“An end to his pain.Forgiveness.He and I have that aspiration in common.”
“Where is he?”
Sturgis waved a hand at the night, at the north.
“Far from here, but his reach exceeds his grasp, or to paraphrase the poet, what’s a hell for?”His shoulders sagged.“I’m not going to be saved, am I?”
“I wouldn’t depend on it.”
“It’s not fair.I declined to fall on my sword at the Colonial because those who condemned me were guilty of crimes at least as appalling as mine.I wanted to be the mirror of their guilt.I wanted them to confront their own hypocrisy.But they defenestrated me with a letter.”
“And who might they be, these hypocrites?”
Sturgis tapped the side of his nose with his right index finger.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?And wouldn’t your friend Mr Parker?What will you offer, my life in return for their names?”
“Would you trust me?”Louis replied.“Would I trust you?”
“‘No’ is the answer to both questions,” said Sturgis.“I’ll give you this for free: The one you should most be concerned about remains close.He’s very determined.”
“I could hurt you,” said Louis.“I can make it last until you give up the name.”
“And I’d tell lies to make it stop,” said Sturgis, “which puts us at an impasse.But if I stay silent, hell may be more forgiving than heaven.”
He picked up his glass and raised it to his lips.
“I’d like to finish this, please,” he said.“It will be my last.”
But Louis killed him before the first drop could touch his lips.
Later that night, Epstein—who, in common with the dying, no longer slept well—received a call.
“He gave me a name,” said Louis.
“What name?”
“Brightwell.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I did.”
“What will you do now?”Epstein asked.
“To be honest,” said Louis, “I have no idea.”
V
And as for these spirits which are living, imprison them and hold them fast in the place of condemnation, and let them not bring destruction on the sons of thy servant, my God; for these are malignant, and created in order to destroy.
—The Book of Jubilees, 10:5
Chapter 81
In Detroit, Michigan, life was proving testing for Vincent Bergsma, and showed no signs of getting any easier in the immediate future.
The disappearance of the DEA agent named Gai Cotter had come as a shock to Bergsma, not least because he had known her as Nola Maddick, formerly a minor dealer who could apparently turn product around as fast as it could be supplied, with the result that Bergsma had recently given the nod for her rise within his organization, a promotion further necessitated by a series of moves against him involving, in no particular order, his rivals, the Detroit PD, the DEA, the FBI, and probably the Vatican, the Screen Actors Guild, and the Girl Scouts as well, because why should they miss out on all the fun?That these misfortunes might have been a result, in whole or part, of Cotter’s infiltration of his operation was conceivable.But whatever problems Cotter had caused Bergsma in life were nothing compared to what her unexplained departure had brought down on him.His people were being pulled from the streets, his clubs raided, and his legitimate business interests targeted by the IRS, who made the Black Mafia Family, from whose shadow Bergsma had emerged in the early part of the century, look like ragdoll pussycats.
