by Paul Moomaw
“I’m here to see Mr. Trego.”
She cocks her head to one side, still smiling. “Is he expecting you?”
“I don’t think so, but he will want to. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Fontaine. It’s a family matter.” Fontaine is the name of one of the city officials caught up in the federal probe that has brought me here.
The receptionist’s smile goes away for a fraction of a second, and is more subdued when it returns. She picks up the telephone, presses a button, and after a moment speaks into it. She does this so well that I cannot hear her words. She listens, then nods and hangs up. She nods toward the door.
“You can go right in.”
I open the door. It takes a little tug, and I see that it has something almost like weather stripping around the inner jamb. When I step into Trego’s sanctum and close the door behind me it makes a quiet, wheezing sound, which is a good sign. The room is as soundproof as a heavy door and walls can make it.
On the far side of the room a giant window takes up almost all of the wall space. In front of it stands a massive desk, its surface empty except for a telephone. It looks old, and appears to made of teak. I wonder if it is a family heirloom. Trego sits at the desk, and off to one side sits the man I saw him with coming out of the Ice House. Another complication that I don’t need. If he is Trego’s new bodyguard, and I am sure he is, then he is also armed. I glance at him, looking for a tell-tale bulge in his suit coat. I see nothing, but that may only mean that he has a good tailor. I begin to revise my plan of attack to take the new man into account. I look back to Trego.
“This is private business,” I say.
“Jeffers is okay,” Trego says. “You can trust him. In fact, I trust him with my life.” He glances at the other man and breaks into a harsh laugh, then turns his attention back to me. “What the fuck does Fontaine want?”
Without waiting for an invitation I sit down at a chair across from Trego and place the briefcase on the desk. “He sent me with some papers you need to look at. Then you need to sign them. He’s revising history a little.” The last just popped into my mind and then out of my mouth. My creative unconscious is working hard for me.
“What do you mean, revising history?”
“Mr. Fontaine says something you signed once needs to have been signed earlier.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Fontaine didn’t tell me why.”
Trego locks his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair. It squeaks under his weight. “Maybe you better go back to Mr. Fontaine and tell him I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be falsifying documents. Tell him I said so as his lawyer.” He grins. “I’m only thinking of him, of course.”
I tap my fingers on the briefcase. “Mr. Fontaine told me you might say that. He said to let you know that it would be a very bad idea for you not to sign the papers.”
Trego leans forward and gives me a hard stare. “Is that a threat?”
I lean back and lace my fingers together. “Mr. Fontaine said to tell you it was more like a promise.”
A shadow of fear crosses Trego’s eyes, and I am beginning to enjoy myself.
“Nothing personal,” I say. “I’m just the messenger here.”
The messenger of death, I think. I undo the latches on the briefcase and start to open it. The bodyguard starts to rise to his feet. I am prepared for that.
“Just papers. Feel free to take a look.” If he comes to the desk, which any protector worth killing should do, he will need to use both hands to reach for the briefcase and its contents. As soon as he does I will grab him by the nape of the neck and slam his face into the desk. Then I will push him off, and while he is occupied with pain, I will kill him. But he does not come to the desk. He settles back into his chair, shakes his head and waves his free hand, while the other dips more firmly under his coat.
“Go ahead,” he says.
I nod and open the briefcase enough to reach inside. I take the file pocket in my left hand, pull it out of the briefcase, and slide it across the desk toward Trego. I know that for a moment at least both men’s attention will be on the papers as I pull the gun out with my right hand, swing quickly and put two quick shots into the body guard’s chest. I turn back to Trego, who is staring gape-mouthed at the body guard. Then he turns and looks at me, eyes wide with fear. He leans forward and is trying to grab the telephone when I shoot him just below the sternum. The shock of the bullet freezes him for a moment, and then he sags into the chair and closes his eyes.
I get up and go to the body guard. He is dead. His right hand is still tucked under his lapel, and I see that one of my bullets struck the wrist of that hand, shattering it. Even if he had maintained consciousness he could not have drawn the gun. I cross behind the desk to check Trego. He is almost gone, but still breathing faintly. I put the muzzle of the Beretta to his forehead, then I remember he has a wife and child, and someone will have to view his body. I lower the gun, press it against his chest, and fire again. He jerks and his eyes fly open. Then they close again and he dies.
I pick up the papers and put them into the briefcase, follow with the pistol, and close the case. The damn latches hang up again, and it takes what feels like forever to line them up and make them snap closed, although it cannot have been more than five seconds. I pull out a handkerchief and wipe down my side of the desk, just in case. Then I straighten up and walk to the door. I take one last look. They are still very dead. I tug the door open, step through, and close it firmly behind me.
The receptionist looks up at me from a file she is reading and smiles, and I smile back.
“I left some important papers for your boss. I don’t expect he’ll be taking any calls for at least the next half hour.” That is certainly true, as far as it goes.
The receptionist nods and returns to her work. I cross the carpet to the big double doors and walk out. I look up and down the hall and spot an exit sign that tells me there are stairs I can take. I am about to do that when an elevator opens and a woman gets out. I cross quickly to the elevator to take it down, and as I do the woman walks to Trego’s office and goes through the door. I hope to hell she is not his wife, or worse, his mistress. A wife might have to wait, but not a girl friend.
