by E. Z. Rinsky
“You understand only that sometimes the colors shift beneath your feet. And then suddenly you are lifted a foot off the ground, and you can see the pattern for the first time . . .” Sampson’s huge hand squeezes his soda can tightly, and he’s growing flushed. This topic excites him. “And after he read for me, he told me he wanted me to take and guard the books. Imagine! He had several books now complete, but was growing worried about keeping them in his cell. There’s a volume limit for inmate’s personal items. He said he trusted nobody more than me. That I was his loyal disciple, and when he left prison we would sit and read the books together . . .”
I find that my legs are shaking.
Okay. So he’s a nut. Doesn’t mean we can’t still make the swap for him and get paid, right? Ideally we can do this without ever having to confront him with the truth—that he’s been brainwashed by a murderer.
That’s what I’m thinking, but apparently this obvious path of least resistance is less self-evident to certain dour-faced autistics.
“Did Oliver ever ask you for money?” Courtney asks.
I almost smack him. I’m sure we’re about to be shown the door; replaced by PI’s who aren’t going to question the legitimacy of this wacko’s incarcerated guru.
I butt in.
“What Courtney is asking is, did he ask for some sort of collateral for these books? It would seem reasonable—”
“No Frank.” Courtney shakes his head at me, even as I try to shoot him the most obvious shut the fuck up look in my arsenal. I’d forgotten this guy is illiterate in subtext. “That’s not what I’m asking. I was wondering—”
“You were wondering if I was being taken advantage of.” Sampson nods. “Naturally. I don’t blame you for being skeptical, Courtney. That’s your job. But I’ll tell you right now, in seven years of meetings, Sophnot didn’t once ask me for a cent. Which is especially remarkable considering that his guidance helped me to quadruple my net worth, thanks to speaking fees and very wise investment advice.”
Silence hangs in the air. I keep trying to reconcile our newfound info re: what’s not dangling between Sampson’s legs, with his all-American public persona.
“I’m not mad at you for the implication,” Sampson says. “How could someone who’s never met Sophnot, or peered into his masterwork, understand? I’d probably be thinking the same as you.”
Courtney fiddles anxiously with what could only be called a beard in the loosest sense. I tap my toe against the carpet.
“Sophnot gave me the books, one by one, as they were completed. Eventually I had all twenty-four here, in the secure room right beneath our feet. The only times they left that room were when I took one volume with me to the prison to read it along with him. The only people who ever went in that room were me and Mindy. But then, just a few months after I’d received the final one, they were stolen from me. The culprit was Rico—my trusted live-in chauffeur, bodyguard and personal assistant. It was my fault, in a way. I trusted him too much. Apparently I badly misjudged his character. That his soul is certainly damned eternally for this is of little consolation. For four years he’s been demanding a fortune for the books.
“You are to give Rico forty million dollars in the untraceable bearer bonds he’s asking for. It’s an exorbitant sum of money, you don’t have to tell me. Just do it. I need this to be over. Rico has provided a phone number to call when I’m ready. I can’t take another second of this hell. Imagine again, to be the ant, lifted above, and then to come crashing down—denied the view of the tapestry you now know to exist. For years it’s been hell. Hell.”
Sampson’s lip quivers; there’s another dam of tears threatening to burst forth.
“So Mindy . . .” I ask. “Do you trust her?”
Sampson appears grateful for the topic shift.
“What do you mean?” he asks. “Of course. Mindy is like family.”
The only family he has left?
“Well, if I understand correctly, her role here was to study the books. So what’s she been doing since the books were stolen? Why is she still living in your guesthouse?”
“She has partial copies of the books to use in her research,” Sampson says. “She’s made a lot of progress. Once you get them back from Rico, once she has the whole set in front of her, she’ll hopefully be able to read them pretty seamlessly.”
“I’m just trying to get the whole picture,” I say. “You brought Mindy on to study the books, so you could understand them without having to go visit Oliver in prison, is that right?”
“No, no,” Sampson says. “No, no, no. Nothing could be further from the truth. I wanted to study at home to supplement my sessions with Sophnot. So that when I went to the prison to learn, we could make the most of our time together. He was so generous with his time, I wanted to show him I was really making an effort. But I just couldn’t grasp the nuance of the language on my own. I needed an expert.”
“Does Oliver know you hired someone to study them while you held them for him?” Courtney presses. “That doesn’t really sound like it was in the spirit of him entrusting them to you.”
Sampson’s grip tightens on his Pepsi can.
“I’m sure my teacher would admire my intentions,” Sampson replies weakly. “We’re all perfect in the eyes of God.”
“But just for argument’s sake,” Courtney says. “Is it possible Mindy was a little lax with security, and that allowed Rico to steal them more easily?”
Sampson’s right eye twitches.
“We’re all perfect in the eyes of God,” he repeats.
I sense we’ve exhausted this avenue of inquiry.
“What was your relationship with Rico like when he worked for you?” I ask.
The Senator shoots up and walks to his desk. Pulls a manila envelope out of one of the drawers and sets it on the glass tabletop.
“Here’s everything I’ve gathered about Rico. From the background checks I ran before hiring him, to the text message records between us over his entire employment.”
