Passion (In Wilde Country 2)

“That’s the way it’s done.”

“Yeah, but she’s nuts.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s how you’ve come to feel, but—”

“You don’t get it. She really is nuts. Crazy. Half a dozen doctors say so. She’s depressed. Anxious. She’s addicted to Christ knows how many prescription drugs.”

“That’s too bad, Tony. Must be rough.”

“Rough? It’s a fucking nightmare. She just gets worse and worse. See, she’s become, what do you call it, delusional. Scary as hell, I tell you, when she starts talking about things she’s seen or heard and you know damn well they’re happening inside her head, or when you ask her about something she’s done and she looks at you like you’re the one who’s nuts. That’s the reason we need a plan.”

We? Matteo rolled his eyes. What’s with the “we” stuff, kemosabe? he felt like saying, but if the woman was mentally ill, Pastore would have his hands full. How could he, in all good conscience, turn his back on the guy?

“Is she under psychiatric care?”

“What’d I just say, man? The doctor says she’s a whack job. Serving her with papers would be like pouring gasoline on a fire.”

“So, what are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know. You’re the lawyer. You tell me.”

“Well, what about her family? Parents. Siblings. Have you discussed her mental condition with them?”

“She’s got nobody.”

Okay, so he couldn’t simply walk away from this, but if things were as bad as they sounded, Tony would need more specialized legal guidance than he could provide.

“Let me do some discreet checking around. It’s possible we may want to consult with another—”

“Fuck that!”

“Listen to me, Tony.”

“No, pal I’m the one who pays you. That means you listen to me!”

Matteo’s eyes narrowed. “Watch yourself,” he said coldly, “or this conversation is over.”

Silence. Then Pastore cleared his throat.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to come on so strong. It’s just… I’m desperate here, paesano. Something has to be done, fast and quiet. I don’t know if you’ve heard… It’s possible some people are going to ask me to run for Congress.”

Aha. Things were becoming clearer. Pastore’s wife might prove an embarrassment.

“Maybe you’re overreacting,” Matteo said carefully. “New York voters are sophisticated. I think most of them would understand the situation. That she’s ill, I mean.”

“Nobody wants a congressman with a nut job for a wife,” Pastore said bluntly. “Besides, that’s not all of it. How’re voters gonna tell lies from the truth, especially when a good-looking babe tells the lies?”

“I’m not in politics, Tony. I’m not the person to ask for this kind of advice.”

“I got all the political advice I need, Bellini. What I need is legal advice. How to end the marriage.” Pastore paused. “Or, I don’t know, maybe how to get her committed.”

“That’s a big step.”

“A big legal step.”

“You have her power of attorney?”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet? Either you have it or you don’t.”

“I mean I don’t have it. Yet.”

“I don’t think you understand. If her mental state is as bad as you say it is, then she’s in no condition to sign such a document now.”

“Yeah, but I’m her husband.” Another pause. “And you’re my lawyer.”

Matteo stood up. “What are you suggesting, Pastore?”

“Nothing, counselor. Nothing! I’m just, you know, thinking out loud. Trying to come up with some ideas because, like I said, this won’t be a walk in the park.” Pastore paused. “Which brings me back to why I called. You need to see exactly what we’re gonna be up against.”

“I told you, once she’s lawyered up—”

“Right. With some two thousand bucks an hour legal mouthpiece who’ll figure out, real fast, that the best way to drain me dry will be to get Ariel and her bullshit in front of every camera in the city. Oh, yeah. That’ll be perfect.”

“Ariel?”

“Her name, man. It’s Ariel.”

Ariel. The name was soft. Too soft for a woman married to Tony Pastore.

“How long have you been married to her?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Alimony payments, for one. How long, Tony?”

“A year.”

“Was she sick when you met her?”

“Not so it showed.”

“How’d you meet her?”

“What in hell does it matter?”

“Everything matters in a divorce.”

Pastore sighed. “I met her at a benefit. A charity thing. She’s one of those, what do you call it? One of those la-di-da bluebloods. You know the type.”

Yes, he did. Old families. Old money. Fancy schools. No occupation aside from raising money for favorite causes. Never mind the softness of her name. The softness of her life made it even more difficult to imagine her as Tony’s wife.

“And you fell in love?”

“Love?” Pastore snorted. “She’s a fine-looking piece of ass. Well, she used to be. Not so much anymore. Plus, you know, this thing about running for office… You need money. No problem. You need connections. I have those, too. What I didn’t have was, you know, a Jackie Kennedy on my arm.”

“And that’s what your wife is?”

“It’s what she was supposed to be. A babe who knows which fork to use at a fancy dinner, who can tell Michelangelo from Mickey Mouse. Trust me, man. You meet her, you’ll see what I thought I had going for me isn’t what I’m dealing with now.”

Matteo rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I have dinner plans,” he said. A lie, but he wanted time to think.

“So forget dinner. We’ll just have a couple of drinks instead. How about at the Carlyle. You know the bar there?”

“Bemelmans,” Matteo said. He knew it. So did most of the power brokers in Manhattan.

“You got it. Walk in seven, seven thirty. You and me, we’ll both act surprised, long time no see, old pals, the whole shtick. I’ll ask you to sit down for a drink, half an hou

r later you’ll say goodbye, it was nice meeting you, Mrs. Pastore. Come Monday morning, you’ll tell me you absolutely get my problem. Yes?”

Matteo hesitated. Years ago, when he’d not only been younger but more foolish, he’d decided, after a night of heavy-duty partying, the best way to start the day was to drive to a small town in the Catskill Mountains where he’d spent ten minutes at the top of a hill that ended at the lip of a cliff, listening to an instructor explain hang-gliding before he’d tuned the guy out, and leaped into space.

It had been exhilarating, but most reckless things seemed that way when you were nineteen.

“Bellini? You still there?”

Matteo sighed. What the hell, maybe eyeballing Ariel Pastore would be a smart move. If she was as off-the-wall as her husband claimed, come Monday morning he’d fell guiltless telling Tony he’d have to find a shrink instead of a lawyer.

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“And?”

“And, I’ll be at the Carlyle at seven thirty.”

“Excellent! I knew you’d do the right thing.”

“I intend to, and you might not like it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, if I think your wife needs a psychiatrist more than you need a lawyer, I won’t take the case.”

“Jesus H. Christ! What are you, a Sicilian saint?”

“That’s the deal, Tony. Take it or leave it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Seven thirty. The Carlyle.”

“Seven thirty,” Matteo said, and ended the call.

CHAPTER THREE

Matteo had always liked the Carlyle bar.

It was a handsome place, with comfortable booths, discreet lighting, good liquor and good food. It even had live jazz after nine thirty most evenings, but the Ludwig Bemelmans drawings of the fictional little girl named Madeline that adorned the room were what made the place special. He hadn’t been able to afford drinking there when he was in college or law school, but now he stopped by to meet friends whenever he could.

He’d always felt comfortable, walking in.

Not tonight.

The room was crowded. He took a quick look around, but he didn’t spot Tony.

Instinct told him coming here, getting drawn into what was probably going to be a mess, was a huge mistake. Wasn’t trust your instincts an old Sicilian saying? If it wasn’t, it should have been.