A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [88]
“Yes.”
Helena winced. Damn the lonely nights without that man.
“I’m fucked up now,” Quinn rasped. “The ebb tide and the high tide are ripping through my middle. Didn’t she know this would kill me?”
“She was sick. She is more well now than I’ve ever known her,” Carlos said.
“I’m not the only guy in the world who’s gotten stiffed. So what’s the proffer, what’s the tender? Lose my dignity—forgive? Can I set eyes on her again?”
“That’s up to you. Rita and I can’t go on together. Send her away if you must. Mal will be close by.”
“Can you?” Helena asked.
Quinn burst apart, sobbing. “I want children with her. I want to go to my end with her. It’s no time for mendacity. Maybe I can find forgiveness. I don’t know.”
Carlos knew what was coming, yet he took it bitterly. But Carlos was of Mexican stuff, and he had betrayed his friend and it would claw at him forever.
“Will it ever come to pass that you’ll forgive me?”
“We are men, Carlos. We are different from a man and a woman. I could not forgive you if you committed treason or committed a hate murder or raped. Your crime is…not even a crime, yet there was a single moment in all of this it could have been prevented. You could have said no. I would have said no. Men who love each other cannot betray that trust. That’s worse than death.”
Carlos made aimlessly to a place where he could lean. He slipped into another chair. His body needed support. All about him, every day, he saw a parade of “honorable” men he did not trust and who did not trust him: politicians, border patrols, dealers, kingpins…
…this was not only a game of boy and girl. This was mistrust because he was not to be trusted and those he dealt with were likewise ready to betray.
How could he tell Quinn that God had not made him into a Quinn? Carlos made the profound gesture to send her home, but only because he could not have her. And he would plunge back into his life of chartered jets and offshore sleaze, covering a pile of manure with a blanket of roses until that fucking day Carlos Martinez made the wrong move or the worse of two bad choices.
He needed to be alone to sort it out, and he went into the study. Helena watched Quinn, sadly, hopefully.
Carlos returned in time. “It’s all set,” he said. He looked to Quinn, hoping desperately that Quinn would give him a flicker of respite. He gave a quick smile to Helena, took up his coat and went to the door, then stopped for a few seconds.
“Be sure to take your pistol,” Quinn said.
Chapter 22
NEW YORK
NEW YEAR’S EVE 1999
It was still four hours to midnight. The party was jumping. The great cruise ship pepsiGENERATION passed the nasdaqTRADER partway up the Hudson toward the tropicanaGEORGE WASHINGTON BRIDGE.
Both ships were fully lit, and their noise-making capacity was in full blare. All of Manhattan was lit, a light to remember.
As the witching hour approached in each time zone, there would be big bangs from planet earth to announce to the heavens that we were still here.
NasdaqTRADER had been chartered for the occasion by T3 Industries. An invitation to the party became one of the must celebrations in the country. The guest list was loaded with a Who’s Who in politics, industry, the banking behemoths, media kings and emperors, Nike and Addidas leapers, a deep scoop into the black leadership, movie and TV actor/gods and a few celebrity mobsters given amnesty for the occasion, right-wing Baptists who called off the war on alcohol for this night, and a few Jews who were geniuses at T3 Industries. They had emigrated from Russia.
Thornton Tomtree bundled into an overcoat and stepped out of the wheelhouse. Darnell was by the rail, staring at the mega-sight of Manhattan. He was alone, in reverie, unaware of the blowing horns.
“It’s been a hell of a life,” Thornton said with his breath darting downriver. “You know, I’m rather slow in giving credit to anyone but myself. It was your guidance and keen judgment that got us here,