by Ray Garton
"You're shittin' me."
Coll shook his head very solemnly.
Bent leaned forward, put his tea on the coffee table, stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray, and lit another. Then he squinted at Coll, head cocked, and asked, "How the hell do you know all this? I mean, where does it come from? You hang out with these perverts, or what?"
Coll laughed. "Research, son. See, I don't have the luxury of being able to make up all my stories like you."
"Very funny."
"I get it all from books, articles, from interviewing cops, FBI agents who've dealt with that sort of thing. Some of it I get from the on-line services."
"On-line services? You mean like those networks you mentioned?"
"Oh, hell no. I've never actually been on one of those."
"Then how do you know they exist?"
"Oh, they exist, believe me. Again, research. You write the kind of stuff I write long enough and you make a lot of unusual friends, connections. See, the people behind those coded networks and ads, they scout around for these, kids, snatch 'em up, and put 'em in the machine. Sooner or later, they end up being ground out like meat."
"So, if so many people know about it, why isn't something being done?"
Coll smiled bitterly. "Ever heard of an organization called NAMBLA?"
"The North American Man-Boy Love Association, right?"
"That's the one. You know about them. I know. A lotta people know. In fact, what with A Current Affair and Geraldo Rivera, just about everybody knows. But ... they're still there, aren't they?"
"Why?"
"This is America. Land of the free. You can have any opinion you want. The men in NAMBLA just happen to have the opinion that it's okay for a grown man to have sex with a little boy who consents to that sex. It's an opinion. There's nothing anyone can do about an opinion."
"But we all know what they're doing."
"Oh, yeah. But have we caught 'em? If you can't catch 'em, you can't nail 'em."
"But why can't anybody catch the guys who are taking these kids?"
Coll made a hissing sound and waved his hand, leaning forward. "Listen. You're how old?"
"Thirty-nine."
Coll smirked and chuckled. "That's what everybody says."
"No, really. I'm thirty-nine."
"Okay. You know what kind of trail you've left behind in your thirty-nine years? I'm talking about credit cards, employment records, health care records, leases you've signed, I mean, you name it, we all leave paper trails behind us like some kinda spoor. You know how many people know things about you that your best friend doesn't know? You know how many people know next to everything about you?"
Bent did not respond because he knew where Coll was going.
"If you're five years old ... six, seven ... eight or nine ... nobody knows shit about you except your parents. And that's only if they care. You disappear at that age, you get snatched away one day — grabbed by somebody who just drives up and stops and then drives away — and you are just gone, fucking gone, because you've left nothing behind but a couple upset, worried people and an empty bed with a teddy bear on it."
Bent took a couple sips of his tea and a puff of his cigarette before he spoke. "So what you're telling me is that my uplifting weekly story of hope and faith is going to end like a bad horror movie, right?"
"Not really."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's probably not gonna have much of an ending. The kid just won't be found and everybody'll forget all about it. Including the cops, who probably won't even be able to find enough evidence to prove that a crime has been committed. They have to prove a kidnapping before they have a kidnapping."
There was a long silence. Bent thought about the conversation, ran it over and over in his mind at high speed. He also thought about his dinner with the Walkers. And, of course, about Fleck and Barbara Bergenstern.
"Well, I can hear the wheels spinning," Coll finally said. "What're they working on?"
Bent took the last puff on his cigarette and put it out, still thinking, frowning as he lit another.
"You always smoke this much?" Coll asked.
"Yeah, my doctor tells me I'm not getting enough tar," Bent said, sounding distant and preoccupied.
Coll chuckled, then asked, "What're you thinking?"
"How much information can you get for me on this?"
"I've already got a whole bunch of it in my files. Like I told you, I wrote a book on this once. But that was a while ago, so — "
"How much recent stuff can you get? I mean really recent. And how much can you keep getting?"
"I suppose I could crank up the old computer, see if I can come, across any recent articles." Coll leaned forward then and lit a cigarette for himself. "What're you thinking?"
"I'm not sure yet. Really. I mean, I'm not thinking anything in particular. But I'd like whatever information you can get for me."
"Hey, what was that you mentioned about an upside-down cross on the phone earlier?"
Bent told him about Suzie Bastino's sighting of the car with the upside-down cross hanging from the mirror.
"I'm sure the police would like to hear about it, though. Could help get an ID on the car."
"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. But then I started thinking something else." Frowning, he pushed his fingers back through his hair slowly. "What if it was more than something that could help ID the car? What if it was, um ...” He groped, but nothing came. "I'm not sure, that's what keeps bugging the hell out of me."
"I think you've been doing too many UFO Elvis conspiracy stories, Bent."
"Kind of you to say so." Bent paused, frowning, and ran a knuckle back and forth along his lower lip. "What about those computer networks you mentioned? I mean, the ones that write in code about buying children, and stuff like that? How do you get access to those things?"
Coll chuckled. "Well, like I said, I’ve never actually logged on to one of those. And even if I knew how, I'm not sure I would. Those are not exactly friendly people to deal with, if you know what I mean. Especially if you're just nosing around."
