Faces of the Gone cr-1

by Brad Parks

  “Knock, knock,” she said after it was already open.

  “Nothing to see here,” I said.

  “Too bad,” she said. Then she lifted up a Banana Republic bag. “I hope I got the sizes right,” she said.

  She pulled out a new shirt, slacks, socks, and boxers.

  “I take back what I said before,” I said. “I don’t think I’m in love with you. I am in love with you.”

  “Oh, you have no idea how true that is,” Tina said, waving a plastic bag. She pulled out a brush, a razor, deodorant, shaving cream-all the things a boy like me needed to feel fresh scrubbed again.

  “You’re the best, Tina. Really. I don’t know what else to say.”

  She just stood there, smiling sweetly at me, looking so damn hot. The dream was still fresh in my mind-as was the backrub and the sweet whispering-and I just couldn’t help myself. I gently removed the bags from her hands and pulled her close for the kind of deep, wet kiss that was by now about three days overdue.

  But somehow she dodged it, turning my big move into a hug. And it wasn’t a full-body, this-is-about-to-turn-into-something-good hug. It was strictly shoulders and arms, the kind you’d expect to receive from your girlfriend’s best friend.

  “A simple ‘thanks’ will do,” she said, giving my towel-covered butt a playful smack as she pulled away.

  “Well, thanks,” I said sheepishly.

  “Get dressed. You’ve got work to do.”

  She left me to shave and inspect my new clothes, an open-collared shirt with enough Lycra in it to give it a little bit of a stretchy feel and pinstriped pants that were, naturally, flat-front.

  “How come everyone is always pushing me toward flat-front pants?” I hollered. “What’s wrong with pleats?”

  “You’re right,” Tina called back from the living room. “There’s nothing wrong with pleats-if you’re seventy-two years old and need a little give so your pants won’t rip during a particularly strenuous game of shuffleboard.”

  I harrumphed and finished dressing. When I emerged from the bathroom, Tina was seated at the kitchen table, her head in a crossword puzzle. She looked up and gave me a wolf whistle.

  “Looking good there, Mr. Ross.”

  I gave her a model’s half turn. “Yeah, GQ just won’t stop calling.”

  “So what’s your plan now that you’re all spiffy?”

  I went back to my various shower-stall brainstorms and tried to prioritize. Eating vegetables and exercising came in last. Putting Tommy on Irving Wallace watch and visiting Brenda Bass came first.

  “Does Tommy Hernandez work on Saturdays?” I asked.

  “Tommy is an intern. He works when I tell him to.”

  “Perfect. I was thinking it would be really nice to have a set of eyes on Irving Wallace. Think Tommy is up for a little game of Spy versus Spy?”

  “Would you like to make the call or should I?”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, pulling out my cell phone and selecting Tommy’s number. It rang five times before a very sleepy-sounding young man picked up.

  “Hello?” he said. It wasn’t Tommy. The voice was too deep.

  “Hi. Can you put Tommy on?”

  The young man was instantly on guard. “And who’s this?” he said, the jealousy oozing through the phone.

  “Relax. It’s his boss.”

  “Oh,” he said, then I heard him say, “Honey, it’s your boss.”

  Tommy picked up. “You’re not my boss.”

  “Yeah, but I’m with your boss right now, so it’s really the same thing.”

  “Does that mean you spent the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean you finally did it?”

  “None of your business.”

  “That’s a ‘no,’ ” Tommy said, clearly disappointed. “How am I ever supposed to become Uncle Tommy to Tina’s baby if you don’t make the honorable move and shag her dirty?”

  “No comment,” I said. “And now I’m changing the subject. I need you to do something for me today.”

  “Oh, come on,” he whined. “I have plans.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “But it’s Saaaaturday,” he persisted.

  “Yes, and tomorrow is Sunday and the next day is Monday.”

  “Is he giving you a tough time?” Tina asked me.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Give me the phone,” she said. “Let me show you how an enlightened manager deals with her people.”

  I tossed Tina the phone.

