Angel Face Read Online Free Page B

underground a third of the way up. They’re in another world now, Harlem behind them, Columbia University and Barnard College to either side. Landscaped medians, carefully attended, run the length of each block. Even in the rain, even lit by the odd amber light cast by the street lamps, the contrast with the black and Latino neighborhood to the north catches Carter’s attention, as it has before. Thousands of tulips rise straight from the earth, tulips of every color, proud as soldiers on a parade ground. And there’s at least one cherry tree on every block. In another week, if the weather stays warm, they’ll be in their full glory. For now, their tight blossoms cast a fuzzy pink haze over the rain-slicked branches.
    They crest the hill and head down toward 110th Street, another borderline. No more gardens, no more tulips or daffodils or cherry trees, no more Columbia University. They’re in an obscure neighborhood called Manhattan Valley. Twenty years before, Manhattan Valley was an open-air drug market that would have put a Moroccan bazaar to shame. Now it’s partially gentrified, like all of Manhattan. This is where Angel lives.
    Carter double-parks in front of a fire hydrant midway between 108th and 107th Streets. He looks at Angel in the rear-view mirror as he releases the door locks, but he’s thinking of his sister. Only two weeks ago, he’d be heading for the Cabrini Nursing Home on the Lower East Side to pay Janie a visit, maybe read a little from the Bible. Angel looks back at him, catching his eyes in the mirror, and again he’s struck by her beauty.
    â€˜This outfit you work with . . .’
    â€˜Pigalle Studios.’
    â€˜Yeah, Pigalle Studios. Do you have some kind of stage name? So the clients know who to ask for?’
    â€˜Sure.’
    â€˜What is it?’
    Angel’s smile reveals porcelain-white teeth. ‘Angel Face.’
    â€˜OK, Angel Face, one more piece of advice. Over the next few days, you’re gonna be sorely tempted to tell somebody what happened. Don’t do it. As far as you’re concerned, everyone’s a cop. You run your mouth, you’ll go to jail. Let the cops prove you were in that house. Don’t help them. Benedetti was a mob guy and there are plenty of suspects out there, so it’s entirely possible the cops won’t connect you to him. In which case, it’s even more important that nobody else knows what happened. And get rid of the outfit, the dress and the shoes. Do it tonight.’

FOUR
    C arter spends the evening, until ten o’clock, at Milton’s, a sports bar off Queens Boulevard in the community of Woodhaven. Milton’s is all about the American male’s addiction to athletics. Twenty flat screen televisions, small and large, suspended from the ceiling or attached to the walls, are tuned to networks telecasting every sport currently in season. Priority naturally falls to New York teams, the Yankees and the Mets, and to the ongoing play-offs in hockey and basketball. Lesser attractions play in the corners, a soccer match from England, thoroughbred horse racing from a California track. On a small set to Carter’s left, a mixed martial arts champion beats his hapless opponent to a bloody pulp.
    Carter’s chosen Milton’s partly because it’s close to Janie’s condominium apartment, where he’s spending the night. But Carter’s also drawn to the bar’s vibrancy, and to its varied clientele. There are as many degenerate gamblers as there are sports fans, a few bookies taking last minute wagers, and a bevy of young women out for an evening with their perpetually adolescent boyfriends. They root their favorites on, fueled by alcohol, marijuana (the bathrooms reek of weed) and the cocaine peddled by Milton’s resident dealer, a small-time jerk named Sal who pretends to be connected.
    Carter hangs by himself at a free-standing table near a back wall,