Needles

by William Deverell

  She took off the sheet, placed it over Cobb’s back, and rolled him over onto it.

  “Foster . . .” she whispered.

  There was no response. She put her ear to his chest and could not be sure if there was a heartbeat. Her own heart was panicking. She arched Cobb’s head back to open his airway, pinched his nostrils, placed her mouth over his, and blew softly, watching his chest rise. He smelled dankly of perspiration. She took her mouth from his and he expelled her air. Again she placed her lips over his, and blew, and watched his lungs fill. His mouth tasted rich and warm. Her lips tingled with the feel of his. Again his chest fell as he let the air out. Again she pressed her lips to his mouth and gave him her air. His lips seemed, almost, to move within the inner rim of hers, and a shiver wiggled up her spine. Again she blew. And again. Every five seconds. With her hand she searched his chest for a heartbeat, and was not sure.

  With her mouth pressed over his, she did not see his eyes snap open. But he did give her a clue — a vital clue — to the fact that he was still in this world: his tongue went into her mouth, and his arms went around her and pulled her to him.

  Tann did not raise her lips from his for a long time. Seconds accumulated and became a minute. Two minutes. They kissed with a passion that to Cobb, drugged, seemed timeless; that to Tann, stoned only with her desire for this man to live, seemed eternal. Finally she withdrew a few inches from him and looked down at his pin-pointed eyes. “Damn you, Foster. Damn you. What are we doing?”

  To that, Cobb made no direct reply. All he said — and he kept repeating such words until men came to carry him away on a stretcher — was this: “Outrageous junk, Jennie. Outrageous junk. God damn! What a mother!”

  Wednesday, the Twenty-second Day of March,

  at Twenty Minutes Past Ten O’Clock in the Morning

  Deborah Cobb fought panic as she entered the hospital. She wished she had rehearsed something for Cobb. What does one say to an estranged husband who had been seconds from death? She drew close to Honcho Harrison, who put his arm about her and helped her into the elevator. A uniformed policeman was stationed outside the elevator and nodded to Harrison as they entered.

  On the floor of Cobb’s private suite, there were other policemen, one standing by the elevator, another at the door of his room, others at the stair and fire-escape entrances to the floor.

  Her mind was in a turmoil. She felt a duty to be affectionate, but wondered if she could express affection. She cared for him deeply, and had finally broken into tears last night when told he had suffered only minor injury. But caring for him deeply was not loving him, and although she wished her feelings were still those of love, she knew in her sorrow that she had grown away from him, or he from her. Her concern was now that Cobb not hate her; her hope was that he might forgive.

  She stopped at the entrance to the private ward, took a long shaky breath, and stepped inside.

  Ed Santorini was there, seated, edgy, lacking his strutting confidence.

  Cobb greeted her with: “Hello, dear. Sorry about the mess in the apartment.”

  That sort of thing was the reason Deborah had to let him go. She managed a wan smile. “Cobb,” she said, “you’re okay.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek, and felt no response, no warmth. Her eyes filled, and she took a handkerchief from her purse.

  Santorini cleared his throat but said nothing.

  “You already know Mr. Ed. Santorini, I believe,” Cobb said. “Eddie, you remember my wife? You have known her, I believe, in the biblical sense. Perhaps a couple of times, anyway.”

  “Cobb, don’t,” Deborah said.

  She tried to control herself so she would not break down. There was a long silence.

  “Hello Honch,” Cobb said, at last recognizing the man beside the door, looking like a sour uncomfortable kid waiting to be excused from class. “Here. I wrote out a statement this morning.” Cobb passed up some pages of paper and handed them to the detective.

  “Thanks,” Harrison said. “We’ll find Au, Fos.”

  Santorini cleared his throat again, but no other sound issued from it.