The door closes and the elevator begins to descend to the main floor. I am glad I am alone. A part of me feels like a child who has stolen candy and knows that the theft shows on his face. The elevator comes to a halt and the door opens. I step out, cross the lobby and then I am on the street, just another guy in a suit, carrying a briefcase, like a hundred others around me. When I feel my shoulders sag I realize how tense I have been. But the job is done, and my odds get better with every step. I walk with an easy gait down the street and back toward my hotel.
I go to my suite, open the briefcase and pull out the gun. I take it to the bathroom with the vinyl case it came in. I unscrew the silencer, and give both pieces a thorough cleaning with soapy water, then wipe them dry with a towel. I do the same with the case, then use the towel to put the gun and silencer into the case and carry everything to the briefcase. I toss them into the case, close it—this time the damn latches work perfectly, of course—and take it to the bathroom for its own cleaning.
I pack, then check the room to make sure I have left nothing behind. I decide not to worry about fingerprints in the room. It is a safe assumption that no one who matters will know I was here. I go to the window and take one last look at the Arch. Then I salute it and go downstairs to check out. When I reach my car I open the glove compartment and put the gun inside. At the rear of the underground garage is a dumpster. I use a handkerchief to carry the briefcase to the dumpster and throw it in. Then I get into the car and drive away.
At the airport parking lot the slot where I picked up the car is filled, but there is an empty one three spaces away. I pull into it, then sit for a few moments to collect myself. I wipe down the steering wheel, the dash and the door of the glove compartment. I get out and retrieve my overnight bag f
rom the trunk. Then I wipe down the trunk and the driver’s door. It probably will never matter, but I do not like to take unnecessary risks. God knows I have taken enough already on this trip.
I walk to the terminal, go through security, and on to my departure gate. This time, when they announce the boarding of first class passengers I am close to the head of the line, and when I find my seat and the flight attendant offers me a pre-takeoff drink, I am quick to accept it.
The flight back is just as long as the one over, but this time I do not sleep at all. I watch the in-flight movie. It is third rate, filled with violence and car chases, and just the thing to keep my mind on mute. When I get back to my place a telephone message is waiting. It is from Katherine. My watch tells me that it is not quite six. I go to my liquor cabinet, pour myself a brandy, and take a good-sized swallow. Then I pick up the phone and call Katherine.
“You’ve been gone,” she says, instead of hello, and I realize she has caller ID. It is something I still forget to think about, and I am afraid that forgetfulness will make trouble for me some day.
“Business,” I say, and then cannot stop myself from adding. “I called from out of town, but you weren’t there.”
“When was that?”
“Last night.”
A pause, then, “Right. I was out until pretty late.”
Another pause, longer this time, while I manage not to ask her where she was, and feel like an idiot. Then she says, “I’d like to have dinner with you.”
“Sure.”
“Tomorrow.”
I almost say no. It is as if I need to even the score, score some kind of childish points; but I want to see her.
“Okay.”
“At your place. I want you to cook a romantic meal for me. I’ll bring the wine.”
I hesitate again, fighting the feeling that something is being taken out of my hands.
“Okay.”
“Red or white?”
“What?”
“The wine. Red or white?”
I think, or try to. The only thing that comes out of my head is salmon. A cliché in Seattle, but I am too scattered to be creative.
“White,” I say.
We hang up. I finish the brandy and then dither around for several minutes before I pick up the telephone again. I punch in Skeeter’s number and am unaccountably grateful when she answers the telephone.
“It’s me,” I say. “Could you use a little company this evening?”
Chapter 36
Skeeter is wearing as close to nothing as possible when she opens the door. She smiles and pulls me inside, then wraps her arms around me and kisses me on the lips and neck and cheeks. She smells good, and I bury my nose against her bare shoulder and inhale her. After a while she pushes me away, but holds onto my arms.
“You look like you could use a little loving.”
“I’m not sure what I could use,” I say.
She guides me toward her bedroom, herds me, actually, and I have all the initiative of a docile steer. She pushes me gently onto the bed.
“Lie down.” She takes my shoes off, and my socks, then begins to work on the rest of my clothes. I lie passively and allow her to disrobe me. I am flaccid, and feel so detached from myself that I am not sure I can feel anything down there. She looks down at me and says, “Not much happening.” Then she shrugs off the maroon shift she is wearing. She bends over me and lets her tongue play around the edges of my scrotum. A tingle tells me that the blood may flow after all. She takes my penis in her hand and it begins to grow. “Better,” she says, and takes it in her mouth, which is like no other I have ever experienced. Soon I am hard as a rock. She clambers and slides onto me, and rubs her nipples around my face. I take one between my lips and suck on it, and that makes me even harder. She was right. I do need some loving.
