Spur of the Moment

by David Linzee

  As she watched Amy Song and Fred Kraus, the obnoxious baritone playing Escamillo, singing about how much everyone admired them and how much they loved themselves, she had a moment of resentment, pure as a child’s, that the world was paying all this attention to someone else and none to her.

  In her youth she had wanted to be a star, and now she was an aging journeyman mezzo-soprano, and in a few years she would probably be a piano teacher. Ordinarily Renata kept this thought padlocked in the cellar of her mind, but now it burst out into the living room and sprawled on the sofa. She gazed at Amy Song with sinful envy. Amy was singing beautifully but sloppily, as usual, contenting herself with an F when the score called for a G, drawling a half note when the score called for a crisp quarter note. Oh, Renata could kill her.

  Well, could she?

  Here was the relevant question. If she could answer it, she might learn how to deal with Ransome Chase, sitting out there in the darkness. After a moment’s consideration, she decided that no, she could not kill Amy, who was not responsible for her fizzling-out career. It was the fault of many people over the years who had chosen to hire somebody else, of bad luck and bad decisions, some of them her own.

  It was different for Ransome Chase. He blamed Helen Stromberg-Brand only. She had stolen the glory that should have been his. He had explained it all to them just a few hours ago. Renata wondered why she had failed to believe that Chase was guilty. Peter was right. Where there’s smoke there’s fire.

  Chapter 50

  A MetroLink train was pulling out of Rock Road Station. It was spanking new, white with bold red and blue flashes, and was all of two cars long. It looked like something that should be going around a Christmas tree, compared to the El trains of Chicago, but if the comparison had ever amused Shane, the novelty had worn off by now. The few disembarking passengers went off to their cars in the lot or the bus stop, and he had the platform to himself again. He slowly paced its length. Twice he took his cellphone out of his pocket and put it back. The third time, he made a call.

  “I told you not to call,” said Bistouri.

  “Yeah, and you told me it would take fifteen, twenty minutes. I been here for forty-nine minutes. Exactly. I know ’cause there’s a digital clock and I got nothing to do but watch it. Are you just sitting there?”

  “Schaefer’s been and gone.”

  “Schaefer?”

  “The right-hand man. He’s taking a while to produce his boss. Standard procedure. You make a guy wait. Let his nerves work on him. Makes him easier to deal with. Well, it’s not gonna work this time.”

  “They got their recorded announcements on a loop. I know ’em all by heart. You want to hear what you’re not supposed to do on a MetroLink train?”

  “Just think about what you’re gonna do with the money, Shane. And don’t call me again.”

  Chapter 51

  Ransome Chase had returned to his seat and Peter had been able to see Renata. As she had warned him, she was one figure on a crowded stage, one voice among many. The scene played out and the stage darkened for a change of setting.

  He had been able to tell, sort of, what locale the previous acts had been set in, but now he had no idea where they were supposed to be. As before there were banks of video screens, now showing news footage of Latin Americans trying to cross the desert or swim the Rio Grande. Stage left was a bulky object that in the dim light looked like nothing so much as an oversize slot machine.

  Characters were drifting in from upstage, singing in French. The lights came up. It was a giant slot machine. The titles above the stage said they were singing that a smugglers’ life is hard but fun. Oh. Now he got the border motif. The singers were carrying boxes and bundles, which they set down and sat on, except for Carmen and Don José, who were arguing. Then two women got up and ran over to the slot machine. They were Renata and her pal.

  Peter straightened up in his seat. The operatic sisters had told him that this was Frasquita and Mercédès’s best bit. It was very pleasant for him to hear her voice, less pleasant to look at her, for she was almost unrecognizable in another odd getup of blond wig, fluorescent orange tube top, short skirt, and fishnet stockings. The girls sang about telling their fortunes with cards, which made it a little strange that what they were actually doing was pulling the handle of the slot machine. Frasquita was going to marry a young handsome man. Mercédès was going to marry an old man—but very rich. Each thought hers was the more enviable future. Renata threw her head back and sang joyfully that her husband was going to die, leaving her a rich widow. Peter resisted the impulse to elbow the person next to him and say, isn’t she great?

