Here's what you do. Have you noticed that you have a body? And that Michael thinks it's beautiful? Even your boobs? Even though you think they're a little boyish?
Go back in there, put Awakenings on, then sit way down at the foot of the bed watching it. Sit up on your heels, naked, but just out of his reach. You want to play psychic? Predict how long he can stand it. Predict how long you'll feel his eyes moving up and down your back before he lunges at you.
“Be right out,” she called through the door.
She did fall asleep during Awakenings.
She slept curled up against Michael, which was a first, but only after two more intermissions. There were also a few more tears but these were over scenes in the movie. One time was over the part when the hospital nurses and orderlies handed back their paychecks so that Robin Williams could buy more L-Dopa for his patients so that he could wake them from their comas the way he woke Robert De Niro. Even Michael had to wipe his eye. She liked that. And that he didn't try to hide it.
Megan had seen that movie a dozen times. She would never have been able to watch it if anyone but Robin Williams had played the lead. It was just too close to home. Her shrink, no doubt, would have an opinion as to why she chose to watch it with Michael. He'd think she's saying, “You wanted to know about me? Just watch this. It's not the whole picture but this is a start.”
She slept soundly for most of the night. But as dawn approached she began to dream. There were several. Or a jumble of many. The first was a mixture of her own recurring dream—men in white standing over her, in the dark, touching her, she could smell their sweat—and of Michael's dream. The one he told her about.
In her dream, Michael was in bed with her when the men in white came. But another man came for Michael. He had no face. He had a baseball bat in his hand and he had dug a grave, right there in the ward. Next to it was a gasoline can. Sometimes where they were was a hospital and sometimes it was Michael's inn. Outside, sometimes it was New York and sometimes it was Edgartown. When it was Edgartown, the man she had seen at that wooded grave was standing outside the inn, just watching. But in his arms he was carrying that bundle wrapped in blankets. The one she had seen him bury.
Megan shook herself awake. She almost panicked when she saw a man in bed with her but the fog lifted quickly and she realized it was Michael. She didn't want to dream again. Carefully, not to wake him, she eased out of the bed and took the coverlet that was gathered at its foot. She wrapped herself in it and walked to the window where the first light of dawn had made the water a silver-gray. She looked down on North Water Street where the dark man of her dream had been standing. He was gone. There was no one.
She wanted to believe that it was just a dream, that she'd had no vision, no intuition. But she could feel him there. She backed away from the window, toward Michael's side of the bed. He was on his stomach, snoring softly. She reached for the drawer of his night table and opened it soundlessly. The big chrome revolver was still there, way in the back. Toward the front, partially concealing it, there was an operating manual for the VCR and a copy of the TV listings. The revolver looked forgotten. She reached for it, and quietly slid it out. She returned to the window where she held it against her chest.
The man this gun was taken from . . . Michael said he was dark. She'd felt that man when she first touched his weapon but not now. He wasn't near. He wasn't anywhere. She didn't seem to feel him at all.
As she stood looking out, the certainty that anyone had been out there faded. It was, after all, only a dream. Dreams don't reveal, they don't foretell, and most mean absolutely nothing.
She had explained that to Michael when he told her of his dream. When she sees a thing, when she's awake, what she sees is always real. She might not interpret it correctly, and it's not even necessarily significant. People, she told him, think psychics only see really dramatic stuff, like telegrams coming from the war department but the truth is that most of it's more like junk mail. Still, it's always real.
Dreams aren't real, not even for psychics. Her shrink had taught her that. He said they can't be interpreted because all they are are random memories—fantasies and fears and self-doubts included—popping off like sparks as you sleep. The subconscious mind doesn't like disorder. So it tries to organize them, interpret them. The result is a dream that now seems to have a plot.
You say, yes but in my dream there was this person, a woman, for example. I can still see her in my mind and I'm absolutely certain that I've never laid eyes on her before so she must be someone in my future. Don't hold your breath. You dreamed about a woman, true. You didn't know her, also true. That's why your subconscious had to give her a face. And because it likes order, it throws in the details. It gives her a hairdo, clothing, freckled shoulders, even an accent sometimes.
A dream can scare you, sure. It can evoke any emotion that your mind decides on while it's piecing this mess together. It can amuse you just as easily. It can also piss you off.
Michael agreed that this seemed to make sense. And talking it out had seemed to help him. He no longer had that same recurring dream and he'd gotten so he could enjoy his regular dreams again. He did enjoy some of them, he told her. Always had. He loved having sex dreams where he finds himself in bed with a naked lady because you wake up with a smile and no regrets. And you're right, Megan, he said. Those women were never anyone he'd ever seen before.
He rushed to say that he didn't do that anymore either. The only naked lady he dreamed about now, both asleep and awake, was Mysterious Megan and she was all the woman he could handle.
Silver-tongued devil.
And she was right, he said, about dreams that piss you off. There was one in particular. He was in a bed somewhere, not his own, but he was by himself. But suddenly this girl climbed in with him. She walked into the room, said a sexy ‘.‘Hi,” pulled off her dress, unhooked her bra, tossed it, and climbed in. He's still half asleep so he didn't argue. He's not sure he was even that interested.