"You might want to keep that in mind," Bent said, still sounding preoccupied. "I think I'd like to take a look at one sooner or later."
"Yeah," Coll said with a laugh, rolling his eyes, "and I'd like a date with Michelle Pfeiffer." When he realized that Bent had paid no attention at all to his remark, Coll slapped his hands onto his thighs and said, "Well, I'll get all that stuff together for you tonight, have it ready for you by morning."
"You don't have to do that, Coll. It's late."
"Hell, I'll be up till about four or five, anyway, reading or something. Besides, I enjoy that." Coll put out the cigarette he was smoking and stood. "Well, how about the grand tour? You can get to know the place, then I'll give you a key, and as long as you're in the area, you can come in anytime."
"I'll call first, of course."
"Oh, don't worry about that. You won't be interrupting anything. I don't get much company these days, other than pizza delivery boys."
"What happened to Deanna?" Bent asked with genuine concern.
Coll had met Deanna Brooks while working on a book. Their relationship had always been rocky, but in spite of that, it had always seemed to Bent to be quite solid. Like Coll, Deanna was a frequent visitor to the bestseller lists with her books on child-raising and molestation and self-helps for parents, and she had a syndicated radio call-in show that aired on weekday afternoons across the country. She'd always seemed rather cold and distant to Bent ... but she was truly beautiful.
Coll led him down the hall and toward the kitchen, but stopped and pointed out a small framed photograph on the wall.
Deanna was stunning, with deep auburn hair that barely fell to her shoulders and framed an angular face that would have been even more beautiful if she would ever smile fully rather than just turn up the corners of her usually straight-lined mouth ever so slightly. In the picture, Coll stood on a narrow sidewalk with
a crowded beach in the background. Her right arm was around his shoulders, graceful hand resting on the collar of his madras shirt. The one-piece bathing suit she wore showed off her long and head-turning figure, unlike the conservative suit she'd worn on the talk show.
"We went to the Cayman Islands with some friends," Coll said. "In fact, I think that was the last picture of us together. I'm not sure, though. I trashed all the others."
Bent turned to him suddenly. "Well, shit, Coll, what happened? You've always sounded like things were great."
"Yeah, I guess I was able to overlook enough things long enough to think so myself."
"Why did you keep this particular picture?"
Coll chuckled a little coldly and stuffed his hands in his back pockets again. When Coll first started speaking, Bent thought he was avoiding the question, but he listened anyway.
"Have you ever dated anyone in the psychiatric field, Bent?"
Bent shook his head.
"Ever known anyone in it?"
Another shake.
"Not even been acquainted?"
Another.
"Well, keep it that way. They never stop working. Never. They're always analyzing. They analyze everyone around them. That was our problem. Things were great at first. She seemed kind of chilly and stern, but there was a person in there. Very passionate. She was primeval in bed, an animal, really. So, yeah, things were good, at first ... as they always seem to be, right? I can say that now without stiffening my back or cracking my knuckles. You know, I really did, um ... you know, I cared for ...” He stopped and was silent awhile, looking at that picture with narrowed eyes, then he nodded slowly. "I loved her. Very much. I told you a few times, I think, that I was trying to approach the subject of marriage. But she always saw it coming and ducked. She wanted none of that stuff. The woman was ... pathologically independent. She knew about my alcoholism and analyzed that every which way. You know, insecurity, inability to face reality, all the usual shit. But the one thing she couldn't get over — I mean, she came up with a new explanation for this every couple of months or so — was my work. My writing. What horrible thing had happened to me that had made me focus on these things ... crime, murder, rape, molestation, kidnapping. 'All that darkness' is what she always called my work. She kept trying to figure it out. I think the reason she finally told me au revoir was that she couldn't figure it out. Because she could never settle for the only answer that was true: that it was something I liked to do and was good at, and something at which I made a good living. I think she couldn't bear staying with someone who was missing a label or two from the bumps on his psyche."
He folded his arms then and sighed. "Our last night together was here. We'd sent out for dinner. Not take-out, but expensive stuff from two or three of the best restaurants in town. They have a service that does that here, you know. So, we were in the dining room having this nice candlelight dinner, very quiet music playing, and all of a sudden she pops up and says, 'We have to talk.' When Dee said 'talk,' she always meant it. So we talked. And she gave me her final analysis, saying I wrote the things I wrote because I could never truly appreciate happiness, I didn't really believe it existed, and that was why she not only could not marry me but could no longer see me from that night on. I was quiet for a while and she went on to explain how I would feel after she left. The withdrawal symptoms, you might say. Relationship d.t.'s. First, she said, I would go through a period of grief, mourning the loss of our relationship. Then a period of denial, in which I could convince myself that it wasn't over and she would no doubt come back to me any day. Then, worst of all, I would experience stages of anger during which I would hate her, despise her, resent her, and every other bad thing you can think of, before I finally came out of it and was able to look back on the relationship fondly." He was silent for a long time.
"And you said ...?" Bent prodded.
