m gonna be a big shot too, and soon. You just wait and see, ya stinkin’ son of a bitch!”

Louis sagged into an overstuffed chair and simultaneously began to laugh and cry.

The phone abruptly stopped in mid-ring. Louis looked at the phone and listened a moment. This time there was no message pleading for him to call his father. Both relieved and disappointed, he sat and looked out of the window.

Louis was a simple man who liked simple emotions, like lust. Lust he understood, appreciated even, but feelings of regret or disappointment, when he felt them at all, left him confused. Instinctively, he knew that confusion in a simple mind never went unpunished.

Louis cocked his head and watched the leaves of a sycamore. Etched against the evening darkness by the pale glow of the gas streetlight, the leaves swayed slowly to and fro, as if in a secret dance only the tree knew. Doubts dispelled, he reached for the phone and punched in a number he knew by heart, the number for McGillin’s Ale House.

“Hello, Red?” Louis said.

“Yeah, this is Red.”

“It’s Louis Carew. Is that Arab guy still there—you know, the one I was talking to earlier?”

“He’s still here. That other one, the Russian. He left a while ago. You want I should tell him you called?”

“No!” Louis said, his voice betraying his excitement. “Uhh, what I mean is, I want to talk to the Arab guy, okay?”

“Sure. Hold on.”

Anxious moments passed. Louis began to sweat. He rehearsed an imaginary conversation in his head… what he would say and what he hoped the Arab would say. Would this Ben character play ball with him alone, or would he insist that Krevchenko be in on any deal to snatch the Phillips kid?

“Hello?” Ben’s voice sounded suspicious. Clearly, the Muslim was unaccustomed to receiving phone calls in a bar, especially one located smack dab in the middle of America’s Cradle of Democracy.

“This is Louis Carew. I was with Pytόr and you earlier.”

There was a pause. Louis figured either Ben was trying to place the name with a face, or he was deciding if he wanted to speak with a man he had only just met. He held his breath and waited.

“Yes. I remember.” Ben rolled the Rs in the word remember. He spoke in a quiet yet wary voice.

Louis fished a handkerchief from his a pocket and blotted away a trickle of sweat that had found the corner of his mouth.

He said, “Krevchenko gave me a list of client requirements. I just finished going over it, and umm… I noticed one of the things listed was a certain person you had a specific interest in.”

Louis let the thought sink in. His tongue flicked around his lips. They were salty and dry. He could hear the Arab breathe.

Caution colored Ben’s reply when he spoke.

“I recall something like that, but you must be more specific.”

Louis pressed the thought.

“We discussed certain, shall we say, clients who have certain tastes in, umm, companionship. I just reviewed the particulars Pytόr gave me on one such client. This person went so far as to request a companion—a boy—by name. Do you remember that?”

Again, caution.

“Yes, I seem to remember something like that.”

“What would you say if I told you I can deliver this person of interest?”

Now it was Ben’s turn to sweat. He shifted the phone receiver from one ear to another and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece.

“I would say that the identity of the person of interest, as you put it, would have to be proved, and I would also say that a means of transport out of the country would have to be provided by you. Do you understand?”

“How much is your client prepared to advance?” Louis asked.

“That is a matter for my client to decide. You can say what you feel is a fair price, and I will ask. I must warn you, this depends on whether the person of interest is indeed the one sought by the client and if delivery can be made without interference by the authorities. If not, nothing is paid.”

“I understand. As for, shall we say, a finder’s fee, I was thinking in the range of four million.”

Ben gave a short gasp. “Four million! Am
erican
dollars? Pytór did not say—”

“This deal has nothing to do with Pytór. You want the boy in question, and I can get him, because I’ve already made contact. If you want him, you have to deal with me, exclusively. As I said, the price is four million.”

Once again, the Arab was silent.

“The amount you demand is much larger than we expected to pay.”

Louis ignored the remark.

“When can you let me know? Maybe someone else would be interested in the boy.”

“Where can I reach you?” asked Ben.

Louis gave Ben his cell phone number, adding, “Ben, one more thing. Remember, this is a private deal, just between us. Understand?”

Another trail of perspiration snaked a crooked path down Louis’s cheek, crossed to his chin, and fell with a splat onto the floor.

The short chuckle from Ben confirmed for Louis that the Arab understood. Pytόr Krevchenko would not be a party to this particular adventure in flesh peddling.

Louis ended the conversation, returned the receiver to its cradle, and then began a tense wait. He had been prepared to hand over the Phillips brat for nothing, but he reasoned that if he could recoup the losses Jan Phillips’s law firm had cost him, so much the better. Four million dollars would also go a long way in freeing him from his father’s shadow.