Tongues of Fire

by Peter Abrahams

  “Explain how it really was. Overzealousness in the performance of duty.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “I do.” His neck muscles clenched again. “And they will too if they read it in your report.”

  Armbrister shook his head. “You don’t learn very well, do you, Krebs?”

  “I finished ahead of you at MIT.” Krebs began biting the inside of his cheek as soon as he had said it. Armbrister raised his eyebrows in a puzzled way. Then he smiled.

  “And you live in the past as well, perhaps.”

  “The hell I do.”

  Armbrister’s facial muscles twitched, and the smile was gone. “The fact that we were classmates doesn’t give you the right to be rude to me in this office,” Armbrister said. His tone was threatening, although he did not raise his voice. Krebs saw the little glow of pleasure in his eyes. “Did you ever wonder why they assigned you to this job, Krebs? Why they brought you to New York?”

  It was not a rhetorical question. Armbrister sat silently in his chair until Krebs said, “Why?”

  “They liked your work. They wanted a closer look at you.” Armbrister smiled. “Of course there was some talk about impulsiveness. Temper. Insubordination. They wanted to see for themselves. They were interested in you, Krebs.”

  The past tense stuck in his mind like a fishhook. He was barely aware of the secretary entering the room and handing Armbrister a large manila envelope.

  “Thank you, Jenny.” Armbrister tore it open. He took out a black-and-white photograph, the size of a sheet of letter-writing paper. He studied it. “A very nice job,” he said. “The focus and the lighting couldn’t be better.” He held it up for Krebs to see: the photograph he had taken of the psychiatrist’s report. “Too bad the woman woke up. It was the flashlight that did it, apparently. She’s a very light sleeper.”

  Armbrister began reading it to himself. “What awful handwriting,” he said, holding it closer. He was in no hurry. Krebs watched his eyes move slowly from left to right, line by line. He saw the rounded edge of a contact lens, sitting on the cornea like an eyelash. Finally he looked up. “This was all there was?” he asked. Krebs nodded. Armbrister grunted and offered it across the desk, not quite far enough across to allow Krebs to take it without leaving his chair. He stood up and took it.

  Krebs read:

  Rehv Isaac. 35. Is. ref. ex-prof Ar. H&L.

  S. survivor fam. Waiter & watchmn—Sheila F. Ref.—Sheila.

  Trd. force Heb. less. J. (Q. says Ar.)

  Repr. uncommuntve. host. phys—OK. Attr. Jogg therap.?

  Trm. depr. Susp. masoch. Poss. anal tend., sex dysf.?

  Release nec. Tried—unsucc. Try again?

  Group?—disruptv.?

  Time?

  Bill—Isr. Ref. Fund—$175

  Sir/Madame

  This is to notify you of fee schedule change re refugees, effective as of this date. Due to increased costs and in keeping with accepted practice note new rate of $175 per hour for private consultation. Please observe that this is still twenty percent less than the rate charged regular clients.

  Yours truly,

  $190?

  Krebs kept his eyes on the photograph for a while after he finished reading. He knew Armbrister would be watching him when he raised his head. He was.

  “Scandalous, isn’t it?” Armbrister said. “The fees they charge. It’s an outrage.”

  “None of this means he couldn’t have cut Abu Fahoum’s throat.”

  Armbrister did not appear to have heard him. “What do you make of sex dysf.?” he asked.

  “None of it means anything one way or another,” Krebs said more loudly. “It doesn’t change a thing.”

  Armbrister placed the palms of his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “It does for you,” he said softly. They stared at each other. “I’m giving you two weeks off, Krebs. I want you to take a holiday. Go somewhere with your wife. Relax. Think about something else.”

  “I don’t want a holiday.”

  “You’re a very stupid man sometimes, Krebs. Don’t you understand I’m trying to save your job? Now go away and let me do it.”

  Again he felt the fishhook pulling inside him. “Is it that bad?”

  “Go.”

