Under the Eye of God by Jerome Charyn Read Free Book Online Page B

like me. He decorates the walls of broken buildings. But he had to move upstate.”
    Angel had commemorated the fallen warriors of the Bronx’s worst gangs, but he’d also been a rat for the NYPD; everyone wanted Angel dead—the cops, the gangs, and probably the Democrats, who couldn’t afford to have him involved in the Little First Lady’s affairs. If he’d gone back to Spofford, the Bronx’s notorious jail for juveniles, his throat would have been cut within a week. So Isaac hid him upstate. He had brought Angel into the Merliners and then whisked him away.
    But the reporters didn’t know that much about Angel Carpen­teros. Suddenly, they had Shakespeare in Manhattan, Romeo and Juliet in the South Bronx. There’d been no daughter of a president-­elect quite like Marianna Storm. They could imagine all the other swains she’d have in DC. They have enough copy for a lifetime.
    “Miss Storm, Miss Storm, what will you do on your first day in the White House?”
    “Run to Uncle Isaac’s office in the West Wing with a batch of butternut cookies. He can barely survive without them. And I’ll have to alert the White House cook. I’m mistress of whatever kitchen I enter. Papa’s new mansion won’t make much of a difference.”
    Everyone was excited again about the White House of J. Michael Storm. But Clarice bristled in front of the reporters. She’d worn her silver lamé dress, could have been Manhattan’s own Cleopatra, and not a soul in the ballroom glanced at her. Reporters heard Clarice mutter “little bitch” under her breath. But she couldn’t ruin Michael’s press conference. She’d never capture the imagination of America. She was part of Michael’s entourage, that’s all. America had a new First Lady, and it wasn’t Clarice.
    * * *
    The Dems considered Michael’s performance a masterpiece. Their man had triumphed, but the Big Guy wasn’t so sure. Something stinks, he muttered to himself. Isaac wondered if a smokescreen was coming directly from the White House. Justice had J. Michael dancing on a stick, and somebody would have to fall. He had his own mavens at Finance rifle through their dossier on Sidereal Ventures, but there were no officers listed other than Michael, Clarice, and the Little First Lady. Sidereal wasn’t in arrears; it paid all its tax bills on time.
    But who had asked little Dennis to smoke Isaac after the election? Somehow, it was tied up with Sidereal, with Michael’s own dealings. And what about Billy Bob, the maniac in San Antone? That little adventure in the cattlemen’s bar was disguised as a deep Texas plot of far right fanatics. Another smokescreen. And what did Calder have to gain? Isaac was about to dial the White House. But the world had its own fucking magic. The mayor’s phone rang in his empty office at the Ansonia. It sounded like the scream of a bat.
    The Prez himself was on the horn. “Isaac, I’m in the neighborhood. Can you meet me at Carl Schurz Park in half an hour?”
    “Calder, why Carl Schurz Park?”
    “I just landed on your lawn.”
    Calder wouldn’t let J. Michael steal Manhattan from him; election or no election, he was still the Prez. And he’d been hovering over the town on board Marine One , after a dash to the Rockaways and Jones Beach; his one pinch of popularity was in the outer boroughs. And Isaac had to race up to Gracie Mansion with Calder’s Secret Service. The Prez was still inside his chopper, a hundred yards from the mayor’s mansion; Marine One had the nose of an eagle.
    Isaac had to have special clearance before he could climb aboard; one of the Prez’s own wild boys patted him down. He had to leave his Glock outside the bird. The inside of Marine One was like the bedroom of a trailer, with leather cushions and a rocking chair. Calder was wearing a Stetson and boots from Abilene. He was born and raised in Arizona, but he’d modeled himself after Lyndon Johnson, the most tenacious and successful senator the southland had