  Then a spotlight picked up Carmen, who was slowly crossing the stage. She was wearing camouflage fatigue pants that fit her trim figure like designer jeans. The music and the lighting changed, becoming ominous. Carmen sang that she would try her fortune. She pulled the handle.

  The video screens now showed hands flicking open glittering switchblades. An ace of diamonds the size of a highway billboard shot up from the floor. Another dropped from the ceiling. Peter got it: this was what Carmen was seeing on the slot machine. Up from the floor surged another giant card.

  Halfway up, it froze. Then, with a metallic shrieking that drowned out the orchestra, it rose jerkily a few more feet and froze again. On the screens, the switchblades blinked out, to be replaced by the multicolored rectangles of the Microsoft Windows logo.

  The metallic racket ceased. There was complete silence. The orchestra had stopped playing. Only now was Peter sure that this wasn’t all part of the show. The performers who were sitting on bags and boxes stood up. Carmen, Frasquita, and Mercédès stared helplessly at each other. It was the moment to drop the curtain, but this theater didn’t have one. The lights went out. In the darkness the jabber of the audience seemed very loud. A couple of people took it upon themselves to boo, but this was St. Louis, and it didn’t catch on.

  The house lights went up. Under cover of darkness the performers had fled the stage. A man in a tuxedo was running down the aisle. Peter recognized the SLO bigwig as he clambered onto the stage and disappeared into the wings. Most of the audience members were on their feet, some in the aisles already. The conversation was loud and animated, and there was even laughter. Everybody seemed to be having a good time.

  By the time Peter reached the lobby, it was packed. Some people were heading out the doors toward the parking lot, but most seemed to be in no hurry to leave. There was a long line at the bar. The smokers were stepping out and lighting up. Little knots of people were forming to laugh and compare speculations. Many others were on their cellphones, reporting the disaster to the folks at home.

  He spotted Renata at the same moment she saw him. She was still in her fluorescent tube top and short skirt, and people turned to look at her as she made her way over to him.

  “I’m not supposed to be out here in costume, but—”

  “I don’t think it matters now.”

  “No, I suppose not. Listen, Chase is here.”

  “I know.”

  “The way he’s been looking at me …. Peter, I don’t know why I didn’t believe you straightaway.”

  “He did it,” Peter said.

  “He did it.”

  “All right. Let’s go to Clayton PD.”

  “I have Detective McCutcheon’s home number.”

  “Even better.”

  As Peter handed her his phone, he looked over her shoulder and said, “Uh-oh. Brace yourself.”

  She turned. Ransome Chase was just emerging from the auditorium. His girlfriend was not with him, but another man was, one of the cast, a red-faced, gray-haired man wearing a T-shirt with an American flag on it. His arm came up and he pointed at them. Chase’s eyes bored into Peter’s. He started toward them.

  Peter said, “Who is that guy?”

  “His name is Ray. He’s a supernumerary. We’d got to be quite matey, but he’s very annoyed by what I’m doing, trying to help Don. Um … hang on a
minute.”

  “What?”

  “An hour ago he told me didn’t know Chase.”

  Chase was upon them. Glaring from one to the other he said, “Planning your next stupid move?”

  “Back off,” Peter said. “I mean it. Stand somewhere else until the cops get here.”

  Chase looked at the phone in Renata’s hand. “You’ve called the police?”

  “I’m about to,” said Renata. “Detective McCutcheon of Clayton PD, on the Stromberg-Brand investigation. It time he knew about you.”

  Chase raised his eyes to ceiling. They were left to look at his hairy throat while he struggled with his temper. After a minute he was ready to talk to them. “I really don’t need any more trouble at the med school. So I’m going to offer you one last chance to avoid the consequences of your stupidity. Come with me.”

