This is a honeycomb world.It hides a hollow heart.
It hides the truth.
Chapter 18
Edward Kenney was back in the bosom of his wife and two lovely children, and Roger Teal was in the company of his soon-to-be ex-wife—the clock had been ticking on the marriage for a while—and the teenage daughter he wouldn’t miss after the divorce came through, though he supposed he’d have to put up a fuss about visitation rights for appearances’ sake.
Lying in bed at night, fantasizing about a future free of the weight of family, Teal would speculate on whether the Game was providing an outlet for an intense dislike of the two females in his life.Without the Game, he might already have murdered both of them, for which he could have blamed his feisty Mediterranean heritage.Teal’s late Italian grandmother,che riposi in pace, once remarked that the historic referendum of 1974, in which Italians voted to retain a law legalizing divorce, was passed by a large majority, even in the face of opposition from the Catholic hierarchy, because most sensible adults viewed divorce as preferable to poisoning and stabbing, the more traditional Italian methods of closure for troubled marriages.The apple, Teal accepted, never fell far from the tree.
But if Edward Kenney was right about the Saint’s plans, and a fourth player was to be introduced, too many years might pass before Teal was permitted to play the Game again.In that case, a divorce would be for the best, because what Teal hadn’t told Kenney—was reluctant to admit even to himself—was that as he slowly finished off Nola Maddick in Detroit, savoring the moment, he had briefly visualized both his wife and his daughter, Maddick’s face transforming first into one, then the other; and rather than giving Teal pause, it only made him want to hurt Maddick more.If he was to retain his freedom, and thus continueplaying the Game, it was important that these XX chromosome sources of domestic aggravation should be distanced as quickly as possible.As for what he’d do if forced to delay playing, he might have to look into some form of medication.He could ask his physician to prescribe a pill for anxiety, preferably with the additional benefit of temporarily curbing his libido.
Yet should he have to go to all that trouble because the Saint wanted to increase the number of players from three to four?They were getting along fine as they were.They had a system.They looked out for one another, one for all and all for one, because if one fell, so might three.A new player would only complicate matters and put them at risk.Teal still hoped Kenney was wrong about the Saint, but his experience was that Kenney—chubby, hail-fellow-well-met, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly Ed—was rarely wrong about much, not when it came to the Game.If so, it meant the Saint was not only on the verge of introducing a fourth player, but might have embarked on a separate Game of his own.That would be selfish and dangerous.
Teal visualized killing the Saint.It turned out to be easier than expected.Easier, and surprisingly pleasurable.
Chapter 19
Liat drove Louis to the Lower East Side: Norfolk Street, south of East Houston, where she parked in front of a brownstone adjacent to the Angel Orensanz Center, once a Gothic Revival synagogue and now the studio and gallery of the eponymous Spanish artist, as well as a performance space.Incongruously, a statue of Lenin stood on the rooftop of one of the nearby buildings.It was either an art installation, thought Louis, or someone had despaired of even socialism providing an answer to the nation’s ills and decided that full-tilt communism was the way to go.
Louis gathered that the venue for their meeting had not been chosen lightly.For a short time, the basement of the Orensanz Center had served as a holding cell for a killer named Kittim, and Epstein was one of his jailers.Back then, Louis had regarded Kittim only as an unusually disfigured criminal, a marabou stork in human form, but subsequent events caused him to revise that opinion, though he had remained reluctant to accept Kittim’s nature as angelic, fallen or otherwise.But over the years that followed, the reservation fell by the wayside.
Now, less than an hour since Kade had spoken to Louis of Sturgis and angels, here was the rabbi, a cup of green tea on the table before him, a pot next to it, waiting to hold converse next to the center.From across the street came the laughter of children in a playground, but Louis could not say whether he found the sound reassuring or disconcerting.
“May I pour you some tea?”Epstein asked, as Louis took the chair across from him.
Louis, who regarded herbal tea as an abomination, declined, and coffee was sourced instead.
Louis took in the apartment.Its furnishings were old and very worn, but spoke distantly of quality and expense.The art on the walls, both prints and originals, was uniquely German Expressionist: Louis identified at least one of the latter that might have been a Kandinsky, and another a Klee.The air smelled of soups and stews left sitting too long, and beneath that a sickly sweetness, like cheap spilled wine.He could see no books, and the environs said the owner was an older woman.
“The apartment isn’t mine,” said Epstein.
“I’d be surprised if it was.”
“It belongs to an old friend, but she’s frequently out of town.I find it calming in small doses.”
“It’s too somber for my tastes,” said Louis.
“The owner is photophobic.She’s also a depressive.I am not sure if one is a consequence of the other, and if so, which is cause and which effect.”
Louis heard noises from farther back in the apartment.
“I thought you said she was out of town.”
“She is.That’s Reuven.He’s a caretaker.You’ll meet him momentarily.”
Epstein plucked a tea leaf from his tongue and placed it on his saucer.
“I believe, when last we spoke, that our mutual friend Mr Parker was still recovering from his brush with mortality—his most recent brush, I mean, unless I’ve missed one since.With him, it can be hard to keep up.”
“Someone put him in the hospital last year,” said Louis.“Broken nose, busted ribs, concussion.For him, that’s like anyone else stubbing a toe.”
“He has a remarkable capacity for endurance,” said Epstein.“And a similarly remarkable need for it.”
“I’ll admit he’s a magnet for misfortune.”
“He must consider himself cursed.”
Those bright old eyes regarded Louis closely, alert to any slight response to words carefully chosen, but he received none and moved on.
