A widower dedicated to his daughter, single father and novice P.I. Terry Orr, who had lost his artist wife and infant son to violence, soon finds himself drawn to the work of solving crimes as he searches for the killer of a cab driver and the individual responsible for an explosion at the opening of a SoHo art gallery. A first novel. Reprint.
Chapter One
We were walking down Greenwich Street, in the moments before twilight, on our way home.
An hour earlier, Bella announced that we were having grilled hamburgers for dinner, and I shrugged in agreement and threw on my short coat over a torn t-shirt and jeans. We'd been living on Italian food; the refrigerator freezer overflowed with containers of pesto con gorgonzola, lasagne con melanzane and the like, prepared by our housekeeper Mrs. Maoli, who seemed to believe I'd allow Bella to waste away without her cooking.
The canvas sack Bella now carried was as full as mine, but, with a glint of mischief in her eyes, she had packed hers with paper products, Boston lettuce, two Portuguese rolls, a copy of Seventeen magazine and a lightbulb. I had the canned goods, a half-gallon of skim milk, five pounds of potatoes and a softball-sized red onion. As she lifted her sack at the Food Mart checkout, she quoted John Stuart Mill: "Each to his own ability, Dad." My daughter is very clever. "I know," she once said. "I'm too smart for my own good." Apparently, I sometimes forget that she's younger than she seems.
"Dad, I heard a good one today."
"Yeah."
"Did you roll your eyes at me? Don't," she warned. "My information is solid."
"Your information is rumor."
"Be that as it may," she replied. "But Mrs. Maoli believes me."
Of course your surrogate nonna believes you. She fed you, changed you, nurtured you while Mama was painting, while I scribbled my nonsense.
"Ready to listen?"
I shifted the heavy sack up into my arms. "I'm a giant ear.'
"Cynic," she charged. "But, if you listen to me, I'll forgive you."
We reached the corner of Beach Street. With very little traffic on a late Sunday afternoon, we crossed easily heading south, as a few yellow cabs went toward the World Trade Center. On the other side of the wide, pothole-scarred avenue, a young man with Aztec features, his black hair pulled into a long, glimmering ponytail, struggled with three impatient dogs. A tall, auburn-haired woman in a midnight-blue suit, white silk blouse and pearls frowned in anger as she checked her watch and craned her neck to glare uptown. In the air was the scent of the river, and I could smell the dusky potatoes and the paper sack I had in my arms.
Bella said, "Now, Dad, Little Mango told me his uncle saw Isabella Rossellini at the TriBeCa Grill and she was drunk and screaming for Martin Scorsese to be a man and come out and fight and Robert De Niro had to calm her down and then Scorsese's mother had to come over and she was wearing a housecoat and she put her arm around her to calm her down and she started sobbing, saying 'Mama, Mama' and the cops came and it was wild." She didn't breathe; she gasped. "And I don't know how they kept it out of the papers. But it must have been wild. Mango said it was really wild."
Little Mango was the son of Jimmy Mango, a neighborhood wiseguy, and the nephew of Tommy Mangionella, a hard-ass policeman. It was a toss-up as to who was crazier, Jimmy or Tommy the Cop.
"So?" she asked.
"Very vivid."
"Wild, huh?"
"Bella, I heard the same story when I was a kid. Only it was Ava Gardner looking for Frank Sinatra at the Copa and it was Dolly Sinatra who did the calming down."
"Could happen twice."
The TriBeCa Grill was, in fact, part-owned by De Niro, who I've seen in the neighborhood but never in his restaurant. I said, "Mrs. Scorsese died a few years ago."
"Maybe it was someone who looked like her."
"Yeah, maybe it was Ingrid--" I stopped myself, and exhaled slowly. "Diddio would've said something." Diddio is a rock and jazz critic who loved brushing up against celebrities. "Nobody said anything about a brawl."
"You can be so naive sometimes," she huffed. "They can keep it quiet, Dad. They're rich."
I was preparing my reply when I looked up and saw her skidding toward us, her arms waving, a frantic, near-maniacal expression on her round face. Purple jacket open and billowing behind her, she bore down on us, shrill-shouting out our names, flapping, flouncing.
"Yikes," Bella whispered.
It was Judith Henley Harper. Judy had been Marina's
"Terry! Terry Orr!" Hugs; air kisses, cheek-against-cheek, as she arrived. Bella flinched, but was gracious.
"Gabriella, oh my god in heaven! Dear, how old are you? You must be, what? A teenager, at least."
"I'm twelve," she chirped.
"Twelve years old, my goodness." She turned to me, and went on her toes to touch my head just above the ear. "Your hair's a little longer, Terry, no? Very becoming. The slightest hint of gray, not too, too much; is it? I like it. I approve. Though what are you? Thirty-two-ish? A little early for gray, maybe. Maybe."