  Krebs stood up and turned toward the door. “And take your toys with you,” Armbrister said. Krebs picked up the camera, flashlight, and Swiss Army knife and left the room. As he walked through the outer office the secretary glanced up from her typing and gave him a cold look. But Krebs did not notice: He was looking into the future, a future full of Armbristers, junior positions, and dead-end assignments. If it was that bad, he had nothing to lose. He would spend his vacation watching Isaac Rehv.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Midnight, and very cold. Isaac Rehv stood beside a lamppost, not far from the entrance to a bar. Neon signs hung in the window of the bar, advertising different brands of beer. The cold condensed a skin of moisture on the window; in the center it gathered into trembling droplets that sometimes ran erratically toward the bottom; at the edges it was turning to frost. The cold condensed the vapor in his breath as well, twelve silvery puffs a minute, each slightly different from the one before. They rose, changed shape, and vanished. Across the street and half a block away the cold was doing the same thing to someone else’s breath: another person standing on a sidewalk in the middle of a winter night.

  From time to time people went into the bar, or came out. Some of them were dressed like cowboys, movie cowboys. When the door swung open and shut he heard snatches of songs from within. They were songs about being lonesome, sad, drunk, divorced, and stupid. They all seemed to be in four-four time.

  A long silver car drove slowly by. It came to a stop, reversed, and stopped again beside Rehv. Noiselessly a rear window descended, and a voice said, “Dr. Vere?”

  “Yes,” Rehv answered.

  The door opened and he got in.

  There were two men in the car: the driver, a lean black man with a shaved head, who did not turn to look at Rehv, and a well-dressed lighter man in the back who at first did not look at him either. His eyes were on the small television mounted beside a polished wooden liquor cabinet. Tiny flickering figures were playing a silent game of basketball. Then they faded away and were replaced by an anxious-looking woman holding a garbage bag that was about to split. The well-dressed man switched off the television.

  “The best game in the world,” he said, turning to Rehv. By the light of the streetlamp Rehv could see his large dark curious eyes, his neatly trimmed glossy mustache, and his smooth immaculate skin, the color of café crème. He wore a dark three-piece suit of some heavy cloth like tweed, and a shirt so white it seemed to have a luster of its own. Rehv was conscious of his shabbiness. He had expected someone like the shivering man in the red shoes.

  A potbellied man in a fringed shirt was standing outside, looking at the car. “Move, Leon,” the well-dressed man said. The car shot forward with enough acceleration to push Rehv back into the soft suede seat. After a block or two it slowed and continued at a gentle pace.

  The well-dressed man shifted in his seat so he could see Rehv more clearly. “Tell me something about your study, Dr. Vere. You said on the phone you were at NYU.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve arranged this meeting under false pretences,” Rehv said. His words made the tendons in the driver’s neck stand out in sharp ridges.

  “Oh, I already know that,” the well-dressed man said. “There is no Dr. Vere at NYU.”

  Rehv felt suddenly very silly and slightly annoyed to have to explain his credentials to a pimp. “I’m prepared to pay for your time,” he said, reaching inside his windbreaker. The driver braked violently, throwing Rehv against the back of the front seat. Almost before the car had stopped completely, he sprang around and tightened a forearm of twisted steel cables around Rehv’s neck, pinning him to the headrest. Rehv struggled against the pressure, but that only made it worse, like a dog fighting a choke chain.
He stopped struggling. Casually the well-dressed man leaned toward him and ran his hand quickly over his trunk and limbs. A diamond caught what light there was and gave it back in little pulses as the hand moved. Fingers closed on the envelope in his shirt pocket.

  “Okay, Leon, he’s clean,” the well-dressed man said.

  “You sure, Mr. Cohee?”

  “Okay, Leon,” the well-dressed man said again, in a tone that indicated he did not like to be asked if he was sure. The steel cables relaxed, turned to flesh and sinew, and withdrew.

  Rehv wanted to rub his neck, but he didn’t. “Was that really necessary?” he said, and heard the rasping in his voice. He turned his head to look at the man with the steel arm, but he had resumed his place behind the wheel and all Rehv could see was a high prominent cheekbone and a valley of shadow below.

  “When Leon’s driving I always fasten my seat belt,” Mr. Cohee said, patting the buckle. “Leon has very quick reflexes.” He opened the unsealed envelope and took out the one-hundred-dollar bill that was inside. “Why thank you,” he said. “This will buy half a tank of gas.” In the front seat Leon laughed, a high little laugh that seemed to come from his nose. “Don’t laugh,” Mr. Cohee said. Leon stopped laughing. “It’s not funny. Gas is going to a dollar thirty next week. Maybe more. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” He shook his well-groomed head at Rehv. “Inflation is killing me.”

