Angel of Death. Christian Russell
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thinking of how to spend the evening. Strangely enough, she wasn’t appalled at all by that attitude. He even managed to pass some of that confidence on to her, making her feel protected.
But Mark wasn’t thinking of how to spend the evening at all. How could he? He was walking next to one of God’s gifts to men. He was no longer himself. The woman was extremely beautiful but acted as if she didn’t know it. Her exotic appearance somehow contrasted with her big kind eyes. She seemed a fortunate combination of Aphrodite and the next-door neighbor. All of a sudden, the agent rushed into the street and waved to a taxi. The actress took him gently by the arm.
“Listen, Mr. Du Nancy, I’d rather take a few steps to calm down. Do you mind?”
“No!” Mark answered and he was by no means lying. It was the first time he heard her voice somewhere other than on the screen. He realized that, with those sensuous modulations, it could make the perfect soundtrack to any man’s dreams. And yet he couldn’t understand how someone could regain peace of mind on Eighth Avenue. “I’m sorry about your bodyguard,” he tried to strike a conversation.
“Actually, he wasn’t my bodyguard. Those at the Kaufman Astoria studios sent him to me two days ago. We only exchanged a couple of words. I only know his name was Dejan Mutic, he was a Croat, recently married. Poor woman! I’ll have to find her address and send her a couple of thousand dollars.”
She still had that look of a rabbit caught between the headlights and Mark tried to reassure her. “Don’t be afraid! This ugly story is over!”
“I’m not that scared any more, you know,” she tried to smile. “Although a drop of brandy would do me good.”
“I know a French place near here, on 43rd Street. It’s not exactly Fashion Club but it’s clean and the food’s pretty good. The owner’s a friend of mine,” he boasted.
Several minutes later Mark pointed to a restaurant sign. The words CHEZ NANCY were written with neon letters on a thistle leaf. The actress was puzzled. “Do I get it that your friend’s named his restaurant after you?”
“No,” Mark answered modestly. “The thistle leaf’s the symbol of the city of Nancy in Lorene where his ancestors came from. That city, though, I must admit, was named after me.”
Dorothy smiled, honestly this time. Then with as much swiftness as long practice could provide, she took out a pair of dark glasses and put them on. “OK, let’s go in.”
It was nice inside. It looked like a country club: big flower bunches on the tables, everything spick and span. Even the light was diffuse and relaxing. From an old jukebox in a corner Nick Cave was singing in a deep voice to anyone about some strange story that had happened where the wild roses grew.
Paul, the owner, came up immediately to greet Mark and his companion. He led them to a snug mahogany-panelled booth. When they had settled comfortably a waitress dressed in a traditional Lorene costume came to take their order.
“Are you new here?” Mark asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ve only been here two days,” the girl said, eager to make herself pleasant.
“Would you like something to eat?” Mark asked the actress.
“I haven’t had the chance to try the food from that part of France yet. But there’s always a start, eh? Anything light would do.”
“Well, Napoleon brandy, ice tea, and two champignons à la parure,” the man ordered.
When the girl left the actress told him, “I’d like some brandy too.”
“Never mind, the tea’s for me.”
Trying to avoid her wondering eyes Mark looked around. At the other end of the room the people were in raptures. At two joint tables a large group of men and women were having a great time. Among them Mark recognized Rudolph Weiss, one of Ernest Montevecchi’s lieutenants. Probably the others belonged to the Genovese clan as well. He was determined to be cautious although none of the guests at the table knew him.
“You have a fascinating job, Miss Wheller,” he complimented the actress.
“It’s Dorothy,” she corrected him. “I always allow people who’ve saved my life to call me by my first name. As for the job, what can I say? Yours isn’t a cushy one either, is it? Judging by what I’ve seen today, I don’t think you’re the nine-to-five type of guy.”
“Dorothy...I don’t think your life was threatened. The real target was your uncle. And probably the only one, if you ask me. And you can call me Mark.”
Right then the waitress returned with the order. She set the two plates on the table, then, without hesitation, placed the ice tea before the woman and the brandy before the agent.
“I believe that’s your drink,” Mark tried to smile. “You know, I’ve got a drinking problem!”
She looked down embarrassed then tried to change the subject. “What is this, some sort of hepatitis?”
“Just mushroom salad, that’s all.”
“Tell me, Mark, were you afraid back there, in the box? I’m asking you because you didn’t give me that impression at all.”
“I didn’t have time for that. I was too busy. Though I must admit I’m beginning to feel frightened by what might have happened.”
She stared at him not trying to hide her admiration. “Which means you’re really brave.”
“Really? That was quick! You’ve got a degree in psychology or something?”
“No, but I’m an actress, Mark, and a pretty good one too. I like to think I’m a sort of expert in expressing emotions. Let me explain: white-livered people get scared before the danger appears, cowards in the middle of it, and the brave when everything’s over.”
“Finally, thanks to you, for the first time in my life I get to know who I really am,” he said smiling.
“Do ou often get to kill people in your job? You must be used to death.”
“You never get used to that one!” Mark replied. “I’ve done it twice before. The first time I shot a gun dealer who was pointing a gun at me. The second time, though...,” he suddenly kept quiet, overwhelmed by sadness.
“Tell me about it,” she insisted.
Mark ventured to look straight at her. Dressed in that elegant gown, tight-fitted on her splendid body, she would have put Evangelista or Claudia Schiffer out of work by simply attending a fashion show.
“It happened at the Newark airport. We were waiting for a drug dealer to arrive, ready to bust him. We were standing outside Gate 2 when suddenly from Gate 3 came running a small, bald, middle-aged guy holding a briefcase to his chest. A security guard was chasing him shouting, ‘Watch out! He’s got a bomb!’ Suddenly the little guy stopped and, with a bewildered look on his face, started shouting, ‘Everybody down! I’m going to blow everything up!’ He was about ten feet away from me and I had my gun ready. ‘Shoot!’ the security guard shouted at me. I aimed at his hand but he was moving and the bullet hit him in the chest. As my colleagues were getting at him I prayed hard there was a bomb in that briefcase.”
“And was there?” the actress was curious to know as she took out a cigarette from her purse. He lit it for her.
“Sort of. It was an offensive grenade, half-loaded, probably sold as a cracker. It couldn’t have hurt him too bad, let alone somebody else. I drew close to the little guy. His glasses had fallen down and he looked at me with big, questioning, yet kind eyes. He said he was a Harvard professor and his wife had left him. He died on the way to the hospital. Those eyes have been haunting me ever since. So I created my own way of expiating. Every night for almost a year I dreamed of the little guy. And every time his eyes would tell me a different story about someone’s estrangement and broken destiny: a story for each night, a nightmare every night. I hated my job all that year.” He took