by Unknown
cop had seen me then, I would have been spread-eagled over the hood of his car in thirty seconds, and that without refer- ence to the gun. I looked haggard and dark and hunted and hollow-faced. The elevator was a long time coming. I turned left on the sixth floor and saw Susan at the end of the hall, standing in her doorway. She watched me coming toward her, and the closer I got, the more she frowned, and I knew my looks weren't improving as I got closer still. She stepped aside, and I stood nervously in the tiny foyer while she locked the door behind me. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white tank top with her law firm's name printed in blue letters on the front. I remembered they gave them out after the 10K race they hold each year in downtown Miami. "I guess you did the corporate run again this year. July, wasn't it?" I said. She looked me over without approval. Her eyes lingered on my high-water bell-bottoms, the cuffs of which ended just under my calves. Then her eyes came up, and it was only then that I realized she'd been crying. "I ran in that race once," I continued. "It's a 10K, right? You may not believe it, but I think one time I ran seven- minute miles. Of course, I was lighter then." I smiled. Susan didn't. "How did you get out of Krome?" she asked. "I don't think you want me to tell you that." "Probably not. Otherwise I'd have to call the police." There was something a bit wrong with the way she said it. The tone was off, her voice far away from her words. She seemed distracted, enough so that the sight of me standing there in all my lack of glory was merely a mild annoyance, when in reality my just being in her place was a threat to her license to practice law. I had expected a tirade and then, if I was lucky, a little help, but not this red-eyed look of emo- tional distraction. 137
"What's wrong?" I asked. "It can't be me. I just got here." She looked at me for a long moment. I thought she was on the verge of throwing me out, but her face softened, and she smiled. "You know," she said, "strange as it may seem, I'm actu- ally happy to see you." "That may change." She came forward and hugged me around the shoulders. That's when I really started to get scared, so much so that I forgot to hug her back and just stood there like a column holding up the ceiling. Then I woke up and held her gently, her blond hair under my chin, and I felt my shirt get wet from her tears. If it weren't for the fact that I was already a fugitive, I would have run for the hills. Susan pulled away and looked down at my attire. "I won't ask where you got those clothes--and by the way, you need a bath. You smell like three nights in Central Park." "Sorry, but I've been having a strange evening. Listen to me, Susan. I'm not here. We're not talking right now. None of this is happening. Okay? The last time you saw me was this afternoon." "You busted out of Krome." "Right." "You're a complete ass. Come into the living room." There was nothing fancy about the room. Hardwood floors with a faded-out Persian rug under a lacquered coffee table with a glass top. A black sectional couch, an ottoman next to it, and a tall, healthy-looking ficus standing guard by the window; a fireplace with yellow roses instead of a fire; bookshelves free of all books save for a few lonely volumes crowded in one high corner like orphans huddled on a preci- pice. There was also a desk with a computer, a printer, and a small lamp, and next to that a treadmill facing the window. Even after a year, there were still unpacked boxes along 138
the walls. In my time I had seen many rooms like this one. It was the apartment of a young woman who worked long hours and was seldom at home. I went and sat down on the ottoman. There was so little give in the cushion that I may well have been its first customer. There was music playing, but it was turned down so low it sounded like a woman whis- pering to herself. Susan returned carrying a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew, and two glasses, which she handed to me before plopping down on the sofa. I poured us each a drink. I suppose I should have been happy that I wasn't her first problem of the night, but I was a little worried now that it seemed clear she wasn't angry at my having shown up. You know you've been living wrong when even simple hospitality scares you. "How come you're glad to see me?" I asked. "I'm not ex- actly helping your career by being here." "Fuck my career, all right?" "Mine, too." I raised my glass. She drained hers, and I poured her another. She took a sip and set the glass down. "You can't stay here," she said. "I don't intend to." "You've grown some since your mother bought you those pants." "They were on sale." "You lied to me this afternoon. Didn't you?" "The part I told you was true." "What about the part you didn't tell me? The part that made you break out of Krome when all you had to do was wait the weekend." "I know. I left out a couple of things." "This would be the time to put them back in." "The less you know, the better off you'll be," I told her. "Client-attorney confidentiality goes only so far." 139
"Does that mean you've committed a felony?" I hesitated for a moment. "Maybe. Maybe not." She started to say something, then stopped and stared at me with a look of puzzlement. "Why do you keep squirming around like that? You got some kind of rash or something?" The butt of the .45 had been digging into my groin, and no matter which way I sat, I couldn't get comfortable. Finally I gave up and just put the damned thing on the table. Susan stared down at the gun, then looked up at me. "Have you lost your mind? Where'd you get that thing from?" "I borrowed it from a friend. It was the only one he had." "You have to leave now," Susan said definitively. "Really, Jack, this is too much." She stood up. "Okay," I said. "I'll admit I'm in a little trouble. I did a favor for a friend, and it kind of backfired on me. I think they might be in trouble, too. I came here because I just needed to get inside someplace safe for a little while. Then I have to get back to the beach. I need a shave and a change of clothes. Then I'm going to try and set things right." "How? With that?" She pointed at the gun. "I hope not, but I'm dealing with some rough people." "Tell me one thing: Is this about drugs?" "No. Definitely not." "What then? You have to tell me something." "It's personal." "I'm your lawyer, remember?" "Maybe I should fire you. I'd be doing you a favor." I could see she was angry now. Whatever was bothering her hadn't added to her limited patience. "I need a lift back to my place. I've got to get some other clothes before I go look for Vivian." "Vivian? I thought she ditched you for a guy named Matson." 140
