witchcraft and sorcery. He shunned them. He wouldn’t have anything to
do with the old religions of Africa. He had no time for voodoo, no
interest in it. His was a very modern soul, a machine-age sensibility.
He believed in science, not magic; he put his faith in progress and
technology, not in the power of ancient gods.
He didn’t approve of my vocation, but he didn’t believe I could really
do harm to anyone-or do good, either, for that matter. He thought of me
as a harmless eccentric. Yet, for all this misunderstanding, I loved
him, and he loved me. We were brothers. Brothers. I would have done
anything for him.”
“Gregory Pontrain . . .” Jack said thoughtfully.
“There’s something familiar about the name.”
“Years ago, Gregory came here as a legal immigrant.
He worked very hard, worked his way through college received a
scholarship. He always had writing talent even as a boy, and he thought
he knew what he ought to do with it. Here, he earned a degree in
journalism from Columbia. He was first in his class. Went to work for
the New York Times. For a year or so he didn’t even do any writing,
just verified research in other reporters’ pieces. Gradually, he
promoted several writing assignments for himself. Small things. Of no
consequence.
What you would call ‘human interest’ stories. And then-”
“Gregory Pontrain,” Jack said. “Of course. The crime reporter.”
“In time, my brother was assigned a few crime stories. Robberies. Dope
busts. He did a good job of covering them. Indeed, he started going
after stories that hadn’t been handed to him, bigger stories that he’d
dug up all by himself. And eventually he became the Times’ resident
expert on narcotics trafficking in the city. No one knew more about the
subject, the involvement of the Carramazzas, the way the Carramazza
organization had subverted so many vice squad detectives and city
politicians; no one knew more than Gregory; no one. He published those
articles-”
“I read them. Good work. Four pieces, I believe.”
“Yes. He intended to do more, at least half a dozen more articles.
There was talk of a Pulitzer, just based on what he’d written so far.
Already, he had dug up enough evidence to interest the police and to
generate three indictments by the grand jury. He had the sources, you
see: insiders in the police and in the Carramazza family, insiders who
trusted him. He was convinced he could bring down Dominick Carramazza
self before it was all over. Poor, noble, foolish, brave little
Gregory. He thought it was his duty to fight evil wherever he found it.
The crusading reporter. He thought he could make a difference, all by
himself. He didn’t understand that the only way to deal with the powers
of darkness is to make peace with them, accommodate yourself to them, as
I have done. One night last March, he and his wife, Ona, were on their
way to dinner . . .”
“The car bomb,” Jack said.
“They were both blown to bits. Ona was pregnant. It would have been
their first child. So I owe Gennaro Carramazza for three lives-Gregory,
Ona, and the baby.”
“The case was never solved,” Jack reminded him.
“There was no proof that Carramazza was behind it.”
“He was.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“Yes, I can. I have my sources, too. Better even than Gregory’s. I
have the eyes and ears of the Underworld working for me.” He laughed. He
had a musical, appealing laugh that Jack found unsettling. A madman
should have a madman’s laugh, not the warm chuckle of a favorite uncle.
“The Underworld Lieutenant. But I don’t mean the criminal underworld,
the miserable cosa nostra with its Sicilian pride and empty code of
honor. The Underworld of which I speak is a place much deeper than that
which the mafia inhabits, deeper and darker. I have the eyes and ears
of the ancient ones, the reports of demons and dark angels, the
testimony of those entities who see all and know all.”
Madness, Jack thought. The man belongs in an institution.
But in addition to the madness, there was something else in Lavelle’s