  “Tommy, stop being a bitch,” she said, waiting briefly for Tommy’s response.

  “I don’t care, stop being a bitch,” she said. “And whatever you’re about to say next, I don’t care about that, either. So stop being a bitch. We’re done. Get to work.”

  Tina held the phone out for me. “Problem solved,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah, that was really inspired leadership there,” I said, walking over and taking it from her. “You learn that from reading a book or did you get it from the sensitivity seminars they make you attend?”

  “Hey, it worked,” she said. “You’ve got your spy, don’t you?”

  I filled Tommy in on the latest details and how I had come to believe Irving Wallace was the Director. Tommy listened well. As I wound down the conversation, I reminded him to stop in the office and pick up a copy of the police sketch Red had provided, then gave him one last warning.

  “Remember to stay hidden,” I said. “I don’t want this guy to make you, because then Tina and I will have to explain to your father why there are all these homosexuals at his son’s funeral.”

  Ileft Tina’s apartment with a sisterly kiss on the cheek to speed me on my way. It was like being in middle school all over again, except I no longer felt it was appropriate to drape my arm around her shoulder in a lame attempt to cop a feel.

  Still, between breakfast, the shower, and my new clothes, I felt like I had been reinvented. On the way to my car, I stopped at a flower shop and picked out an arrangement in a simple glass vase. The card I selected had a blank space for my own individual message. I wrote in neat script, “My sincerest apologies. Carter Ross.”

  Upon arriving at University Hospital, a sprawling, ever-expanding complex of buildings in the middle of Newark, I wandered around for twenty minutes before finding the burn unit. I asked at the nurse’s station for Brenda Bass, and was pointed to a room just down the hall. I’m sure if they’d known I was with the newspaper, they would have thrown a fit. But I wasn’t really there as a reporter. I was just another guy clutching flowers, looking for a sick person I cared about.

  I walked softly into the room. Miss B was lying still with her eyes closed. The lower half of her face was covered in a mask connected to an oxygen tank. She was breathing on her own, though I thought I heard some raggedness with each inhalation. A bag of fluids hung to her left, slowly dripping into her through an IV in her arm. Other than that, she appeared quite peaceful. I didn’t see any burns, any gauze, any sign of trauma.

  Tynesha, who had been asleep in a chair pulled next to the bed, stirred as I entered. I wasn’t sure what to expect from her, given the way she had received me outside the Stop-In Go-Go.

  But it seemed her bedside vigil had taken some of the spite out of her. Or at least she didn’t immediately move to claw out my eyeballs.

  “Hi,” I said cautiously.

  “Hi,” she said. There was no anger in her voice, just fatigue.

  “I came to drop these off,” I said, and placed the vase down on the ledge next to the window. The card dangled down and Tynesha grasped it, turning it over.

  “You’re apologizing?” she said.

  “I owe her at least that much,” I said. “I owe it to you, too. I. . Look, I had no idea this was going to happen. To say I feel awful about it wouldn’t even be a start. I wish I could go back to Monday and have myself hit by a bus. I just. .”

  I let my voice trail off. She turned toward the window and gazed out, may
be so she wouldn’t have to look at me. She was wearing what appeared to be borrowed clothes-sweatpants with a nonmatching sweatshirt. Her hair was matted and I guessed she had spent the night in that chair. Her eyes, which were brown without the aid of the amber contact lenses, had dark smudges underneath them.

  “I shouldn’t have been so rough on you yesterday,” she said.

  “I had it coming. Believe me, I did.”

  “Yeah, you did,” she said, smiling slightly for the first time, and we left it at that. Miss B made a ragged, gasping noise, then quieted.

  “How’s she doing?” I asked.

  “Not good. The doctors say her lungs are, like, melting or something. Maybe it starts getting better or maybe it don’t. They say there ain’t much they can do.”

  “Is she going to make it?”

  “They don’t know. They say she’s holding on for now but they don’t know how bad it’ll get. They said sometimes it looks like someone ain’t going to make it and they do, but sometimes someone who looks like they’re going to make it don’t.”

