Maybe it was all for the best. No matter what Gwen said, she really wouldn't mind if I went to school. But that was ridiculous. She was right: I was a private eye.
And besides, I wanted to go to England.
Finally, I started reading a book—the only solace I could think of. And that meant I didn't see the van appear out of the snow and come to a halt outside my building.
I did, however, hear the clomping of feet on the stairs, and I was at my door in time to open it for my visitor.
"Jesus fucking Christ, can't you get any lights on the stairs?" Bobby complained. "I couldn't see a damn thing."
"Hi," I said. "You can't see a damn thing anyway."
He wiped the snow off his coat. "I really do think the weather is worse nowadays," he muttered. He peered around at the bare dirty walls, the yellowed linoleum floor. "So this is your office. Very stylish. Bet it impresses the shit out of your clients. Sorry—client."
"My Renoirs are out being reframed," I said. "Have a seat."
He sat. "Even if you don't have electricity, at least you could get a phone. Save Mickey driving in a goddamn snowstorm."
"Can't afford one. Besides, they don't work for shit. So, Bobby, what brings you and Mickey out in a goddamn snowstorm?"
He looked around some more. "Don't suppose you have any Scotch, do you?"
I shook my head. Did my finely tuned senses detect some uneasiness?
"Don't see how you can be a private eye and not drink," he grumbled. "So how's your case comin'?"
"Okay."
Bobby glanced at the book lying open on my desk. "Working hard, I see."
I didn't bother to reply. I figured he would come to the point in his own good time.
"The thing is," he said, "I think maybe you're making a mistake about wanting to go to England. I mean, not just England—forget about the Brits—but anywhere. I mean, things are getting better around here, right? At least compared to a few years ago. And you've got all your friends—Gwen and Linc and Stretch—he's kind of a jerk, but I suppose he's okay. And you and me, right? We go back a long way too."
"Friends help friends out," I observed.
Bobby nodded. "That's what they do, I guess," he said softly. "You're a lucky man, Wally."
I didn't say anything.
"I talked to a guy this morning," he went on after a brief silence. "He works for the Feds—he's one of the guys overseeing the locals, making sure they enforce all those wonderful edicts comin' out of Atlanta. Anyway, he's corrupt as hell, and we maintain a very close, meaningful relationship, if you know what I mean. His boss, on the other hand, is a turd. He thinks he has a sacred duty to get those laws obeyed—he's sorta like Stretch, you know? Taller, though.
"Anyway, I brought up your case with my friend. And he says he thinks—he thinks, mind you—that he saw a folder in his boss's file cabinet one time, and it was filled with documents about the British occupation, or whatever you wanna call it. He thinks he can get his hands on that folder."
"But he doesn't know if—"
"He doesn't know anything, Wally. But he figures if what you're lookin' for is anywhere, it's in that folder."
"When can he get ahold of it?"
"Tomorrow, maybe the day after."
"It has to be tomorrow," I said. "My time's up tomorrow."
"All right, all right. I'll talk to him, see if I can set something up for tomorrow."
I let it sink in for a few moments. "This is really fantastic, Bobby," I said finally. "I don't know how I can ever repay you."
"I don't know either, Wally." Bobby stood up. "I'll talk to this guy in the morning and try to set it up, then I'll let you know what's goin' on."
"Great. I'll be here. If there's anything—"
"Just don't spread it around that I'm bribing this guy, all right? The last thing he needs is for Stretch or someone to turn him in."
"Of course. Thanks, Bobby. This is really—"
"Yeah, yeah. I know." He looked around once more. "So what are you gonna do with your fuckin' Renoirs if you go to England?"
"I'll give 'em to you, of course. I bet Mr. Fitch would like them."
"That's really generous of you, Wally."
"That's what friends are for," I said.
Bobby grinned. "I'll be in touch."