She starts tickling his back. She runs her fingers, soft and slow, from his neck all the way down to his bun. Back and forth, back and forth. Naturally, he starts to get, um, unsleepy. He rolls over a bit and begins touching her in return. He moves closer. He feels the warmth of her body up against his. He leans forward to kiss her. But she backs away. She says, “Maybe we better not,” gets up, grabs her clothes, and leaves the room.
He could have killed her. ”I mean,” he told Megan, “this is my dream, right? Did I invite her? Did I so much as make room in the bed for her? I get blown off enough in real life without getting it in my own goddamned sex dream.”
Megan thought this was hilarious. But it served him right. Dream or no dream, he should have jumped up and run out of the room saying, “What do you take me for, you minx? I'm saving myself for Megan Cole.”
“Good morning, gorgeous.”
She heard his sleepy voice. She didn't turn.
“Hi, sailor,” she answered huskily. She hid the Colt in the folds of the coverlet. The bed creaked and he was up. A few groggy steps and she felt warm hands on her shoulders, his lips against her hair. They stood for several moments, looking out at the gathering light, at the sailboats dozing at anchor.
“How about some coffee?” he asked her. “I'll go make some coffee.”
“I'll be here,” she told him.
He picked up his robe and left the room. She heard him on the stairs. She turned back toward his night table, intending to put the gun away. But that wouldn't do. Michael's friend, Mrs. Mayfield, would be here in a few hours. Can't leave it for her to find.
She went to the canvas tote she'd brought her things in, placed the heavy Colt inside, and covered it over with her toiletries kit. This way she won't forget it. She'll tell him it's there when they get back to her boat.
In the meantime, a cup of coffee sounds good. This lovely room feels good. Her body feels good. And she had a pretty strong hunch that in about fifteen minutes it would feel even better.
/> God, listen to her.
He's done what all the shrinks couldn't do. Or all the showers.
She was grinning.
Move it, Michael. Get your ass back up here.
Chapter 36
On Friday morning, the day before Memorial Day weekend, Parker's taxi reached Villardi's Seafood Palace with fifteen minutes to spare.
Hector drove, Yahya rode shotgun, Parker sat in the rear with a Sri Lankan named Tami who, while hardly WASP in appearance, could probably pass for a Japanese tourist. Japs, Parker reasoned, could not be that rare on Martha's Vineyard. Japs go everywhere they sell film.
Parker had enlisted Tami because there was still no word from Haroun. Tami was a distinctly second choice. What's good about Tami, Parker decided, is that he moves very quietly and is into that ninja shit. What's bad is he's a schmuck. He liked to prowl around at night in this black outfit he has, with this Jap knife he has, and show the Pakis how easily he could have cut their throats. He doesn't do that anymore and he only has half a pecker because one night he tried that on Haroun.
Don't get me started, Parker muttered to himself. On personnel, don't get me started.
Parker told Hector to make two passes. He was most impressed. If Johnny G. had not thought to warn him of all the security he would have kept on going. He noted two parked vans that probably held spotters with radios, at least one man on a rooftop signaling another on the sidewalk, and several cars with men sitting low in them spread out along the avenue. The man being signaled walked over to a delivery truck and ordered the driver to move. It was blocking the view from one of the vans.
All this seemed a little early for a two o'clock meeting but the out-of-town bosses, he reasoned, might be planning to grab some lunch first.
“Pull up in front,” he told Hector. “Yahya, you know these guys. You come in with me. If it all looks kosher, go back outside and wait.”
Johnny G. was at the bar, dressed in a dark suit and tie.
The maitre d'—Paulie—the one who called—pointed him out but Parker already knew him from the papers. He nodded a greeting, took a slow look around, but Yahya walked straight over to Giordano. Johnny gave him a smile, offered his hand. Yahya took it and kissed it.
This seemed a little bit much. Now Johnny Giordano has his hands on the Paki's head like he's giving benediction. Yahya backed away, bowing.
“Hey,” Parker hissed at him. “Who do you work for? Go wait in the car.”
Johnny G. beckoned him, saluting with his glass, pulling out the stool next to his own. The bar was otherwise empty.
“This is Diet Pepsi,” he said. “What can I offer you.”
”I don't know. Same thing.” He gestured vaguely toward the street but hesitated at the presence of the bartender.
“He's okay.” Johnny G. flicked a hand. “He's my cousin.”
The bartender blinked.
“Yeah, well . . .” Parker cocked his head toward the street again. ”I spotted your so-called security in about five seconds. I mean, maybe that's the idea, a show of force, but it looks more like a parade out there.”
Johnny G. turned to the bartender. “You hear that?”
The bartender blinked again.
“Go tell them to be more discreet.”
He didn't move. Not much upstairs, Parker decided.
“Jimmy . . .” Giordano repeated himself, more slowly this time. “Go out, find whoever’s in charge, tell him to get his act together. Then come right back. I need you to take some notes for me here.”