  Tynesha shook her head and continued. “I don’t think these doctors know what the hell they’re talking about. Half the time they talk to me like I’m stupid. The other half the time I feel stupid ’cause I don’t know what they’re saying.”

  “Are they giving her any drugs or anything?” I asked.

  “Just painkillers.”

  “Has she been awake?”

  “Not since I been here.”

  “It’s probably better that way,” I said.

  We watched Miss B breathe for a minute or so. I had written about enough fires to know what was going on inside her. All the delicate mechanisms that normally kept the lungs clear of junk were failing and the congestion was building up. If it stabilized in time, she’d pull through. If not, she would drown in her own fluids.

  “Wanda’s funeral was supposed to be today,” Tynesha said, breaking our silence. “We told ’em to hold off for a few days. The family decided Miss B wouldn’t want to miss her daughter’s funeral.”

  Or maybe, I thought grimly, the family was thinking the funeral might have to become a double feature.

  “So you’ve been here all night?” I said. Tynesha nodded.

  “I hope you don’t take it the wrong way when I say you look like you could use some breakfast and a change of clothes,” I said.

  “Ain’t got no clothes to change into. They all burnt up.”

  “Yeah, mine, too,” I said. “But I had a guardian angel buy me a new outfit this morning. How about I do the same for you?”

  Tynesha looked at Miss B, frowning.

  “I don’t think I should leave her,” she said.

  “Tynesha,” I said, “I really don’t think she’s going anywhere.”

  That bit of logic was enough to convince Tynesha to join me for breakfast-or perhaps it was the combination of logic and hunger.

  We went to an IHOP across the street, continuing the global theme to our dates, and were soon seated in a corner booth with formidable stacks of pancakes in front of us. This was, technically, my second breakfast of the day. But I found room.

  “The cops get any further with Wanda?” Tynesha asked as she forked a bite of omelet into her mouth.

  “Well, technically, it’s not the cops’ case anymore,” I said. “They handed it over to a federal agency called the National Drug Bureau, which claimed jurisdiction over it.”

  “So have the National Drug Bureau cops figured it out?”

  I thought about L. Pete and the toe fungus I hoped he was developing.

  “Probably not,” I said. “They think it has something to do with this guy, Jose de Jesus Encarceron. Ever heard of him?”

  Tynesha shook her head.

  “Well, neither had I,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure the NDB is just grasping at straws. They don’t know the real answer so they pretend they know.”

  “Just like those doctors in there,” Tynesha said, and I chuckled.

  “Sometimes doctors are too smart for their own good,” I said. “They get so used to being smart, they have a hard time admitting that they don’t have the answers.”

  It was a cautionary tale for any profession, especially mine. The reporter who assumes he has all the answers is usually a reporter who finds his stories being mentioned in the correction column with considerable frequency. It’s an easy trap to fall into when your job is to find the truth. The trick is never assuming your information is absolute or infallible. You have to stay flexible enough to still be able to recognize when your premise is all wrong. You also have to remember to keep going back to your sources with new knowledge and seeing what else they know.

  With that in mind, I stopped chewing for a second and asked, “Did Wanda ever mention the name Irving Wallace?”

  “Naw. That’s a pretty unusual name. I think I would have remembered it. Who’s he?”

  “He’s a chemist for the federal government.”

  Tynesha thought for a moment.

  “Well, I don’t know if this guy was a chemist or nothing,” Tynesha said. “But I remember this one time a couple months ago Wanda brought me this guy who I thought was another client of hers. But then she said, no, he wasn’t a client, he was like her boss or something.”

  “Her boss?” I said, sitting up in my seat a little and feeling a hankering for a notepad, like I should be writing this down. “How come you never mentioned this before?”

  “I don’t know. I just didn’t think about it until you mentioned a government guy. Don’t get all uptight.”

  “Sorry, sorry. Anyway, go on. You thought he was Wanda’s boss. .”