  “How do you know what will happen to the price of gas?” Rehv asked.

  Mr. Cohee smiled. He had square white teeth with a narrow dark gap between the cuspids. Leon laughed his tinny laugh. Mr. Cohee didn’t stop him. Leon laughed for quite a long time. After a while Mr. Cohee said, “Better pull over to the side, Leon.” The big car was sitting in the middle of Madison Avenue. “We don’t want to get a ticket.” This set Leon off again, fueling his laugh like lighter fluid on hot coals. He barely had enough strength to put the car in gear and double-park.

  Mr. Cohee pulled back a white cuff and looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes are almost up, Dr. Vere. What is it you want for your hundred dollars?”

  “A woman.” This was too much for Leon.

  “That’s enough, Leon,” Mr. Cohee said. The laugh subsided. Mr. Cohee’s curious dark eyes studied Rehv’s face. “You’ve gone to a lot of unnecessary trouble, Dr. Vere.”

  “You don’t understand,” Rehv said. “I’m looking for a very special woman. You’ll get much more than a hundred dollars if you help me find her.”

  “Who is she?”

  There was a pause while Rehv thought. “I’ll know her when I see her,” he said.

  The tendons at the back of Leon’s neck twitched very slightly, like sensitive antennae. “Are you playing some kind of game with me?” Mr. Cohee asked quietly.

  “I’m very serious,” Rehv said just as quietly. Behind them a car honked. Leon glanced in the rearview mirror. The car honked again. Leon watched it. It backed up and drove around them, honking as it went by.

  “Go on, Dr. Vere,” Mr. Cohee said.

  Rehv looked right into the curious brown eyes. “The woman I want is intelligent. Very intelligent. So smart she always seems to know just what you’re thinking. I mean you personally, Mr. Cohee.” He half expected to hear Leon’s laugh, but no sound came from the front seat. “She’s strong, physically strong. And tall. Five feet ten or more. With skin the same color as yours.”

  “Anything else?”

  Rehv considered. “No defects, of course,” he said. “Diabetes, bad heart, shortsightedness. Or mental illness.”

  “Is that all?”

  “All I can put into words.”

  Mr. Cohee gazed at him for a moment in silence. “What do you want, Dr. Vere? A fuck or a wife?” The first notes of Leon’s laugh squeaked in his sinuses. “Shut up, Leon,” Mr. Cohee said, cutting the sound off before it could properly begin.

  “Something in between,” Rehv said.

  “It’s going to cost money.”

  “I’ll pay her going rate.”

  “That’s understood. You’ll have to pay me, too.”

  “How much?”

  “That depends how much work I have to do.”

  “All right.”

  “How do I know you can afford to pay?”

  “You’ll have to trust me.”

  Curiosity vanished from the dark eyes, leaving emptiness in its place. “I don’t trust anybody, Dr. Vere.”

  “Then trust that hundred-dollar bill. I gave it to you to show I wanted everything done in a businesslike way.”

  Mr. Cohee began to laugh, a soft rumbling, pleasant laugh from deep in his chest. Leon joined him in a nasal descant. When the laughter had gone, Mr. Cohee said, “I’m all for the businesslike way. That’s why I have Leon.” The three men thought their different thoughts about that.

  Rehv broke the silence. “Can you help me?” he asked.

  “Can we help him, Leon?” Mr. Cohee said.

  “Angel,” Leon replied.

  “Maybe,” Mr. Cohee said slowly. “Let’s go.”

  Leon pressed the accelerator, and Rehv again felt himself being pushed deep into the soft seat. Mr. Cohee switched on the television and opened the liquor cabinet. He took out two glasses and set them on a sliding shelf that pulled out from the side of the cabinet. “Scotch? Gin? Vodka? Rum?”

  “Scotch.” He suddenly wanted a drink very badly: Something at the edge of his mind was waiting for his attention. Naomi.

  “On the rocks?”

  “Please.”

  Mr. Cohee poured two drinks. “To businesslike ways,” he said, raising his glass.