"She did." "What happened?" "She got herself into some trouble, and I tried to help her out. Matson ended up being a bit more of an asshole than I thought he was." "So did you. He was some kind of movie producer, wasn't he?" "That's right. He was." "What's this all about, Jack? You should have stayed at Krome." "I should have stayed in New York." "You can't go back to your apartment. For sure they'll have sent a man out there by now. You know how it works after that." "I know. Anyway, I have a few stops to make first." "Where do you think your little girlfriend is?" She gave the word girlfriend a nasty twist when she said it. "I'm not sure. Probably somewhere in South Beach." Susan sat staring at me, and judging by the expression on her face, I would say she considered me too far gone to reason with. She was right, but it wasn't just Vivian I'd be looking for. I would be looking for Williams, too. She stood up and stretched her arms over her head and made a half turn to her right so that her joints made a crack- ing sound. Even under those conditions it was hard not to notice the shape she was in. Her arms looked strong, but the triceps weren't straining to break the skin. Under her jeans the slight bulge of her quadriceps told me she had kept at the wind sprints I'd prescribed for her. Those and a weight workout once a week had been all those legs of hers had re- quired, that and trying to kick me upside the head whenever she had the chance. "What are you looking at?" she asked. "I did a good job on you." 141
"Let's go," she said. "I want you out of here in twenty minutes." "Where are we going?" "Come with me into the bedroom." "Thanks, but I don't have the time right now. How about a rain check?" Susan didn't dignify the remark with an answer. I stood up and followed her down the hallway. So great is the sensitivity of men that they will notice a woman's ass even on their way to lethal injection. I had always considered the fact that I'd never made a pass at Susan one of my great- est accomplishments as a human being. Now I was wonder- ing if I'd been ill. By the time I reached the bedroom
, Susan was already standing before the open door of her closet. I glanced around the room. There wasn't much to look at. A red futon mattress against the wall, the sheets swirled and swept into a whirl- pool at the center of the bed. There was an old-style rock- ing chair that sat with the air of a departed mourner facing the louvered windows, and along the other wall there was a white dresser with framed photos across its entire length. Unpacked cardboard boxes lined white walls hung with a few diplomas and official-looking certificates, and every- where the air of loneliness kept at bay by a life of haste. Susan's place was not so much a home as it was a pit stop between the office and the car. It was hard to believe she had lived here for as long as she said. I watched as she tugged a pair of black trousers and a white dress shirt from their hangers. She turned and tossed them to me without a word, as though she were throwing them out the window. I felt the anger coming off her, and mixed with that anger was something else, maybe frustra- tion. I caught the shirt and pants and laid them across my arm like a valet. 142
Without looking at me, Susan moved next to the dresser and began rummaging through a bottom drawer, and I began to think of the time when I'd had a drawer like that in Viv- ian's place and what that drawer had meant and what it had not meant. She came up holding a pair of briefs and a pair of white sweat socks and threw them my way with the air of a woman glad to be rid of things not her own, as though the clothes were visitors who had overstayed their welcome. I caught the briefs but bungled the socks. When I straightened up, she was looking at me, and when I looked at her, I could see that the tears were on their way back. "You can take a shower in there," she said, pointing at the door to the bathroom. The door was as white as the barren walls and blended into them like snow on snow. "Whose clothes are these?" I asked. "My boyfriend's. Ex-boyfriend, I should say." "Your boyfriend?" "A lawyer at the Justice Department. About a week ago, he stopped calling. Turns out he forgot to tell me he was married." "How'd you find out?" "His wife was nice enough to call me. Just about an hour ago. Now you show up. Just take your shower and go, all right? I've had enough of men for one night." I started to say that I knew that and to thank her for her trouble, but she had already turned her back and was closing the door to the bedroom behind her. I showered with a soap that smelled of fresh-cut flowers and used two pink razors to scrape the hard days from my face and neck. I wiped the steam from the mirror and was glad to see I no longer looked quite as insane, but instead like a man who only needed a week or two of sleep. Then I went into the bedroom again and began to get dressed. Ev- erything fit except for the pants, which were a little wide in 143