  “Yeah. I guess he was some kind of grand poobah or something. They wasn’t even supposed to be looking at each other, but he broke the rules with Wanda. I guess he got sweet on Wanda-a lot of guys got sweet on Wanda, you know? But she wouldn’t turn no tricks. So she sent him to me so he could get his rocks off. But she said because he was like her boss, she asked if I could, you know, do him for free. As, like, a favor.”

  “So you, uh. .”

  “Yeah, I sucked him off.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know,” Tynesha said. “It’s not like I spent a lot of time looking at his face, you know?”

  “Was he a big guy?”

  “Naw, he was a little guy.” She paused, then snickered. “And I mean little in every way.”

  I realized my shoulders had gotten tensed up and I relaxed them. Certainly, if Tynesha had given Irving Wallace a hummer, it would have been stop-the-presses time. I’m not sure how I would have attributed it in an article-“according to a hooker who gave Wallace a blow job” just wasn’t going to fly in our family newspaper-but it would have been a pleasant enough problem to worry about as I was plotting how to plaster Irving Wallace’s name and picture all over the Sunday paper.

  Alas, Tynesha describing her John as a “little guy” meant he couldn’t have been the six-foot-five, three-hundred-pound van-driving menace I now surmised was Irving Wallace. But maybe he was an associate of Wallace’s.

  “So what made you think this guy worked for the government?”

  “Well, he wore a suit. And he had one of them badges on his belt,” Tynesha said. “He just looked like one of them guys that plays the government agent in the TV shows, like he was CIA or FBI. Well, not CIA, because they always have glasses and look all cool. So maybe he was FBI or something.”

  “You get his name by any chance?”

  “Oh, yeah. I get all my customers’ names. I get their names, their home addresses, their wives’ and kids’ names, and then we exchange Christmas cards.”

  “Okay, dumb question,” I said.

  “The only thing I remember about him is that when he was done he gave me all the usual, ‘Oh, baby, that was great. . Oh, baby, you’re the best.’ And then he didn’t give me a tip or nothing. You know what he did?”

  I spread my hands in an I-got-no-clue gesture. />
  “He told me maybe if I sucked him off again sometime he would take me to a game at Giants Stadium,” Tynesha continued. “I didn’t say nothing, because he was Wanda’s boss. But I was thinking, ‘A game? Are you for real?!?’ Sometimes, guys are just too stupid for words.”

  Tynesha refused my offer of a quick trip to the Jersey Gardens Mall for a clothing run, saying she felt like she didn’t want to spend that much time away from Miss B. We parted with promises to keep in touch and I went back to the office to regroup.

  The Saturday newsroom is a relatively relaxed place, consisting mostly of interns who are still groggy from the night before. Feeling a little woozy myself, I settled into my desk. Out of habit, I glanced at my office phone’s voice mail light. It was off, but the caller ID was showing eleven missed calls. They were all from the same number, a 908 area code. Someone, who was apparently desperate to talk to me, didn’t believe in leaving messages.

  I was about to begin figuring out who my persistent caller was when my phone rang: the 908 number flashed on my caller ID for a twelfth time.

  “Carter Ross,” I said.

  “Irving Wallace,” came the reply.

  I could feel my pulse surge and I instinctively drew in my breath. I didn’t want to talk to Irving Wallace. Not right now. It’s not that I avoid confrontation-hell, I’m a reporter, I thrive on confrontation-it’s that I wasn’t ready for this one yet. I liked to have my gun fully loaded before I went into a showdown with someone like Irving Wallace, and I felt like I had barely gotten the first bullet in the chamber.

  “Why, hello, Irving. How are you this fine day?” I said through gritted teeth. I had a loathing for this man like I had never felt for another human being, but I had to try not to let my voice betray it.

  “Fine, thanks,” he said. “Just running around doing errands with the family, you know, the usual Saturday routine.”

  The breeziness in his tone was chilling. But wasn’t that the essence of antisocial personality disorder? He could commit multiple murders and go on with his life as if nothing were happening. Because that’s what killing people felt like to him: nothing.