Black River

by G. M. Ford

  Corso stood for a moment, breathing deeply and listening to the hiss of the rain. Only then did the burning red pain in his left hand float to the level of consciousness. Clutching the hand to his chest and moaning, Corso walked over to the men. He stood there rocking on unsteady legs for a moment, and then he pointed the gun and again shot each man in the head. Then again and again, until nothing was happening because the gun was empty.

  He dropped to one knee. Set the gun in the grass and used his good hand to pat each man down. Extracted a wallet from each man’s pocket and used his foot to roll one and then the other down the levee, into the water. He then retrieved the gun and, with all his might, heaved the automatic out into the marsh, before he started stumbling toward the car.

  37

  Monday, October 23

  9:09 p.m.

  The desk clerk didn’t like what he saw, not a bit. Guy standing there with one hand jammed in his coat pocket, like he had a gun or something, looking like he’d spent the last week holed up under a bridge. As the man approached the registration desk, the clerk’s index finger hovered over the button marked SE-CURITY. He pushed it.

  “Robert Downs, please,” the guy croaked.

  Wasn’t till he got close that the clerk noticed he was leaving wet tracks on the carpet. That he wasn’t wearing socks. That his pants were soaked from the knees down and that, despite having his coat buttoned all the way up, his throat appeared to be circled by an angry purple welt. He fingered the button again. Twice.

  “Room number?” the clerk said.

  “I don’t know the room number,” the guy said in his rough voice.

  “I can’t connect you, sir, unless you know the room number.”

  “You call him,” the guy rasped. “Tell him Frank Corso is downstairs and needs to have a word with him.”

  Over the guy’s left shoulder, a pair of hotel security guards emerged from the luggage room. The desk clerk breathed a sigh of relief as they advanced toward the desk.

  The guy picked up something in his eyes and looked back over his shoulder. The movement brought a grunt from somewhere deep inside. “Please,” the guy said. “I know I look like hell. Just call Mr. Downs for me.”

  The clerk held up a hand. Security stopped about six feet away. He dialed the phone and waited for a moment. “Mr. Downs,” he said. “This is Dennis at the desk. Yes, sir. Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s a gentleman down here in the lobby asking for you.” He listened and then looked up at Corso.

  “Frank Corso,” the guy said.

  “Frank Corso,” the clerk repeated. He pressed the phone tighter to his ear.

  “Ah, yes…. Mr. Downs, I was wondering if insteadof sending the gentleman up—I was wondering if it might be possible for you to come down to the lobby instead.” He nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He hung up. “Mr. Downs will be down in a moment.”

  It was more like five minutes before Robert Downs appeared, wearing a black turtleneck over a pair of rumpled gray slacks. His hair was tousled and his face puffy. He crossed the lobby to Corso’s side. “I was—I have an early…” He stammered as he took Corso in. He stepped in closer and studied Corso’s throat. “What—?” he began.

  Corso touched him on the shoulder and pulled him closer. “We need to go upstairs,” he whispered.

  Robert Downs hesitated for a moment and then nodded his head. He took Corso by the elbow and, under the baleful gaze of the security guards, led him back across the lobby to the elevator, where they waited no more than thirty seconds before a muted ding announced the arrival of the car. Downs put his arm around Corso’s waist and drew him into the elevator.

  They didn’t speak on the ride up to the third floor or on the walk down the long hall. Corso leaned against the wall as Downs took three tries at swiping his card before he got the door open. He stepped to one side and ushered Corso into the room. Downs gestured toward the desk. “Sit down,” he said. Corso shook his head and walked slowly into the bathroom. Downs followed. Corso’s face twisted into a knot as he slowly, incrementally, pulled his left hand from his coat pocket and set it gently in the sink.

  The black sock covering his hand was completely soaked with blood. He’d used the other sock for his right hand as he drove the Mercedes, so as not to leave fingerprints.

  “Jesus,” Downs muttered, his hands beginning to peel the sock from Corso’s hand. The sink’s drain was closed. Blood was beginning to collect. Corso groaned as Downs lifted his hand and inched off the last of the sock. “Steady now,” Downs said, as he turned on the water and then tested it with his finger.

  Satisfied, he gently moved Corso’s palm beneath the warm trickle. Again Corso groaned. Downs scowled as he turned the hand over and washed off the back.

  “This is a—” he began. “You’ve been shot.”

  “Nice to see a Harvard education paying dividends,” Corso said through gritted teeth.

  Despite himself, Downs managed a weak smile.

  “Fix it,” Corso said.

  “We’ve got to get you to a hospital,” Downs declared.

  Corso shook his head. “I can’t go to a hospital. They’ll report it as a gunshot wound. You’re going to have to fix it for me.”

  “The hand is a maze of nerves,” Downs said. “There’s no way I can possibly—” He looked around. “In a setting like this—”

  Corso got nose to nose with him. “You’re going to have to do the best you can.”

  “Your hand will never function properly again.”

  “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

  Downs broke the stare-down, stepped out into the hall, and ran a hand through his hair. “Did this…is this about my father’s death?”

  “Yes,” Corso said.