He turned and left my office. I stood by the window and watched as he walked out and climbed into the van next to Mickey. When they had disappeared, ghostlike, into the snow, I sat back down at my desk. My book suddenly didn't seem interesting anymore. I tossed it aside, leaned back in my chair, and thought until it was time to go home.
* * *
"Bobby may have found what I need," I said at supper. "I'll know for sure tomorrow."
"How did he find it?" Stretch demanded. "Who did he get it from?"
"I'm sworn to secrecy. But it sounds promising."
"I'd be careful about Bobby's friends, Walter. They're not to be trusted."
"Do we have a little jealousy here?" Linc wondered.
"I just don't want Walter to be misled," Stretch said.
"Why would anyone want to mislead Walter?" Gwen asked.
"I don't know. I just think he ought to be careful, that's all."
"Of course I'm going to be careful, Stretch," I said. "But it's pretty straightforward: I need proof that'll satisfy my client. If he doesn't accept my proof, it doesn't matter what I think."
"And if he accepts it, you've solved the case," Gwen said.
"More or less. I mean, I don't actually have this guy Cornwall to show my client."
"But that's out of the question, if he's in England," Gwen pointed out.
"Well, right." I looked down at my stew.
"This is exciting," Linc said.
"It certainly is," Gwen agreed.
I agreed too, but somehow no one seemed very excited. Linc left the table a few moments later and went up to bed. The rest of us finished our meal in silence.
Chapter 12
Another day at the office—another day of waiting, helplessly, for events to take their course.
A private eye shouldn't be helpless; a private eye should be in control of events. That was what attracted me to the business in the first place: I had spent my life feeling like a leaf in a hurricane, powerless in the wake of the ultimate power, the power that had transformed everything. Here was a chance to change. The events I would control might be trivial, but only if individual lives are to be considered trivial—a subject open to debate, I suppose, but one on which I have my own opinion.
The thing was, at this point I didn't really care. This had gotten a lot more serious than simply determining my self-image as a private eye. My entire future was at stake, and that made for a certain tension in my soul as the morning dragged on.
I tried to be rational, to keep my perspective. There were plenty of ways in which things would not work out: the mysterious file might not exist, or might not contain the proof I needed; Winfield could be lying about having the money, or about taking me along. The odds, really, were absurdly against me.
But there was a chance. And that made rationality very, very difficult.
Early in the afternoon there were the customary footsteps on the stairs and knock on the door. "Come in," I said.
Doctor J entered, sans shotgun. "Hey, Wally, how you doin'?"
"Okay, I guess. You got a message for me?"
He nodded. "The boss says: Charles Fingold, Room 304, JFK Building, two-thirty. Got it, Wally?"
I repeated it to him.
"You got it."
"Did he say anything else?"
Doctor J smiled. "He says fo' you to get a phone. I say so too."
"Well, both of you can go to hell."
Doctor J's smile widened into a grin, "He says good luck. I say so too."
I grinned back. "That's more like it. Thanks."
He gave a little wave, and then he left.
* * *
The JFK Federal Building is across Government
Center from City Hall. I was there on time.
A soldier searched me at the door and took my gun away. A bribe would be required to get it back. Irritating, but that's life. Except for holdouts like Linc, people had gotten used to the government, and more or less accepted it. There had been too much chaos; we were willing to pay a few bribes in return for a little normality. When the soldier let me pass, I walked quickly up to the third floor.
Charles Fingold had a secretary—a good-looking redhead. A private eye should flirt with a good-looking secretary, but things were too serious for that. She told me to have a seat, and I obeyed. I waited while she went into her boss's office to tell him I was here.
The Feds treated themselves well, I noticed. The building was nicely heated and in good repair. Plenty of electricity too: the fluorescent lights all worked, the secretary's computer hummed agreeably. All the buildings were like this in England, I imagined.
The secretary came out of the office and motioned for me to enter. She smiled alluringly as I walked past. I managed a gulp.
"Shut the door," Fingold said.