The bartender hesitated, looked a little flustered. It was like, thought Parker, “Why me? Those are scary people out there.” But he took a deep breath and nodded.
“Sure, Johnny.” He stepped from behind the bar.
Hennessy had found Arnie Aaronson.
It had taken him until half past ten that morning to get a warrant. This was because the Manhattan D.A. had requested it, and because it was an election year, and because the issuing judge had become very tired of issuing warrants just so the candidates could showboat.
In the meantime, however, the detectives on stakeout near Parker Security Services, Inc., had no authority to detain anyone leaving. They could only record the plate number of the taxi that picked up three men at 10:17 a.m., one of whom could have been Parker. The other two were dark-skinned, carried camera bags, and were dressed like tourists from Ohio.
Aaronson's body had been forced into a plastic drum marked Acetic Anhydride, Bhatpara Chemical Company Ltd., Akra, India.
There were dozens of such drums filled with all different chemicals. Some were labeled French Chalk which one cop said was like a talc. He said he thinks it's what you make pills out of, not counting the active ingredients. He was more sure about acetic anhydride which he said is not illegal but which you need to make heroin.
The stuff looked like dirty sugar. There were several plastic buckets of it, sitting open, and some of it had spilled on the floor near one of the drums. It looked as if someone had emptied that drum because he had another use for it. This was how they found Aaronson's body.
Down by the loading dock, another cop found a pallet stacked with plastic bags full of Halite. Halite was like rock salt, used for melting ice on sidewalks. Hennessy wondered why anyone would stock up on Halite in May and also why a whole pallet of it had been shipped in from Tampico, Mexico, when the stuff was available at any local hardware store. He cut a bag open and tasted some. It turned out to be crystal meth, smokable methamphetamines, worse than crack.
Another interesting find was a bunch of empty shopping bags from Bloomingdale's and one from Peerless Camera. They still had the sales slips in them for about a thousand bucks worth of “cruise wear and casuals.” Hennessy noted the report of the three who left the building earlier. What the hell is this he wondered? They're going to skip town on the QE2?
They made forty-two arrests. The department of corrections had to send a bus. And interpreters. There was not one green card in the place.
He would have to call Doyle. Break the news about Arnie. It was time they had another talk anyway.
Fat Julie, riding with Frankie, his driver, was heading back to Villardi's Seafood Palace. His mood was unsettled. He did not feel at peace betting so much money that a stock would go in the tank.
He had bet large sums before—although not this large— and only on fighters and a couple of jockeys. And only when someone reliable, like someone who owed him, had given him the word that a certain horse would pull up lame in the stretch or that a certain middleweight would walk into a hook in the sixth. There was no suspense. At least not for long. And if it didn't go right, like the fighter clocks the other guy instead, you always knew wbere to find the guy who sucked you in.
But he had taken Doyle's advice because if it worked, he could earn back in a week what he said he'd pay Parker and have some seed money left over besides. If it didn't, he knew, where to find Doyle.
And he did need Parker. Some people he'd talked to, last night and this morning, all say they might want in but not if it's just an idea. They want factories already in place, already pumping out pills. And they had trouble grasping how we'd all make money just by making knock-offs and selling them cheap.
“Sounds too much like Kmart,” one of them said. “Kmart is not first class.”
“You want class, go watch a ballet. I'm talking money here.”
“Yeah, but Kmart is a good simile,” said another. “Give us like a Johnson & Johnson. You know, where they already got all the pill-making stuff and they already got customers. Get it like that and maybe we buy in.”
Simile, yet. Fucking morons.
What happened to the can-do attitude we used to have in this country? Where's the entrepreneurial spirit?
The hell with them. He'd do this himself.
Frankie spotted the vans outside Villardi's. The windows were darkly tinted, including glass panels on their sides. “Taking pictures, it looks like,” said Frankie.
; Julie nodded. They do this every so often. They videotape who comes and goes but mostly nothing ever comes of it.
Frankie pointed to a taxi parked at the curb. “Three guys,” he said. “They're watching the door.”
“Drive past,” Julie told him.
He looked in at the three men. Minorities. From the haircuts, they looked like Feds. He read where the Fed was hiring more minorities so maybe . . . Oh, for Christ's sake . . . that's Yahya in behind the driver. Almost didn't recognize him.
“They're okay,” he told Frankie.
Parker must be in there already. Julie was afraid those vans might have spooked him. It's not real polite to bring backup, however. He made a mental note to mention that to Parker.
“Drive around,” he said to Frankie. “I'll go in through the back.”
I can't be seeing this, thought Julie Giordano.
There's Johnny, the guy he's with must be Parker, and they're sitting at the bar. Parker's drawing something on a napkin. Right there with them, elbows on the bar, is fucking Jimmy the bartender who is hanging on their every word.
Julie gave his brother the high sign as in “What the hell are you doing?” Johnny just looks at him like, “Oh, Hi.”
Julie mouthed, “Can we talk? Like over here?”
The Shadow Box Page 30