I reach an orgasm almost immediately. It is so strong it feels like my loins will explode. We lay together for a while, and then Skeeter begins to work her skills on me again. She knows everything to do, and before many minutes pass I am aroused and hard again. This time the sex is slow, gentle, a horizontal waltz that gradually becomes more passionate until Skeeter gasps and moans as she climaxes. Her juices flow all over me and she continues to move with me until I finish. Afterwards we lie together, touching and occasionally nuzzling, without talking, until she kisses my nose and rolls out of bed. She goes to a closet and pulls on a cream-colored robe of terry cloth.
“You hungry?” she asks.
I realize I am, although it had not occurred to me before. “All of a sudden I could eat a six-course meal,” I say.
She laughs. “Can you make do with an omelet?”
“You bet.”
She walks out of the bedroom and I get up and put my clothes on. When I get to the kitchen she already has butter sizzling in a pan, and is stirring eggs and a touch water in a bowl. A plate with slices of cheese, mushrooms and sweet onion lies on the counter next to the stove.
“Efficient,” I say.
“I thought you might need a little food, too, so I had this ready to go.” She puts the filling onto half the eggs, then folds the omelet onto itself with a sure hand. Then she gives the omelet a toss, so that it flies out of the pan, flips over, and lands again. I could not have done it better. She puts the pan back onto the burner to finish the omelet while she quickly cracks more eggs into the bowl and stirs them. Then she slides the cooked omelet onto a plate and repeats the process with the second bowl of eggs.
“There’s half a bottle of red over there,” she says, pointing toward a cupboard. I get the wine and two glasses and take them to the kitchen table. She finishes the second omelet and we eat. I am focused on the food and do not talk, and she does not press me; but when I have finished, she says, “You must have had a hard day.”
“Several.” I do not volunteer details, and as always, she does not ask for them.
Skeeter smiles and shakes her head. “When you came to the door you looked like you weren’t sure where you were. Who you were, matter of fact.”
I bristle a little inside. “I know who I am,” I say, and immediately realize that I may not. Certainly I have been experiencing feelings and urges that seem foreign to me, mostly having to do with Katherine. I am caught in the middle of a confusion of desires there, and I do not like being confused. I survive by certainty. The psychologist I saw told me I did not know myself. I told her she was wrong. In later years I decided that perhaps she was right, that there may be subterranean levels of me that are outside my awareness. But it does not matter. I know everything about myself that I need to know to live my life.
“Have you used the Viagra?” Skeeter asks, as if she has been reading my thoughts.
“No.”
“She didn’t give you the chance?”
“The truth is, I haven’t let her decide whether to give me the chance or not.” I pour more wine for both of us.”
“Chickening out?”
“I’m not sure what I want from her, and she’s closing in.” I meet Skeeter’s eyes. “You don’t do that. We have a respectful relationship. I appreciate that.”
“So she wants to snuggle up inside your soul.”
“Right now she wants me to cook dinner for her, at my place.”
“What’s wrong with that? You like to cook.”
“She’ll know where I live.”
“So?”
“You don’t even know where I live, and we’ve been friends for years.”
“I don’t understand what the big deal is,” Skeeter says. “Do you know where she lives?”
I nod. “I can’t explain it.” That is true. I cannot, even to myself. Certainly maintaining my privacy and anonymity has been an important part of my work life, but I can sense that this goes beyond that. It is a gut thing, not a mind thing. I suppose it is one of those parts of me the psychologist said I should get to know. If it proves necessary, I suppose I will.
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’ve already said yes. I’m cooking salmon, and she’s bringing the wine.”
Skeeter laughs and claps her hands together. “What a great aphrodisiac. And then you’ll use that Viagra.”
“I want to, and I don’t want to.”
“You will. When is she coming to dinner?”
“Tomorrow.”
Skeeter stands up. “Then get your ass out of here and get some rest. You’ll need all your energy, I hope.” She pulls me gently to my feet and guides me to the front door. As she opens it she looks at me quizzically and says, “Haven’t you ever had a real girl friend before? Someone you really loved?”
“I don’t think so.”
* * *
As I drive home I ponder that last question. There was Donna, years ago in college. I suppose I thought I loved her, but how can I know? Maybe I have never loved anyone. Something deep inside contradicts that, and a sense of something unsettling and unidentifiable tries to well up, but I push it down again.
When I get home I go straight to the liquor cabinet and pull out a bottle of Laphroag Scotch. I pour a couple of fingers into a glass and down it. My inner scold groans and makes a face.
Laphroag is a fine single malt, meant for savoring in little sips, not swilling. I can see that I must be upset, but I am not sure why. I tell my scold to go away and fill the glass twice more.
I fall asleep almost as soon as I slip into bed, but then I am wide awake again. The bedside clock says that it is three in the morning.
“Helen,” I hear myself say. How could I have forgotten Helen? I did have a girl friend once. I was only eleven years old, in the fifth grade. There was nothing sexual. But she was my girl friend in every way that counts. I can look back and say I truly loved her. She had red hair that was closer to orange because of all the time she spent in the sun. She had violet eyes and lashes so light they were almost white. She was all freckles, and one of the first things she ever said to me was that she hoped if she spent enough time in the sun all of her freckles would merge one day into a beautiful tan. She came to our school almost a month after classes started in the fall, and walked up to me that first day during recess.