"Well, I told her I was afraid I'd have to skip the first two stages and go straight to number three. Then I threw a bowl of French onion soup all over her, which made me feel good because she was wearing this mustard-colored blouse that I always thought made her look like a duck. She stormed out, telling me I'd just proved her right, and I haven't seen her since. And she left all her CDs here, too, that damned relaxation music that doesn't have a tune in sight. Lots of dolphin and whale sounds. Bullshit."
"Dammit, why didn't you call me?" Bent asked, a little angry.
"I did."
"But why didn't you tell me?"
"Two reasons. First, talking about it just made me angrier. Second, when I was talking to you, I didn't need to talk about it. I went to two, sometimes three AA meetings every day of my fucking life for ... oh, god, I don't know how long it was after she left. There came a time when if I'd had the choice of having her back — with all the good stuff and none of the bad — and having a bottle, I would've taken the bottle without even thinking about it. But, um ...” He scrubbed a hand over his face " ... I'm better now. Really. I'm doing just fine. Besides, it never would have worked anyway. She was always going back and forth between here and Los Angeles, and you know how much I hate Los Angeles."
"What was in Los Angeles for her?"
"Oh, patients, I guess. Television appearances. She was never really very specific. But the trips became more frequent the longer we were together, so I figured she'd probably end up moving there, and I sure as hell wouldn't have followed her. So, like I said, it was probably all for the best."
"Don't you have any social life? I mean, it's not good for us drunks to hang around the house alone all the time. It's too easy to drink."
"Oh, I have a poker game every week and ... I have friends, Bent. Really. I'm fine."
"You ought to look for someone else."
"I don't look. I wasn't looking when I found her. I've never been looking when I've found the important ones, however they might have turned out. Looking is a big fat pain in the ass."
"So, why did you keep this picture?"
"See the way her arm's around me, with her hand on my neck? Makes her look very affectionate, doesn't it. Well, there's something you can't really tell simply by looking at the picture, but what she's really doing is straightening the collar of my shirt. That was Dee. Always trying to improve me ... figure out what was wrong and fix me. I think, deep down inside, she was a power nut."
"Now you’re analyzing her," Bent said.
Coll laughed. "Fuck you. I've got a lotta catching up to do."
"Speaking of Deanna, I meant to tell you I saw her on Sally Jessy Raphael today. With Andrea Dworkin and Rex Calisto."
"Yeah, I saw it. What a circus. Did you see all of it?"
"Just a few minutes."
"Did you see the part where Calisto told Deanna she was beautiful and offered her a million dollars to pose naked in Visions?"
Bent's eyes widened. "You shittin' me?"
"No. She lifted her head in that regal ... well, almost aristocratic way she has, and said with conviction, 'I would rather roll naked down a mountain of broken glass and land in a pile of salt.' His question really pissed Dworkin off — probably because he didn't ask her, because there aren't enough pages in the magazine to cover her entire body — and she got up like she was gonna walk off, paced around a little while Sally tried to calm her down, and, I swear to god, I thought that balcony was gonna collapse right from under her and everybody would be killed." He paused, looked at the picture again, and said, "No, actually, I was hoping it would. What a couple, those two," he said, shaking his head and smiling. "Dee and Calisto, I mean. He sells sexual masturbation and she sells mental masturbation." After a moment, Coll slapped Bent's shoulder a couple of times and said, "Okay, whatta you say we get on with the tour."
And they did. Coll showed him through the entire apartment, which sure beat the apartments they'd had in New York in space and convenience. When they were finished, Coll finally showed Bent to his room.
"Okay, you know the layout," Coll said, "you know where everything is, s
o the place is yours. Help yourself to anything."
"Thanks."
"Oh. One second. I'll get you the key." Coll left the room and went down the hall.
Bent sat on the edge of his bed and listened as drawers opened and closed, as keys jingled together, as Coll muttered to himself with annoyance. Finally, he heard Coll coming back down the hall.
"Son of a bitch, I think she still has that key," Coll said.
"Deanna?"
"Yes. I never thought to get it back from her. And she hasn't even used it yet."
"Do you expect her to?"
"Well, she might. She's got all these CDs here. In fact, she's even got some clothes here. Look, tell you what, I'll just have one made first thing tomorrow. If we miss each other for some reason, I'll leave it with the doorman. Just tell him your name."
"I really appreciate it, Coll."
"No problem."
"Wish I could stay up and talk some more, but — "
"Hey, don't worry about it." Coll grinned. "I've got info to dig up. I'm gonna put on some music and get to work."
Once Bent was in bed, had set his alarm clock, and put out the lights, he was surprised by his exhaustion. In spite of it, though, he couldn't go to sleep for a while, so he got up, took out the portable computer, and began writing up everything he'd learned so far, everything from the Walkers to Suzie Bastino, even adding some of the things Coll had told him, figuring he'd get something out of one of Coll's books a little later to back it up.
Finally, the most tired part of his body was his brain, and once he was in bed, it didn't take long for it to darken the darkness even more and sink him into a deep sleep that was occasionally, now and then, lit briefly by a glowing upside-down cross that flew silently through the darkness toward him, again and again ...