I obeyed.
"Sit down."
I sat.
"If anyone asks, you were here for a job interview. We're looking for a few good locals. Understood?"
"Understood."
Fingold had a Southern accent, not unlike Winfield's. He was about fifty and military-looking, with short, iron-gray hair and gray eyes to match, a stiff white shirt, and a trim physique. But there was also something about him that looked—well, bribable. His jaw was a little slack and his eyes were a little dull, as if they had seen too much to care a great deal. The eyes looked at me warily. "I owe your friend a favor," he said, "but this isn't the kind of favor I feel comfortable performing."
"I don't understand," I replied. "Isn't this just some old document you're providing me? It isn't like, oh, letting people smuggle in computer parts."
"You're right," Fingold replied. "You don't understand. Look, the British are our allies now, and the government is pretty sensitive about what they did when they were here. The British insist they were just trying to help out, and people around here seem to think they were trying to take New England over while it was too weak to resist. Frankly, the United States government doesn't really care what happened back then. We just don't want old wounds reopened."
"All right. But you don't have to worry. I'm just trying to find a guy's father—I'm not writing an exposé for the Globe."
Fingold shrugged. "Look, basically it doesn't matter to me what you do with the stuff, as long as it doesn't get traced back to me, and I don't have to take care of the consequences. Okay?"
"My lips are sealed," I said. "Now, can I see what you've got?"
Fingold stared at me, and then opened the top drawer of his desk. He took out several creased sheets of paper. "I think this is what you're looking for," he said. "Your friend says you've got a photographic memory. Says you know everything you read—Shakespeare, whatever—by heart. What if I were to just show these sheets to you and let you memorize them?"
"May I see them?" Fingold slid them across the desk.
Three typewritten sheets, rather smudged, stapled in the upper left corner. No letterhead, just a typed return address. The top sheet was a letter from Mr. J. T. Carstairs of the Ministry of Science in His Majesty's Government. It was addressed to Mr. Frederick Wheeler of the Department of State and was dated seven years ago. I wondered for a brief moment how it had gotten from Atlanta to Boston, to this office, into my hands. But that didn't matter. Here it was, and my heart thumped as I read it.
Dear Mr. Wheeler:
Your recent enquiry has been forwarded to my office. In response, I have enclosed a list of those scientists whom our American Relief Expedition accommodated with air transportation to England. I have been informed by the leaders of the A.R.E. that no scientist was taken against his or her will, and that emigration was offered solely as a means of protecting these valuable men and women, who were at such risk in the postwar environment.
Let me assure you that the scientists were well taken care of while they were in our hands. After landing at Heathrow, they were housed temporarily in dormitories at the University of London while they made arrangements to carry on their work in Great Britain. In no instance was anyone forced to take a particular job as a prerequisite for emigration, and in no instance was anyone who wanted to leave Great Britain forced to stay. We have no specific knowledge of the current whereabouts of these scientists, but it is my understanding that several may in fact have subsequently returned to the United States. If you request, I will look into this matter. It is our sincere hope that we be able to clear up any and all misunderstandings arising from the work of the A.R.E. If you have any further questions concerning this matter, please do not hesitate to bring them to my attention.
Yours most sincerely,
J. T. Carstairs
Interesting letter, but not half as interesting as the list attached to it. I turned the page.
T. J. Anderson
P. F. Bamberger
R. R. Bernstein
X. Boyce
L. A. Carrington
T. Cerpinski
R. M. Cornwall...
...and on. Maybe seventy-five names, double-spaced, two columns, finishing up on the third sheet. I didn't look at the rest of the names.
Once upon a time I shared a bottle of vodka with an old man in a cold basement while some hungry rats looked on. Maybe the man wasn't so old, but he looked as if he had suffered far too much and only wanted to forget. I was very young and got very drunk. I do not know how successful the old man was, but I forgot: for a brief while, my only reality was the spinning, buzzing euphoria inside my brain. Such a wonderful reality.