the waist. Maybe the gun would take up the slack. I noticed a brush on the dresser and went over and had just begun brushing my hair with it when I glanced down at the framed photos I'd seen before. There was one of Susan with her parents. It was in a gold frame, and she looked about five years old; a few more with an older boy who looked like her brother. There was one of her in a white cheerleader's outfit complete with pom- poms and a fresh-faced, sun-soaked beauty that even when you're lucky enough to be born to it only visits for a while. There was another photo of her in cap and gown in front of a stately looking building with ivy clinging to its walls, her parents beaming proudly on either side of her. They were nice pictures, and they took some of the cold- ness out of the room, and I was just scanning them when my eyes froze on a framed photo hanging on the wall in an array that included her diplomas from college and law school. It was a group photo taken at some kind of presen- tation or awards ceremony. The people in it were standing behind a table stacked with what appeared to be packages of heroin or cocaine--your standard big-bust photo. There were seven people in the shot besides Susan. One I recog- nized as the former chief of police of Miami-Dade County, now retired. Another was of the mayor. There were three others: two women and a man. I glanced casually at their grinning faces. Then something registered, and I scanned backward. The hand doing the brushing stopped in midair. I set the brush down and eased the picture frame off its mounting to get a better look at it. There was no mistake. I was just about to replace it when I felt a presence behind me. "What are you staring at?" Susan asked. "I was just checking out the photo. Hope you don't mind," I said. My hands were trembling. 144
"That's from when we busted the Falcone brothers," Susan said. "You remember them, don't you?" "Big-time coke dealers," I said, my eyes still riveted on the man at the far right of the photo. "I remember. They got deported to Colombia, didn't they?" "That's right. Then they mysteriously escaped and went back into business again, bigger and better than ever." I was biding my time. I didn't want to make her suspicious. I pointed at the last man in the photo, the man I'd seen before but whom no one would ever see again. The other dead man on the white yacht. "Who's this guy?" I asked nonchalantly. "Why? You know him?" "I don't know. I might have seen him somewhere." "His name is Duncan. Harry Duncan. He's with the DEA." "The DEA?" I asked. "Worked undercover. He asked me out once, but there was something about him I didn't like. What's wrong? You know him from someplace?" "No, he just looks familiar, that's all." She must have noticed something odd in my expression. I had a hard time looking her in the eye, but with a woman, avoiding that is the worst thing you can do. Ten years of listening to liars had sharpened her senses to an unpleasant acuteness. "What are you not telling me, Jack?" "Quite a bit. Anyway, I think I should be leaving now. I've been too much trouble already." "You should have thought of that before you got here," she said. "All right, but before I go, how about one last request?" "Such as?" 145
"You wouldn't happen to have an extra banana lying around, would you?" I asked. "I haven't eaten much lately." "There's a Denny's two blocks south of here," she said sternly. "Thanks." I walked into the living room, retrieved the .45 from the coffee table, tucked it under the waistband of my borrowed trousers, and started for the door. I felt old, tired, and evicted. The thought occurred to me that I should just turn myself in and get it over with, that in my present condition a quiet jail cell would seem like a retreat. I walked very slowly toward the front door. I was not sure that I could face what was on the other side of it. "Hey, you!" Susan yelled from behind me. "Come back here." "What's the matter?" "Go sit in the living room," she commanded. "I'll make you a sandwich. Tuna fish. It's all I've got." "Thanks." I went into the living room and sat on the couch, as thank- ful for the brief reprieve as the condemned man who gets the governor's call at the last minute. From the kitchen came the sounds of cupboards opening and closing and then the muted whir of an electric can opener going to work. I glanced down at the coffee table, my eyes skimming over the magazine covers. There were three ancient issues of People and a copy of Time. There was also a copy of the Miami Herald. It was two days old, but as I hadn't done much reading lately, I picked it up and began flipping idly through the pages. I couldn't really concentrate. A few lines here and there. Then, on page eight, something caught my eye, and just like that I was all bright light and deadly focus. It was a story about the Colonel. 146
"I don't have any mayonnaise!" Susan shouted from the kitchen. "Is mustard okay?" "Fine, that's fine," I shouted back. I read slowly, taking it all in. "What kind of bread?" Susan yelled. "Stale white or stale wheat?" "Either one is fine!" I said, not paying attention. It seemed that Pellucid Labs, the Colonel's company, was in mucho trouble, to say the least, and was under investigation by several federal agencies, including the FDA, the DEA, and, worst of all, the IRS. Someone had altered the results of the clinical trials of certain "promising" antidepressants in order to win FDA approval. The actual results, uncovered with the help of a former researcher now turned whistle-blower, were that the drugs in question produced various "undesirable side effects," contradicting the findings of the researchers cited in Pellucid Labs' initial reports. The company had also filed for bankruptcy and was seeking additional financing from an undisclosed consortium of venture capitalists who them- selves were the subject of a government probe into allegations concerning the illegal transfer o
f funds from Pellucid's ac- counts into offshore banks in the Cayman Islands. There were two interspersed paragraphs describing Pat- terson's military and scientific careers by way of counter- point: the Rhodes Scholarship, West Point, Vietnam and his heroism during the Tet Offensive back in '68. There was mention of the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star he had won. Despite my having known him, it was hard not to envy his biography. In an age of myopic specialization, the Colonel had been a Renaissance man. He had walked out of obscurity with nothing but brains and a set of balls and had become a war hero and a millionaire. The gist and tone of the article were all too familiar: Someone who had achieved everything was on the verge of losing it all--another reas- 147