  “So,” Cobb finally said, “we’re here to decide what to do with the body. Eddie and the cops want to parcel-post me off to some desolate island on the coast.” He shrugged. “Fine. But they also want to surround me with swat-squad sharp-shooters. I told Eddie I can’t think of a better way to attract attention: guys with rifles and bullet-proof jackets wandering all over the place coming and going for supplies. The whole Vancouver police department and half the provincial RCMP knowing where I am. Boasting in some bar about knowing where this poor exiled lawyer is hidden away on his Isle of Elba. Jesus.”

  Santorini finally spoke to Deborah: “Judge Hugo Land — he’s a County Court judge, a friend of mine and Foster’s — he has a place, a summer place, really, a little island, ten acres or around there. Just off Long Beach. Well, Barclay Sound, off the west coast of Vancouver Island, out in the ocean. I made arrangements with the judge this morning. There’s a big cabin there, a log cabin. Big, rambling place, actually.” Santorini spoke in a quick, clipped way, without animation. “There’s no phone. But there’s water, toilet, and bath. There’s a generator for power, and lots of fuel. Wood heat. Lots of wood stacked up. There’s a little bay on the east side, away from the breakers, and there’s a dock there, and a little runabout, so Fos can do some fishing. The generator will run radio and lights and a toaster, that sort of thing.” He stopped. Deborah noticed dark circles underneath his eyes. She had never seen Santorini under strain. He had always been so free, easy, ebullient. “I don’t know about no cops. Fos says no cops. I don’t know.”

  “Give me a gun,” Cobb said. “I’ll practise with it. I won’t shoot my toes off.”

  “I don’t know if he should go alone,” Santorini said. “What do you think, Honch?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think he should go alone.”

  “Okay,” Cobb said. “I’ll take a bodyguard.” He twisted around and looked at Deborah. “I’ll take Jennifer. She’s pretty good with a gun. Eddie can spare her from the sweat shop for a couple of weeks.” He turned back to Santorini. “Can’t you, Eddie? You can spare Jennifer for a while. You wouldn’t deny your old friend a little female companionship.”

  Deborah found herself breaking down.

  “Don’t be cruel, Foster,” she said.

  “Cruel?” Cobb said. His voice was rasping, sharp. “Who knows from cruel around here? Eddie knows from cruel, don’t you, Eddie?”

  Deborah was weeping now, and the mascara was running. Santorini touched her on the shoulder, delicately.

  “I gotta go,” said Harrison. “I got work.”

  “What’s the matter?” Cobb asked him. “You don’t like soap operas?”

  “I don’t think it’s my place to be here.”

  “Well, just a second, Honch,” Cobb said. “Let’s get a few things straightened out. Who knows about this deal? I take it nobody’s issuing any press releases that Foster Cobb is going off to Judge Land’s island retreat? Who knows about it — the judge? Who else?”

  “Judge Land won’t speak about it, even to his wife,” Santorini said. “Nobody else knows.”

  “Judge Land, me, and the three other persons in this room,” Cobb said. “All of whom I trust with every ounce of my being.” He glared at Santorini. “So why do I need an armed guard?”

  “Au found Plizit,” Harrison said.

  “I discovered the leak,” Santorini muttered. “Some shit-for-brains cop in Tlakish Lake. Klosterman. Old buddy of Cudlipp.”

  “The fuck . . . the stupid yahoo,” Harrison said.

  “Okay, okay,” Cobb said. “Well, let’s all agree not to tell Cudlipp, okay? Everybody promise not to tell. Cross your hearts and hope to die.”

  Santorini started to say something, but nothing came out.

  “Eddie, ol
d buddy,” said Cobb, “I’ve been on the needle. It’s been going on for a few weeks.”

  “I heard.”

  “Jesus, does she share everything with you?”

  “Fos, don’t be . . . Aw, forget it.”

  “Honcho knows. My sweet and innocent junior now knows. I’m kicking, Eddie. I bought the ultimate cure last night. I almost creamed the nurse when she tried to give me a shot. Thanks to Dr. Pavlov’s half-gram of pure smack, I had the world’s heaviest conditioned response laid on me. I no longer salivate at the sight of a hypodermic needle. But I’m going to be sniffing and aching and suffering a lot for a few days, and I don’t want some fucking cops hanging around watching me perform. I could use some kindly ministrations, though. That’s where Jennifer comes in. And that’s another reason I want no cops hanging around. All right, folks, everybody clear out. I’m going to try to roll over on my stomach and sleep some of it off. Before they kick me out of here.”