I frown at the bulky file.
“We’ll read this, obviously, but your own words would be helpful. Do you think this is only about money?”
Sampson thinks for a second.
“Our relationship was fine. Really. I think about that a lot: if I was upsetting him somehow without realizing it. But as far as I could tell, he was content. Professional. That’s how I’d describe him. He was in the Boston PD for fifteen years before I hired him, and as far as I could see he was thrilled with the cushiness of the job. Driving me around, maintaining the estate security systems, accompanying me on Washington trips . . . I treated him well. Really.”
“If he was your driver . . .” Courtney says. “He was driving you to the prison? To visit Oliver?”
Sampson nods slowly.
I say: “He must have known something secret and important to you was going on there, and that you were leaving with books.”
“Yes,” Sampson replies softly.
“And so, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to intuit their immense value to you,” I say. “You gave them their own room, and hired Mindy just to review them.”
Sampson nods slightly. I think about what Mindy said in the car: He’s badly mishandled this from the start.
“Have you given Rico any money already?” I ask, to confirm what Mindy told us in the car.
The Senator sips on his Diet Pepsi. “A couple times, yes. I had to,” he says. “Just to make sure he didn’t destroy them.”
I grimace. Rico has all the leverage here. This explains our hiring: Besides Sampson presumably not wanting to execute the physical handoff himself, he just doesn’t trust himself to negotiate with this guy any more.
“Okay then,” I sigh, snatching up the Rico file and grimacing at its weight. “I think Courtney and I understand the scope of the job. Let us discuss it, and tomorrow morning we’ll let you know if we’re prepared to proceed—”
“What do you mean, ‘prepared to proceed’?”
Sampson suddenly jerks up from his soda, his voice deep and stony. He leans across the table and rips off his little round glasses. Fixes his bright blue eyes on me with the stillness and intensity of lasers. “I got the passport for you—at great risk to myself—and flew you out here. You signed my contracts, I shared everything with you . . .” He turns to my partner. “Courtney—I thought it was agreed that if I brought your partner here you two would begin immediately.”
I turn slowly to Courtney and glare at him, swallowing about a quart of concentrated rage: I don’t remember you mentioning that.
He avoids my stare.
“Of course, Senator,” Courtney says. “Obviously we’ll proceed as discussed. Frank just meant we would need the evening to discuss strategy with each other, figure out timing—”
“Tomorrow! You swap with him tomorrow.” Again, Sampson breaks into an inexplicable laugh. “I’m not sure you fully grasp the situation. I am trapped from every side. Sophnot is devastated—his life’s work is gone. He’s been in mourning for years, since I confessed they were stolen from me. Dressed in rags, sleeping on the cold floor. He’s forbidden me from visiting him in prison until I have the books back. He trusted me, and I lost what might be the most important work of religious scholarship since the Old Testament.”
Sampson shakes his head; he’s gasping for air.
“He calls me every Friday evening before the Sabbath. Asks me if I’ve gotten the books back. He never raises his voice . . . he’s so calm, understanding, even in this time of crisis. And every week, when I have to tell him no, I still don’t have them, he comforts me. Reminds me that everything is for the best, and wishes me a restful and pleasant Sabbath.”
Sampson’s voice is a whine now. His limbs are constricted horribly; this physically imposing, powerful member of Senate now resembling some kind of asphyxiating fetus fighting for life.
“But every night I see him in my dreams. Every night the exact same dream as before: I’m swimming in the sea when my heel is grasped. Except now when I look back I see Sophnot, my teacher, and I understand that if I don’t retrieve the books it will all come undone, everything we’ve made together . . . I love him so much. With all my heart and with all my soul. And there’s nothing more painful than failing him. Admitting my failure to him week after week, after all he’s done for me . . . no amount of money is worth this burden. I just can’t take it anymore. I just want things to be back like they used to. The two of us learning together.”
All three of us are silent for a moment. My mind is spinning frantically, trying to decide which part of this clusterfuck most urgently needs to be addressed. I settle for an extremely long sip of rum. Courtney is chewing on the tip of his pen with horrible urgency.
I clear my throat. I’m dying to get out of this room.
“The job is easy,” Sampson says. “You’re being overpaid because Courtney has a reputation for discretion. Call Rico, arrange a swap, bring Mindy with you to verify the books are real, and execute. That’s all.”
I stand up, and am relieved when Courtney and James follow.
“Alright Senator,” I say. “We’ll get some sleep and speak in the morning.”
He extends his smooth right hand. Squeezes Courtney’s limp fish, then takes mine, his smile suddenly the regal one we saw on his front porch.
“Thanks fellas. We’re counting on you.”
Wait.
“We?” I say, mouth dry. “You mean you and Mindy?”
Sampson looks confused.
“And Sophnot, of course,” he replies. “I asked his permission to bring in outside help, and you’ll be pleased to know you have his blessing. Once you retrieve the books from Rico, he’d even like to meet you in the prison, to thank you for your help in person.”
I slam the door to my bathroom, and don’t even give Courtney time to set up his stupid jamming device before letting it rip.