She stepped back to examine us, giving me a chance to look closely at her. I figured Judy for about 55 years old, though her exuberance, her butterfly gestures, bright eyes, made her physical age irrelevant. She was a ball of energy, under short hair that was either blond or silver, depending on the light, that she combed with her fingers. There was a time when I would've welcomed her company, when I would've invited her to join Marina, Bella, Davy and me for tonight's dinner.
She adjusted the pale-violet frames of her glasses and returned to Bella. "And who do you look like, dear? What I mean is, you don't look very much like your father. Nor do you look at all like Marina. But you'll be tall, like your mother. Not as tall as your father, thank goodness." She grabbed Bella by the chin and squeezed. "You have your own beauty, dear Gabriella. Very cute. Lucky. Yes."
"Thank you," Bella managed. She adjusted her faded denim jacket.
Judy made a sad, sympathetic face. "So, Terry, really, how are you?"
"I don't know, Judy." I shrugged. "Fine."
"I think about her, Terry. She was gifted. No doubt about that."
"Yeah, you were good to her, Judy."
She waved her hand, dismissing the compliment. "Her work sold itself, Terry." She smiled. "And would continue to, if you'd let me."
I shook my head. "I told you, Judy--"
"Now, now, Terry. Don't get huffy."
We had four of Marina's paintings in our home, four of the seven that remained in the family. They were landscapes of the environs of the Foggia region of Italy, where she was born and had been raised: the sea-arch of Vignanotica; the cliffs of the Gargano coastline; the view east from the church of San Giovanni; and Lake Occhito, near Campobasso. Her father, who still lived in the province, had two street scenes Marina had done here in TriBeCa, and her sister Rafaela had a portrait of her son, Marina's godson, a work that was the least characteristic and by some accounts, the most interesting.
Judy knew I would never sell these remaining works, but I suppose I didn't blame her for trying: She's no mere mercenary, but she's not in business to amuse herself, like some of her effete peers whose rich husbands set them up with a few paintings in a well-appointed yet soulless gallery. Judy presented Marina's first major exhibition nine years ago, and from her small storefront in SoHo, she sold 46 paintings and a dozen or so sketches, making certain that the work of Marina Fiorentino was well known not only downtown and around Manhattan but throughout the art world, arranging shows in London, Seville, Paris and Florence. (For her efforts, she'd pocketed 15 percent of the $18.5 million those sales netted.) To this day, Marina is the subject of articles in art magazines, and a TV documentary she's featured in turns up every now and then on PBS, on MSG's Metro channels. Last year, Bella's web search on her mother produced more than 5,800 hits. Later, after Bella went off to bed, I repeated the search and found that some 3,000 of them were about her murder. I didn't read any of them. I know that story better than anyone else.
"Terry, did I hear right? Have you been working as some sort of private detective? Is this true?"
Bella interrupted. "He's doing research for a new book. On, er, Samuel Jones Tilden."
And with that, Judy became animated again; her voice jumped an octave, her hands darting as she spoke. "Good for you, Terry. You're writing again. God knows we need you to keep writing, Terry. The world needs books by Terry Orr."
I nodded amicably, or at least what passes for amicably for me now, but I was thinking that social amenities had been exchanged, obligations met and fulfilled, and now it was time to go. I started to inch forward.
"Terry, listen: I want you and Gabriella to come to an opening. I want you to come. I insist. Tomorrow night. Sol Beck. You know Sol Beck." She paused. "Do you know Sol Beck?"
I said no.
"You'll like his work. Very natural, aprÈs Hopper. A touch of darkness. New York without hope." She smiled. "He'll sell."
"Judy, you know that's not my thing--"
"We'll come," Bella chimed.
"Gabriella, good for you. Good. Seven o'clock. You know the drill, Terry."
"Judy," I said, "I--"
"Gabriella, you can bring a boyfr-- No, I guess, at twelve, maybe not yet, although who knows these days? These days: You could be married for all I know. No, I suppose not. Your father probably scares the boys away. How does Mr. Muscles do it? Stomping around like Frankenstein? Big angry face?"
Bella looked up at me. "He's cool with my friends," she said, "mostly."
"Anyway," Judy continued, "you just make sure he comes. Terry, don't make me hound you. You know I can be a terror." She waited a second and put her hands on her hips.
"Terry, you're supposed to say something right about now."
"Well, you are a shark, Judy," I said. "It's your gift."
"From you, Terry Orr, I take that as a compliment." She went on her toes again and I got another set of kisses. Bella did too. "Seven o'clock," she repeated. "Gabriella, nag him into it, okay?"
"I will."
And Judy bounced off, her low heels click-clicking on the cobblestone as she crossed
Beach.
A young, paint-splattered couple emerged from the warehouse behind my daughter. The man, who was no older than 20, wore a circular ring through his eyeb...