  “There’ll be a plane going from the harbor first thing in the morning,” Santorini said. “You stay here in the meantime. We’ll post somebody at the door. Somebody will get your clothes and stuff. Make a list of what you need.”

  “Yeah. Good-bye. Maybe I’ll see you in court someday, Eddie.” He looked coldly at him. “Divorce court.”

  “C’mon, Fos,” Santorini said. “I’m sorry.”

  The three visitors went to the door. Deborah was last. She stood at the door for a moment, looking at Cobb with hurt. She had wanted to end it, but in a gentler way. Cobb would not look at her, and she went through the doorway.

  Then she heard him call her.

  “Deb, come here for a second.”

  The others looked at her. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll meet you.” She went back in.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he said.

  “It’s okay.” She was fighting her emotions hard.

  “Let it go,” he said.

  Deborah poured tears.

  “I’ve been a bastard, I’m sorry.”

  “I said it’s okay.”

  “I guess it stopped for you a long time ago, Deb.” He took one of her hands. “It was pretty hard for me. It’s the way junkies are, baby. But, hey, if I can kick one habit, I can kick another. Junk may be a little easier — I can get around the turn in a few days. Deborah Cobb will be harder — it will take a little longer. But you don’t owe me anything, and don’t take any guilt trips home with you.”

  “Cobb, Cobb . . .” Her face was a ruin.

  “Some kinds of juices don’t mix well. I was just hanging on, hoping and hoping. Being a fool for you, making it kind of tight for you, making you unhappy. You’ll find some sweet prince out there. There’s lots of them.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I guess. Well, I haven’t been as lonely as you. You figured that out.”

  “Sure. I knew it. I didn’t believe it, but I knew it.”

  There was a pause.

  “Is there much skiing left this year?” Cobb asked.

  “Oh, I guess another couple of months. We’ll close down about the May twenty-fourth weekend. I may quit before that. It’s been a long season.”

  “You’ll stay with your folks?”

  “I think I should.”

  “Tell your dad he should retire from the bench. He’s earned a few years.”

  “I know. He won’t.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well.”

  “You don’t need any money?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “We’ll work out the details when I get back.”

  “Sure.”

  “I just want my books and record albums, that’s all.”

  “Yes, whatever . . . Cobb?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Don’t hate Eddie. He’s sick with worry about a scandal. A messy divorce will ruin his chances.”

  “Too bad. Tell him I’m going to ruin him if I can. Man, I cannot forgive him. Guy who cheats on his best friend shouldn’t be a judge.”

  “It was my fault.”

  “I said don’t blame yourself.”

  “No, not. It’s my fault. I arranged to get the trial for you.”

  “What?”

  “I asked . . . I asked Eddie to give you a big case to start you off with. I knew you didn’t have anything. I knew you were sitting in that office hating yourself because nothing was happening. I knew you wouldn’t call him. I asked for a big case for you. For the money, reputation. He . . . he told me he had just the right kind of trial.”

  “God damn. Ed Santorini did all this just for me?”

  Santorini waited for Deborah Cobb downstairs at the hospital entrance, then led her out and helped her into his car. Neither spoke for a while. Finally she said: “He’s going to do it. A divorce. Naming you. I think he wants to sue you.”

  Santorini said nothing. She put her head on his shoulder and shook. She was empty of tears. Santorini drove her to her parents’ home in the Kerrisdale district, where they were waiting for her. Before she left his car, he kissed her tenderly on the forehead, promised her that everything would be all right, and said he would pick up her things from her apartment that evening and visit with her for a while.

  His next stop was his office. He was grim-faced.

  Everit Cudlipp had finally been released on bail, and Santorini had his telephone number. He dialled it.