  “Do you know who—”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Corso said.

  Downs thought it over for a moment. Corso imagined him weighing his obligations against his medical license. Then, without a word, he took Corso’s hand again and ran it beneath the warm stream of water until it was free of blood, took a washcloth, doubled it over the exit wound in the palm, and then did the same for the back.

  “Stay still,” he said to Corso. “This is going to hurt for a minute.” He took a hand towel and twirled it into a tightrope, then slipped the middle beneath Corso’s hand. “Hang on,” he whispered, as he tied the towel around the hand as tightly as he was able. Corso’s vision went white for a moment. When his knees buckled, he braced himself against the sink.

  Downs put an arm around Corso’s waist and led him over to the small sofa by the window. “Take off your coat,” he said, and helped Corso remove the jacket. He gently pushed Corso’s head back and inspected the oozing line of purple flesh encircling his neck. “Nasty,” he muttered to himself.

  Corso didn’t seem to hear.

  “Is there an all-night drugstore in the city?”

  “Bartell’s on Broadway,” Corso croaked.

  “How do I get there?”

  Corso gave him directions. “I’ll be back,” Downs said.

  Corso waited until he was sure Robert Downs was gone and then retrieved his jacket from the floor. He put the two wallets on the bed and went through them. Pair of Florida driver’s licenses: Gerardo Limón and Ramón Javier. Cubans, Corso guessed: Limón with a Miami address, Javier from Boca Raton. He dropped the licenses onto the couch and sat for a moment with his head thrown back, trying to muster his strength.

  He felt nauseated and unsteady on his feet as he made his way to the closet and pulled open the door. On the shelf above the ironing board, he found what he was looking for, the extra pillow. He carried it back to the couch, where, using his good hand and his feet, he managed to remove the cover.

  He rested again and then fished the keys to the Mercedes from his pants pocket and dropped them into the pillowcase, followed by the wallets and the licenses. He crossed to the desk, hefted a large glass ashtray, and returned to the couch, where he added the prize to the pile
in the sack.

  He tied a knot in the pillowcase and carried it over to the curtain covering the west wall. He found the cord and pulled until the sliding glass door was exposed. It was one of those fake balconies; little more than a railing to keep guests from falling into Puget Sound. As he leaned against the wall, gathering himself, he remembered the famous picture of the Beatles, fishing out of a window in this very hotel, back in the sixties. During the last remodel, they’d added the faux balconies and banned angling.

  When his stomach settled down, he popped the lock and slid the door open. He could hear the lap of waves under the hotel and the shrill cries of gulls. His nostrils caught the smells of creosote and salt water. His mouth hung open as he leaned against the rail, twirled the bundle in the air, and let fly. The pillowcase hit the water, floated for a moment, and then quickly disappeared beneath the waves.

  The strain sent his senses ajar again. He reeled across the room and threw himself on the couch. Next thing he knew, he was dreaming of flying. Just holding his arms out and being borne above the branches by a spring wind. Of soaring and gamboling in the sky, beneath a bright yellow sun.

  When he opened his eyes again, Robert Downs was kneeling by his side, opening a blue-and-white box of gauze. “You passed out,” Downs said.

  “Yeah,” was all Corso could manage.

  “Probably for the best. It let me stitch you up without you twitching on me.”

  Corso looked down at his hand. The jagged hole in his palm had been drawn together by half a dozen black stitches. Same thing on the back.

  “In about a week, take a pair of nail scissors to the knots and then pull out all the pieces,” Downs said. He looked into Corso’s eyes, trying to get a read on him. “Okay?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  Downs took Corso’s hand in his and began to wrap it with gauze. By the time the gauze ran out, the hand looked like that of a boxer, ready for the ring. Downs secured the end with a piece of tape and looked up at Corso.

  “I’m going to call the airlines and change my flight,” he said.

  Corso swallowed several times. “Go back to Boston,” he said finally.

  “There must be something I can do….”

  Corso reached out and grabbed the young man by the shoulder, squeezing hard.

  “Go home. Go back to your girlfriend. Get married. There’s nothing you can do here except get in the way.”

  “Are you—?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Robert Downs searched Corso’s face and then reached into the white plastic bag that lay on the floor by his side. He pulled out a plastic prescription bottle and placed it on the table next to Corso; then he got to his feet and walked into the bathroom.

  Corso heard the water running. In a minute Downs reappeared, carrying a glass of water, which he set down next to the prescription. “You take two of these, three times a day,” he said, shaking a trio of orange capsules out into his palm. “For infection. Make sure you take them until they’re gone.”

  The plastic pills stuck in Corso’s mouth like stones; it took the whole glass of water to wash them down. Corso lifted his bandaged hand toward his throat, winced, and returned it to his lap.

  “I cleaned the throat laceration,” Downs said. “There might be a little permanent scarring, I can’t tell. It’ll be all right, but there’s nothing I can do about the short-term cosmetics.”

  Corso whispered his thanks and got to his feet, at which moment he realized he wasn’t wearing trousers. He looked around the room and found them hanging over the heater, crossed the room gingerly, making no sudden moves. Took him about twice as long as usual to get his pants on, and he probably would never have gotten the belt hitched if Downs hadn’t taken pity on him and lent a hand. Corso sat on the edge of the bed. “Could you spare a pair of socks?” he said.

