“What do you make of that?” Anisette said. “And who is Michael Dempsey?”
Francis pictured Michael in the roomful of chessboards madly pounding on the typewriter. Why hadn’t he taken a moment right then and there to see what Michael had written? Once again, he had been too hasty, too eager to pursue his own agenda to put Michael first. Now he held this page in his hand and he was so stunned that he almost answered, He’s my brother, before recovering: “He’s another Irish poet. And now you must forgive me,” he said. “I have left Malcolm on his own and really should tend to him. May I escort you to the front steps?”
“You’re kind,” she said. “But you look ready to jump out of your skin. Go to your brother. I’ll spend a little more time in the Northern Renaissance.”
“Your parents will think me a cad for not escorting you home.”
“Then I won’t tell them,” she said. “It will be our secret.”
He wanted to kiss her—her hand, her cheek, her lips—but he was certain that such a show of affection, even passion, would be too much like Francis and not at all like Angus. Instead he took her hand, briefly, and gave it a squeeze that had to stand in for all the things he had not said and all the kisses he could not yet give.
“Till Saturday, then?” he said.
In response, she pursed her lips into a smile that resembled a kiss, and though he was already moving away from her, he had to wonder if perhaps kissing her in front of all those Dutch faces would have been exactly the right thing to do. But then he was through the low arch and out of the gallery, down a side corridor and quickly descending a flight of stairs that he was reasonably certain would take him to the exit. His hand glided over the polished bronze banister, cool to the touch in the close air, and he saw below the black-and-white scalloped tile of the museum’s first floor. As he reached the foot of the stairs he knocked his fingers against the banister, a dull ping, and from over his shoulder came a voice:
“Francis Dempsey.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact, and Francis half turned before he checked himself: Angus, I’m Angus. The man who had spoken his name had already closed the distance between them and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
In the Scottish accent: “You must have me confused with another—”
“Francis Dempsey,” the man said. “You need to come with me.”
The man was a solid block, rough-hewn. His voice was Irish—Francis would have said a Cork man, if pressed—but watered down by America, like Martin’s.
“I’m sorry, friend,” Francis said. “But I’ve somewhere I need to be.”
“You knew someone would come for you. There’s an easy way to do this and there’s a hard way.”
Francis looked over his shoulder, gauging the length of the corridor that led to the entrance hall. The man was stout but he did not look fleet of foot. Francis wondered if he could outrace him to the street, collecting Michael along the way.
The big man let out a breath like a sigh, like he was disappointed or resigning himself to what was to come. He opened one side of his jacket, offering a glimpse of the gun holstered under his arm. “If you run, I’ll have a decision to make. Who would you trade yourself for? Your girlfriend upstairs? Your brother, the little one, on the bench outside? Or your older brother, the one in the Bronx with the nice family?”
Francis’s mouth filled with sawdust. “You wouldn’t,” he said, barely a whisper.
The man held his gaze without moving. He seemed not even to draw a breath. “You’re coming with me,” he said, and when he flicked his chin, Francis began to walk toward the front door, each step as though it were being taken through the dense wet suck of a bog. The man was just over his shoulder, following him down the corridor and into the great hall, as implacable as the statues flanking the room. Francis trod in front of him, his feet grinding the tile floors, searching his mind for something to say that would buy him time or earn him a spot of goodwill. He sorted through questions like a man riffling a deck of cards for an ace. Where were they going? And how were they to get there? And what was to become of—
“Michael,” Francis said as they passed through the door and paused at the top of the broad stone steps. “I can’t leave my brother alone. He can’t tend to himself. He’s bad off.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you brought him here.”
“It was your own people that did this to him. If you’ve an ounce of mercy in you—”
“I don’t.” The man’s voice came out through gritted teeth. He scanned the street and took notice of a black car idling by the curb, much to the consternation of the cabs, buses, and other cars that jammed Fifth Avenue. “We’re going to walk down the stairs and step into that car, and don’t get any ideas.”
“You’ve got this all wrong,” Francis said. “If you would only let me—”
“You’re pleading your case to the wrong man,” he said. “Now go.”
IN TRANSIT
CRONIN HAD PLAYED A hunch and the hunch had paid off. Yesterday, Gavigan had given the order to bring in Francis Dempsey, and Cronin knew the old man would be getting antsy. That was a lousy reason to rush and risk botching the whole operation, but it was reason enough. Last night, Cronin had seen the two brothers leave the Plaza around dinnertime and return two hours later. Shortly afterward, Francis departed on his own, by cab. Cronin hadn’t bothered to follow him. As long as the youngest was at the hotel, Francis would eventually return. When he saw the two of them cross Fifty-Ninth Street to the park this afternoon, he knew it was time to act. The crowds. The pathways. There would be a chance to catch Francis alone.
From the phone booth outside the museum he had called Gavigan and told him to send a car. Now he had Francis Dempsey, and the two rode side by side in the backseat, bound for a meeting with the man himself. Dempsey appeared white as wax. If he was puzzling this all out in his head, he hadn’t yet found any answers. He had been mouthy when Cronin first approached him—full of brio from living like the last great playboy for a week—but only a few words from Cronin had taken the starch out of him.