  “Come with you where?”

  “My home. It’s not far.”

  “We’ll wait here for the police,” said Peter.

  “I don’t want the police and neither do you. If you’ll give me fifteen minutes, I can prove that I had nothing to do with Helen Stromberg-Brand’s death.”

  Peter glanced at Renata. He could tell that her doubts about Chase’s guilt were stirring again. She said, “All right. We’ll follow you in our car.”

  Chapter 52

  Bistouri was slumped at the wheel of his car, head against the headrest, perfectly still. He would have looked to be asleep except that his eyes were open. Over the noise of insects and tree frogs came the sound of an approaching car. Bistouri raised his eyes to the rearview mirror but made no other movement until the car turned onto the dead-end pavement, its headlights sweeping the trees before they were switched off. Bistouri opened the door and got out.

  Both front doors of the Porsche Cayenne opened. Schaefer got down from the driver’s seat and stood next to the car. His hand slipped into his jacket. Bryson got out. He hesitated a moment, then approached Bistouri.

  “Mr. Bryson—” Bistouri began.

  “Schaefer said to remind you of the warning he gave you before.”

  “Right. He’s armed and dangerous. Mr. Bryson, your guy has the wrong idea completely. I don’t mean you any harm. In fact—”

  “Let’s not waste time. How much are you asking?”

  Bryson stopped an arm’s length from Bistouri. He took a step to his left, so that he was not blocking Schaefer’s sight line. Bistouri said, “I’m sorry about what your guy has been saying to you, Mr. Bryson. Obviously he’s got you kind of keyed up.”

  “Come on, what’s your price?”

  “Everything I’ve done so far was so I could get a minute alone with you. Let’s calm down. Start over.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Your man thinks this is a shakedown. The dumbshit kid I have to work with thinks so too. But it’s not. I have something to say to you we don’t want anyone else to hear. Something important. That’s what this is about, and that’s all.”

  “How much for the disk?”

  “You can forget about the disk. It’s not a problem.”

  Bryson stared at him and repeated, “How much?”

  “Mr. Bryson, I don’t want any money from you.”

  “What?” Bryson stepped toward him.

  “Sir, please back away.”

  It was Schaefer’s taut voice from beside the car. Bryson glanced at him and stepped back. Bistouri had not moved at all. His arms hung at this sides. In the same soft, mild voice, he said, “Some people sent me to see you. They’re paying me very well. I’m not looking for any money from you. They’ll pay off the dumbshit, too, so he won’t trouble you again. Money is not the issue.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Some people who have some good advice for you.”

  “Good advice?”

  “Yes. You’re right at the beginning of this. It hasn’t cost you much yet. Now’s the time to back out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The vaccine.”

  “The vaccine?”

  “Here’s where you stand. You have a vaccine that works great … in mice. You have to get through human trials. And everything else the FDA can throw at you. You don’t know about side effects. This drug could cause women’s hair to fall out. Have psychotic episodes. You’re years away from putting it on the market. From seeing a profit. Assuming there ever is one.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t heard before. Who are you working for?”

  “Just back out of the deal, Mr. Bryson, and it’s all over. You don’t even have to see me again. I’ll be watching the news. When I see the announcement you’re shutting down Ezylon, I call your guy Schaefer and return the disk.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “It’ll be so easy. Dr. Stromberg-Brand’s death gives you the perfect out. You just say you don’t want to continue without her.”

  “How can I say that, when I’ve already said I have the obligation to bring her work to fruition?”

  “Aw, your guys can write you out of that one.”

  “But that’s what I believe. That I have the obligation. That Helen developed a wonderful drug that’s going to do a great deal of good in the world.”

  “Mr. Bryson, remember. You’re a rich man, enjoying a great life. You don’t have to take chances.”

  “Who are you working for? You might as well tell me. There were several people who were very interested in backing Helen. I beat them out. All I have to do is make a few phone calls and I’ll know the names of the fuckers who sent you.”