  “Cudlipp,” he said, “this is Santorini, and I want you to listen very goddamn carefully. Your ass is in a sling.”

  “Talk to my lawyer.”

  “Look, you bag of snot, listen very, very carefully. If this thing goes to trial, I’m going to stick a ramrod up your ass and through your nose, and if you don’t get twenty years to life, I’m going to take the sentence to appeal.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you down here in half an hour in my office. We’re going to make a deal.”

  At noon Cudlipp walked alone from the crown counsel office onto Main Street and into a mournful day. The sun was hidden by a grey blanket which stretched everywhere to the horizon and enfolded the mountain peaks. It was not too early in the day for Cudlipp to start drinking, but he avoided the nearest bars and beer parlors and headed for Gastown, Vancouver’s old section, refurbished for the tourists but populated by a curious blending of derelicts, freaks, long-haired lawyers, and proprietors of fashionable restaurants and shops. His route was taking him to a bar on Water Street, where better-class pushers sometimes congregated and talked business over drinks.

  The place was full. He went to the bar, ordered a beer, and adjusted his sight to the darkness.

  The first beer went down quickly, and he was paying for another when he finally caught the eye of one of the brokers, Big Benson. Cudlipp gave him a sign, a slight inclination of the head, and after a few minutes Benson waddled up to the bar and grinned at Cudlipp.

  “Got yourself in a bit of a fuck, didn’t you?” Big Benson said. “Hope you got some friends in the joint, buddy. You’re gonna need a little love in there.”

  “You still working for Ernie?” Cudlipp asked.

  “This some kind of business, Cudlipp?”

  “Yeah, it’s some kind of business.”

  “What?” Benson asked.

  “Get ahold of him for me.”

  “You still giving orders? Don’t seem to me you got the jam to order folks about no more.”

  Cudlipp gave him three twenties. “All right? Just call him. I’ll be here. I need him to make a connection, that’s all.”

  “Well, you’re a pretty hot property, Cudlipp. I’ll try.” He went away to a pay phone.

  An hour had gone when Ernie Cantone showed up. He stood in the doorway, blinking for a few seconds, and gave the nod to Cudlipp, who followed him outside to his car. Cudlipp got into the passenger side and Can
tone drove off. There was another man in the back seat, whom Cudlipp did not know. They stopped near Ferguson Point in Stanley Park.

  “I’m gonna search you for bugs and barrels,” Cantone said. He ran a detector over Cudlipp’s body, went through his pockets, and patted him down. Then he turned to the man in the back. “Okay,” he said. The man nodded.

  Cantone spat out the window of the moving car, then turned again to Cudlipp. “Last time you and me did a number, seems I got me six bits in the box,” he said. “Now you’re looking for favors. I should tell you to blow it up your snout.”

  There was a time Cudlipp would have knocked teeth out for that sort of thing. He said: “I want to connect with the top man. I got a real nice fat score for him. He’ll thank you.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe he figures you done him enough favors. Maybe he’d like to make supper on you with a couple of butcher knives.”

  “I didn’t cop out on him. He knows that.”

  “He won’t talk to you. You’re hot. I guarantee he won’t talk to you, man.”

  Cudlipp took four hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and tore them in half. He gave a set of halves to Cantone.

  “Just get me two minutes on the phone.” He checked his watch. “It’s thirteen past one o’clock now. You pick the phone booth. I’ll be there exactly thirteen minutes past two o’clock.”

  Cantone looked at the other man, who shrugged.

  “Okay, give him a number,” the man said.

  Cudlipp was at the phone booth a couple of minutes before two-thirteen. He knew he had to show himself. A car cruised by a couple of times and a man was across the street, watching him through a drug-store window. He took the phone off the hook, but held the hook down and pretended to be talking into the receiver. The car drove past the phone booth one more time, then stopped at the curb nearby.

  The phone rang thirty seconds after the appointed minute.

  “Yeah,” Cudlipp said.

  “What do you want?” Cudlipp was disappointed. It was not Dr. Au’s voice.

  “I want to speak to him.”

  “What can you do?”