But it ended soon enough, with a headache and an upset stomach, and I was back there in that basement with the rats and the wretched, dying man. The old, implacable reality had returned, the only reality I had ever known, and I resolved never to have another drink. It was too awful to escape for a while, and then have to go back again.
When I laid the sheets of paper down, I felt as if Fingold had given me a never-ending bottle of vodka. I looked up at him and gestured at the sheets. "Could I borrow these for a while? I promise to bring them right back."
Fingold shook his head. "Absolutely not." He passed me a pad of yellow paper. "Why don't you copy down the information you want?"
"I'm afraid that won't do. I need proof for my client. Hell, I could just make up a list out of my head and show it to him. Why should he believe me? He'll want to see the originals."
Fingold took the sheets from the desk. I stared at them: the pardon snatched from the condemned man. I tried smiling my most winning smile. "Listen," I said. "This is pretty important to me. Isn't there some way—"
He waved me silent and stood up. "Come with me," he said, looking disgusted.
I went with him. We left his office, walked down the corridor, and turned into a small alcove. It contained a waist-high boxlike gray machine.
"The damn thing never works," Fingold said, "but I guess it's worth a try."
He pulled up the lid on the machine and placed the top sheet face-down on a piece of glass inside. He pressed a button. There was a flash of light and the hum of movement inside. After a few seconds the machine disgorged a piece of paper—the thing looked to me like a gray monster sticking out its white tongue at the world. "Son of a gun," Fingold said. He picked up the piece of paper and gave it to me.
Xerox. I saw the word on the side of the machine—a word from the world I had never experienced. A strange, wonderful word. I managed to restrain myself from yelping with delight. "This will do," I said. "Can you make Xeroxes of the rest?"
"Say a prayer."
I did. He did. I folded the Xeroxes and put them in my pocket. "Thank you very much," I said to Fingold.
"Don't mention it," he replied. "I mean that. Just tell your friend I did my part."
"I'll be happ
y to."
I held out my hand. Fingold shook it—somewhat reluctantly, I thought—and then headed back to his office.
I walked down to the lobby and cheerfully bought back my gun from the soldier. Then I hurried off to the Ritz, thinking of other wonderful words from the old days, words that till now had been as foreign to my experience as hieroglyphics: Coke, Jacuzzi, parking meter, Big Mac.
Words that might now be more than a congeries of letters on a page, a faded photograph in a moldy magazine. Words that Dr. Winfield might now bring to life for me through some magic I dared not imagine.
I had come through for him. Would he come through for me?
Chapter 13
Dr. Winfield was shitfaced.
He looked as if he hadn't left his room since the last time I had been there. He was barefoot and unshaven, and the white shirt he wore was wrinkled and stained. He had graduated from wine to whiskey: a half-empty bottle stood on the night table by his bed. He did not inspire confidence.
"Mr. Sands, your deadline has arrived," he said mock-dramatically when he opened the door. "Want a drink?"
"No, thanks."
He staggered to the bed and sprawled face-down on it. I was afraid he had passed out. "You want to see what I've got?" I asked.
He said something unintelligible to the bedspread. I waited, and eventually he half turned over and waved. I put the sheets into his hand and sat down. He managed to turn himself completely over, groaned, squinted at the pages for a few moments, and then tossed them aside.
The gesture did not inspire optimism. I waited for a further response, but Winfield merely closed his eyes and folded his hands corpselike on his chest. "Um, Dr. Winfield?" I murmured.
He opened a bloodshot eye. "Yeah?"
"Just making sure you're still alive." Damned if I was going to beg for his reaction.
"Still alive," he muttered. He opened both eyes and gestured at the sheets. "Interesting, huh?"
"I thought so."
"Have a hard time getting the information?"
"Not especially," I had to admit.
"No one tried to kill you?"
Dover Beach Page 8