  Mr. Cohee watched the miniature men playing basketball. Rehv tried to drink the scotch slowly and keep the ice from rattling against the sides of the glass. He could do neither. “Just help yourself,” Mr. Cohee said. Rehv did.

  The miniature men ran back and forth, jumping, twisting, falling. “Poor white boy,” Mr. Cohee said sadly. He glanced at Rehv: “This is the only time I ever feel sorry for white people—when I see them playing basketball.”

  “Say it,” Leon said.

  Leon parked the silver car as close as he could to the entrance of a famous disco. It was not very close. The best parking places had all been taken. So had the best double- and triple-parking places: by cars from Rolls-Royce, Mercedes-Benz, Ferrari. They were all expensive and they all had parking tickets on the windshield.

  Mr. Cohee reached into an inside pocket and handed Leon a card. “Go get her,” he said. Leon got out of the car and started walking toward the door. For a moment Rehv saw his face—hard, fleshless, with eyes sunk deep and safe in bony nests. It didn’t seem to go with his body, a lean, strong body that moved lightly, gracefully, economically. His feet barely appeared to graze the sidewalk as he walked along. Mr. Cohee noticed him watching. “Leon was a Golden Gloves champion,” he said. “Could have gone further than that, much further.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “He got mixed up with the wrong crowd,” Mr. Cohee answered with a little smile. “Ended up doing most of his fighting in prison. It took all the purity out of his style.”

  Leon spent a long time in the disco. It was owned by a woman whose face appeared in a certain kind of magazine almost every week. It was a greedy petit bourgeois face, not at all softened or disguised by her thick red hair, cut in the latest style. Rehv had seen her on television: The cameras had revealed that her hair was dyed, she couldn’t dance, and her face was the way he had thought.

  Leon came out of the disco. Beside him walked a woman as tall as he, which Rehv guessed to be a little under six feet. She hadn’t put on a coat. She wore a short dress and long leather boots that disappeared beneath its hem. She was slender and might have walked as gracefully as Leon if the high heels of her boots had not lifted up her small, firm buttocks and pushed her pelvis forward.

  Leon said something to the woman, walked around the car, and leaned his body against the long hood. He didn’t bother to open the rear door for her. S
he opened it herself. Rehv shifted to give her room. She sat down and closed the door. Her long legs took a lot of room. Despite the size of the car Rehv felt closer to both of them than he wanted to be.

  Without switching off the television Mr. Cohee leaned forward and turned to her. “Hello, Angel,” he said. “This is Dr. Vere.”

  “Uh-huh.” She was gazing at a ring on her long middle finger: a large dark polished stone.

  “He wants to have a look at you.” Mr. Cohee pressed a button on his armrest and a bright yellow light glowed from the back of the seat in front of her. “Look at him, Angel. He can’t see you that way.”

  The woman turned her head and faced him. In his mind Rehv felt a sharp prick of self-disgust that made him want to shake his head, or close his eyes, or say, “Oh, God.” But he forced himself to look at her.

  The color of her skin was perfect, perhaps a shade lighter than Mr. Cohee’s. It was smooth and unmarked, except for a tiny curved scar under her lip. That would not matter. Her face was thin, angular, Cubist, he thought, suddenly realizing that the twentieth-century ideal of female beauty somehow had its roots in twentieth-century art. She wore green makeup above and below her eyes, eyes the color of dull brass. They didn’t appear to be seeing him at all.

  “Satisfied?” Mr. Cohee asked.

  Again he felt a pang of self-disgust. He wanted to squirm away from himself. Instead he nodded. “But I’ll have to talk to her.” To the woman he said: “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “He wants you to talk, Angel,” Mr. Cohee said. “Talk.”

  “Talk?”

  Rehv looked at her. Her eyes still were not seeing him, but the tiny plucked lines that were the remains of her eyebrows had lifted in puzzlement. “Just for a few minutes,” Rehv said gently. “Tell me a little about yourself,” he suggested, feeling so stupid he almost blushed.

  “I’m a whore,” Angel said. “I charge one hundred dollars an hour. Five hundred a night.”

  There was a long silence while Rehv tried to think of something else to say. Mr. Cohee watched television. Angel gazed at her ring, which in the light he could see was an amethyst.