  “You can’t make those calls.” Bistouri’s soft voice had a pleading note now. “You can’t start people wondering and asking questions. You can’t … can’t operate in the way you’re used to. Because you’re not the man you were. And you won’t be till you get that disk.”

  “So you’re back to threats already.”

  “I regret that, sir. But you know what’s on that video. You don’t have a lot of options. There’s really only one.”

  “Who sent you? A piece of shit like you, to dictate terms to me. Tell me!” Bryson lunged, grabbing Bistouri’s collar. Bistouri stepped back, throwing up his own hands, trying to break Bryson’s grip.

  A small bright green spot appeared on Bistouri’s left temple, followed an instant later by a light, dry crack. His head jerked as the bullet ploughed through and blew out several square inches of the right side of his skull, spewing blood and brains and bone fragments over Bryson and the hood of the car. He dropped in a heap at Bryson’s feet.

  Chapter 53

  Peter and Renata followed Chase up Big Bend Boulevard. He turned into the lot of a small brown-brick apartment building. They parked next to him. He waved at the building. “An imposing residence for an eminent physician,” he said, with his usual lively sense of grievance. “Alimony. Child support. Her lawyer picked me clean.”

  He led them into the lobby and up the stairs to his apartment. It was both cluttered and bare; it had the same unlived-in look as her flat in London W. 11. That was one thing she and Chase had in common: they had a career instead of a home.

  Going around his mare’s nest of a desk, Chase switched on his computer. While it booted up, Renata wandered over to inspect what was on his wall. It was hung with his degrees and licenses and pictures of him shaking hands with hot-country presidents and ministers in ornate uniforms or tribal dress and with suit-clad CEO donors. On the desk itself, where one might expect to find pictures of children and grandchildren, there were snapshots of patients: people in hospital beds, grasping Chase’s hand and smiling at the camera. Shots of children were pasted to letters laboriously printed in Spanish, or to crayon drawings.

  “I snuck out of that party at the opera on Saturday night before the speeches even began. I was back here about quarter after nine. He pointed to his computer screen. “There we are. My first email is timed at nine oh seven.”

  “Was anyone els
e here?” asked Peter.

  “You’re not listening. This is my alibi witness.” Chase patted the top of the monitor. “I was sitting right here, receiving and answering emails and texts, until well after one in the morning. I was not at Helen Stromberg-Brand’s house in Clayton. Just check the times of the messages in my in- and out-boxes.”

  Renata sat down before the screen.

  “All this tells us is that someone was here, clicking and sending,” said Peter. “We don’t know if it was you.”

  “Let me open some of the messages,” Renata said.

  “You’re asking me to violate patient confidentiality. But why would I expect any decency from you people? Go ahead.”

  Renata grasped the mouse. For the next few minutes, she clicked through messages. The contents were arresting.

  So this was what had happened to the ancient custom known as “talking to your doctor”—it hadn’t disappeared, just gone into cyberspace. She could never get more than a few minutes face to face with her gatekeeper and other care providers, and never wasted any of it on personal chat. Her doctors were strangers to her. But anyone who suffered from Chagas Disease or had a relative who did, and had access to a computer, seemed to be able to find a friend in Ransome Chase. In English, or in good Spanish, he answered questions and advised, offered hope, told hard truths. Often it went beyond expertise. There were people here he must have been corresponding with for months or years. He condoled with them on their sufferings or the deaths of loved ones. He enlisted them in his feuds; he wanted them to hate his enemies as much as he did—especially Helen Stromberg-Brand.

  Abruptly Chase leaned over her and grabbed the mouse. The screen went blank. “You’ve seen enough. It’s obviously me writing these messages.”

  She stood. “Yes. I’m convinced. You’re not much on collegiality with fellow doctors, are you?”

  “Don’t you condescend to me. My life isn’t singing pretty songs. It’s saving lives. The people who blocked me have deaths on their consciences. Or would if they had consciences.”