The Immortality Plot

The Immortality Plot - chapter 27

Grace Ryan stood stock still on the Avenue of the Americas. Around her the buzz of Manhattan life continued. Mike Delaney stood next to her. He sensed her confusion and unease. The usually aggressive and opinionated civil rights lawyer with journalistic pretensions had been deeply involved with violent confrontations and situations most of her working life. But she had never been privy to such immediate and almost terminal violence of the kind she had just witnessed.

Delaney seemed to be two completely different people. The man who had been discussing spiritual values and singing folk songs from the heart the evening before had turned into a potential killer in the blink of an eye. But then she reminded herself. He didn’t actually kill anyone. He could have murdered Claude Rattin easily and Ryan knew he wanted to. Many would have said he had every right to. She could just imagine how a jury would react.

But he had turned back from the brink. What did that say about him? Then again, what would he have done if she hadn’t been there? She didn’t dare think. And yet he possessed this overwhelming aura of honesty and righteousness and a belief in justice.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Delaney said to her.

“I’m just a bit shaky, that’s all,” she replied.

“I need to call Bob Messenger,” he said. “And I need to call the police.”

She glanced up at him, her faith partially restored.

“Let’s find some coffee,” Delaney took her by the arm and steered her across the street through the crowd.

At that moment, Chantelle appeared at the top step of the Harvard Club. She saw Delaney and Ryan disappearing through a crush of people. New York City, thought Lucius Gynt, pouting at a rather attractive young man who was passing by, there’s nowhere on Earth quite like it. Chantelle swung her hips and stepped onto the sidewalk, hand raised to call a cab. Two yellow taxis arrived at once. Well, which one would she choose? One driver was an ugly North African type and the other a rather delicious Nordic specimen. “Hello, Sven,” she murmured to herself dismissing the other cab with a flick of her wrist. “Take Chantelle home, my pale dove.” Chantelle winked at the blond driver as she slid into the back seat.

“Yorkville, darling, and take the scenic route. Have you had lunch?”

••••

Delaney and Ryan found a diner with sidewalk tables. He ordered straight coffee, no fancy Latte or Mocha. Ryan went for green tea. They sat on a sidewalk table then Delaney told Ryan to stay there while he went inside to look for a payphone.

Moments later Delaney was dialling Bob Messenger’s number. The Englishman sounded a little strained when he answered.

“Well, my old mate,” he grunted. “I thought your last post would stir things up a little but I hadn’t been expecting world war fucking three.”

“What happened, Bob?” Delaney sounded concerned.

“I’m a bloody movie star,” Messenger laughed. “You’ve probably missed my Oscar winning performance as the victim of unbridled violence. I’m not too bad. Laura is fussing over me like a bloody mother hen. I’ve had worse. I’ve got to see a dentist today and my nose has been broken, again. But, they’ve already been caught. Bastards! I told you those cameras would come in useful. Our ratings have gone through the bloody stratosphere, old mate.”

“I had no idea you’d been attacked. It’s my fault, sorry about that,” said Delaney.

“Nah!” growled Messenger. “That’s showbiz. John Farrell had a right barney in Chicago. There’s nothing he likes more than a good, old-fashioned scrap. He’s not one of these winky-wanky, oriental, Bruce Lee, fancy hand wavers like you. He’s a good old style barroom brawler. We ran footage on the site of both attacks simultaneously. The guys who attacked us were just hired hands. They’ll know nothing. But seriously, we’re both okay and so are our people. Our attack happened first thing this morning our time. John’s was earlier. But we’re journalists, matey. It means we’ve struck a nerve. Now, tell me what’s been happening at your end?”