“You did not tell me that you committed to this job before even getting all the facts.”
“Keep your voice down!” Courtney hisses, on his knees fumbling with his paranoia pacifier. I rip the machine out of his hands, toss it in the bathtub and turn on the cold water.
Courtney dashes past me to fish it out. Tenderly dries it with one of Sampson’s fluffy towels. Looks up at me.
“Well that was just plain stupid, Frank. These are not easy to find.”
I jab his boney chest with my index finger.
“You very much implied that we were flying to Colorado to find out more about the job,” I growl. “That if we didn’t like how things shook out we could bail.”
“Come on, Frank. Did I need to spell it out for you? You think the Senator is going to get a fake passport just to bring someone in for a consultation? Besides, I knew you’d say yes. So what’s the difference?”
“I still haven’t said yes!” I shriek. “This guy is totally off his rocker! At the suggestion of a murderer, he cured his libido with a hacksaw.”
“Have some sympathy.” Courtney scratches his nose. “The poor man is in an awful situation.”
I sit down on the lip of the magnificent bathtub.
“I really can’t believe you,” I say.
Courtney slowly sits down next to me, clasps his hands and stares at the stone floor. He’s quiet for a moment, and when he finally speaks his voice is pained.
“I’d planned on explaining in Budapest, but at the hotel I got scared you’d walk away and I’d have to do the job alone. I couldn’t risk messing this up. These last five years Frank . . .” I watch his thumbs twitch wildly in his lap, little hatchlings anticipating their worms. “I haven’t worked. I mean, I was hired for two or three jobs, but butchered them. Screwed up really badly, word got out, and I stopped getting offers. The woman who referred Sampson to me was my client almost a decade ago.” Courtney takes a deep breath. “When I got the email from Sampson I was working in the kitchen at Long John Silver’s. Defrosting and deep frying seafood all day. It was all I could get. I had no real work experience and no usable connections . . .”
I wouldn’t let him work the register either.
“I thought I was doing you a favor!” he pleads. “I got you a passport. And look—if we do this right, we’ll be set! A hundred-fifty grand each and a new identity for you! He wanted me to commit fast. I was scared if I turned him down I’d lose the job. I told him if he could get you a passport and Social Security number we’d do it.”
“He wanted you to commit fast? Christ, it sounds like he was trying to sell you a used car.”
“Look—” Courtney returns the finger jab. “I saved you, Frank. If I hadn’t done this, you’d be on the run for the rest of your life. Who knows when you’d get to see Sadie again. I could have just tried to do this myself, but instead I risked losing the whole contract, and I’m splitting the money with you.”
I breathe out slowly through my nose. He’s not angry. Closer to the effect of an economics professor passionately expounding on the merits of fiscal responsibility. He always seems to make such perfect sense. I hate it.
“You want out?” he asks with infuriating calm. “If you really do, I could talk to Sampson. Take less money, and just put you on a plane back to—”
“Shut up,” I snap. “I’m already here. Obviously we’re just going to swap for these stupid books. But I’m still upset you lied to me.”
“Lied? Maybe I misled you . . .” Courtney trails off, fiddling with his still waterlogged jamming device. Mutters something under his breath about delicate circuitry, unsalvageable.
I’m suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. Can’t wait to go to sleep—haven’t had a private bed for years. This whole thing might be worth it just for the warm shave and one night in a king-size bed.
I stand up and yawn.
“I’m gonna crash. Go fiddle with that thing in your own room.”
Courtney drops the defunct device at his feet.
“Not yet Frank. We still have a lot to discuss.”
“
Oh right,” I say. “So I’m pretty sure that Sampson’s not shtupping Mindy.”
“Frank, for heaven’s sakes. Please don’t be lewd.” He points at the manila envelope—the Rico file—resting on the vanity. “We have to know who we’re negotiating with tomorrow.”
I snatch the heavy folder, and reluctantly rejoin him on the edge of the tub. I open it up. It’s at least 200 pages.
“Let’s just split it up,” I say. “I’ll read my half in bed.”
One of Courtney’s wary eyes lingers on me.
“Fine. But read carefully. This is important.”
I hand him about two thirds of the pages.
“Okay?” I say. “Are we done here?”
In response, Courtney cracks his knuckles one by one. It’s horrible to listen to.
“Aren’t you curious what’s in those books?” Courtney asks. “Those books that Oliver wrote. A book is—fundamentally—information. What kind of information is worth forty million dollars?”
“It’s only worth that to Sampson, because he’s brainwashed. They can’t be worth forty million on the open market, or else Rico would have just found another buyer. This guy Oliver is clearly nuts. They’re probably twenty-four volumes of some kind of manic or schizophrenic raving.”
“Well, we’ll have to ask Mindy tomorrow. She’s been studying them for years.”
I yawn again. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make it through more than a few pages of that file.
“I wonder about your premise,” I say. “That books are intrinsically just information.”
Courtney’s eyes sharpen.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like . . . to people that believe the Bible was written by God, that book contains a lot more than just . . .” I trail off, as the glow in Courtney’s small black eyes suddenly intensifies. I know what’s coming. He’s been waiting for an opening since the Ritz in Budapest.