  Downs furrowed his brow and said, “Sure.” After maybe thirty seconds of messing with his suitcase, he came up with a rolled pair of athletic socks. “Clean,” he announced, pulling the socks apart and dropping them in Corso’s lap.

  The socks were easier than the pants, his shoes easier still. Corso looked down over the front of himself. The once forest-green polo shirt was streaked with blood and littered with bits of wood and straw. Corso eased it over his head and dropped it on the floor. He smirked at Robert Downs. “Sooner or later, it was bound to happen,” he said.

  Downs looked confused. “What’s that, Mr. Corso?”

  “Somebody was gonna want the shirt off your back.”

  The younger man looked down at himself. “You mean this?” He fingered the turtleneck. “My shirt?”

  “The very same,” Corso said.

  “It’s not clean. I’ve worn it a couple of—”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Downs shrugged and pulled the shirt over his head. He started to hand it to Corso, changed his mind, and took it back. Pulling the sleeves right side out, he rolled the neck down and put it over Corso’s head. Getting his left hand the length of the sleeve left Corso panting. The sleeves were a couple of inches short, but otherwise the shirt fit fine.

  Robert Downs adjusted the turtleneck and then stepped back to admire his handiwork. “For a guy who’s been shot and strangled in the same night, you don’t look half bad,” he announced.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Corso said.

  Downs helped Corso into his jacket, then went around brushing and picking the coat free of debris. “You’re going home, right?”

  “I’d hate to have to lie to my doctor,” Corso said, patting himself down. He found his other sock in the outside pocket and dropped it to the floor on top of his shirt. In one inside pocket, he found the pages from Accounts Payable, soaked nearly through, but readable. From the other inside pocket he pulled his phone. He wiped the damp plastic on the side of the coat and pushed the power button with his thumb. It worked. He started to switch hands, thought better of it, and set the phone on the bed before he dialed.

  “Send a cab to the Edgewater Hotel,” he said. He turned to Robert Downs. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  Downs shrugged. “Makes us even, I guess.”

  Corso grudgingly nodded.

  “You should get some rest,” Downs said.

  Corso almost smiled. “Thank you, doctor.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Gotta see a lady about some buttermilk,” Corso said.

  38

  Monday, October 23

  11:23 p.m.

  One blue eye. Three brass chains. “It’s late,” she whispered through the crack in the door. “I’ve got a midterm tomorrow. I can’t—”

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Corso said.

  “Is this about Donald?”

  “Yes.”

  She heaved an audible sigh. “That’s my past. I don’t want to—”

  “It’s about you too,” Corso said. “I think you better open the door.”

  Instead, the door closed. He waited a silent moment, wondering whether she’d gone back to bed before the first chain rattled.

  Marie Hall wore one of those billowing flannel nightgowns favored by single women on cold nights—the white a little off from the washing machine, little shriveled roses around the edges—that and a pair of bright blue Road Runner socks. She closed the door behind Corso and stood with her hands on her hips.

  “This may be the middle of the afternoon to you famous writer types, Mr. Corso, but I work for a living, so if you don’t mind let’s get to whatever it is you think is so important as to show up here at this time of night.”

  “I want you to tell me the truth.”

  Her foot began to tap. “You’re starting to piss me off, you know that? I shared my private life with you. I answered your questions. And now you see fit to invade my privacy in the middle of the night and insult me!” She pulled the door open. “So—if you’ll excuse me.” She gestured toward the opening. Corso wandered farther into the apartment.

  “I do
n’t think you’ll want your neighbors to hear this,” he said.

  “Get out.”

  “I need to know about the money,” Corso said.

  “Do I have to call the police?”

  “I’m betting the police would find the scenario real interesting.”

  She pushed the door closed and started for the phone on the kitchen wall. Corso kept talking. “About how your husband, Donald, was a member of the second Balagula jury.” She stood with the phone poised in the air, a foot from her ear. “About how he sold his ass to Nicholas Balagula for something like a hundred thousand bucks and about how you somehow managed to screw him out of half the money.”

  “Money? There was no money,” she scoffed, pushing a button on the phone. She looked over as if to give Corso one last chance to leave.

  “If you push that second one, Marie, the cops are coming. No matter what. There’s no calling it off.” Her finger wavered.

  “You know what I’m betting?” Corso said. She didn’t answer. “I’m betting if I were to run a serious financial check on you, I’d find you’ve got a little nest egg tucked away somewhere. A little something you can draw on for college tuition or”—he swept his hand around the room—“for a coupla nice pieces of furniture maybe.” She started to protest, but Corso waved her off. “Probably got it squirreled away in some nice safe mutual fund or something like that.”

  “Don’t be—”

  “I’m betting that if I were to go down to where you work and ask around, I’d find out that for most of last summer you didn’t take the bus to work like you usually did. I’m betting you drove a yellow pickup truck.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” The tone was right, the gaze stony. Her lower lip, however, was not cooperating.