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The Bouncer

Page 16

by David Gordon


  She considered bracing him, but what was the point? Either he was relaying a message for Joe, in which case he’d tell her squat, or more likely he was looking for him, too, in which case he knew squat, maybe less than she did. So no surprises there.

  The surprise came next. She was sitting back, out of eyeshot, letting Gio’s car pass by, when she realized he was being followed. As soon as Gio started his engine, another car a few spots farther along had started up. And when Gio pulled out, this one came right after, driven by a dark-haired woman. A Volvo wagon, hardly the gangster’s choice. Or the cop’s, for that matter. Still, she could swear it was on Gio’s tail, and not very professionally. So she ran the plate and bingo: it belonged to Carol Caprisi, Gio’s wife.

  Now why would a crime boss’s wife be tailing her own husband? Donna sighed. This whole case was a mess. She pictured her ex-husband, the CIA brain, standing in front of a whiteboard, trying to decide whether this newest red line should connect to CHINA or ISIS or even IRA. A tangled web. Or not even a web, more like a knot she’d brushed out of her daughter’s hair. You tossed it into the trash. You didn’t try to untangle it. And thinking of her daughter, who was eating with Donna’s mom, and how soon she’d be ready to take her bath and have her hair brushed before bed, she drove home.

  When Donna pulled out—already on speakerphone with her mom, to say she was on the way, keep dinner warm—she didn’t notice that Agent Mike Powell was watching. He’d been trailing his ex-wife, discreetly, since their chat in her office, when he’d felt certain she was holding back something. What was less certain was why he felt that or why he thought it mattered.

  He’d learned in his years spent in the nebulous world of spies and counterspies to listen to his own gut over everything. But the one problem with that was your gut sometimes malfunctioned when it came to your personal life. It seemed to go haywire and whisper crazy things that made you paranoid over nothing, or else tell you everything was fine when you and your gut were both heading straight for disaster. It had cost him, too, during his divorce, when it came out that he’d been using company resources to check up on his wife. The rebuke, though harsh, was unofficial. The company, ever mindful of appearances, could not have word get out that an agent was using it for personal reasons, nor that it was involved in anything at all on US soil, which was strictly forbidden. So nothing went in his file, but he was passed by for promotion, left behind when everyone else was getting into tastier stuff overseas. He’d crossed the line.

  And now here he was, spying on his own ex-wife as she drove home to see their daughter, ostensibly following up on an investigation, on US soil, in which the CIA was passionately involved. So where was that line again?

  And what did his gut tell him about this Joe Brody, who kept popping up in his case and his wife’s—or rather, he corrected himself, his ex-wife’s—life? He wasn’t sure. Just that Brody was a threat. And one thing both he and the CIA did quite well was eliminate threats.

  Carol had been following her husband around all day, and, frankly, his life was not as exciting as she had imagined. Her own routine, of seeing patients in her therapy practice and shuttling her kids around, seemed to contain more drama. Gio drove to some nondescript, often pretty dismal-looking business—an office, or bar, or warehouse—hugged or shook hands, talked, drank coffee, shook or hugged again, and went to the next spot. Repeat. Finally he drove into his old neighborhood and parked in front of a familiar building. This seemed like something more interesting, a clue perhaps, until she remembered it was where his childhood pal Joe, the one with PTSD and a dope problem, lived with his grandma. She’d been here once or twice over the years, to bring a cake or a gift. And Joe had been at their place for holidays. He was a charming, likable guy, and Gio felt sorry for him. He was surprisingly sentimental that way. Carol had suggested therapy, of course, probably individual and a support group of vets, and rehab maybe. And meds. But that fell on deaf ears. Stick him in a corner and give him a little job, like doorman at a club. Sad really, how we as a society treated our vets.

  Anyway, that was that. Gio left there and actually called her from the car, which made her feel guilty so she didn’t pick up. He left a voice-to-text message saying he’d had a long day and was stopping by the gym to work out, maybe spar a little. And she didn’t blame him. It did seem that if she were he, she’d need some kind of release, too. So maybe, even though she was snooping, it was healthy? She was learning more empathy for her husband? Or was that just rationalizing? What would she tell a client?

  She’d tell her to stop spying on her partner, to respect his privacy, and to go home. And she was about to do just that, even calling the nanny to say she was on the way, when instead of driving toward the gym, Gio pulled off the highway and led her to the parking lot of a cheap motel. At least he had his gym bag.

  43

  Gio called Paul from the car. He had a delivery for him, a bag of cash, tribute he’d collected on his rounds that day. Paul said he could come to the office or pick it up at Gio’s house, but Gio suggested the Easy-Rest Motel instead. That way they could get a little private time in, too. Paul said he’d be happy to.

  So he called his wife and was a little relieved when she didn’t pick up. He found it a bit easier to lie to her phone than to her. But then why bullshit himself, too? He’d been lying in one way or another since they’d met. Still, those were lies of omission, saying a late-night call was a “business problem,” and yes, it was, technically, but it went unsaid that solving the problem involved breaking somebody’s legs. They collaborated on those lies; he didn’t want to tell her and she didn’t want to know. She understood. But this she would not understand. Even with her degrees and her “embracing difference” and whatnot. It was like two different worlds. She’d even asked him if he allowed trans persons to use the gendered restroom of their choice in his places. What was he supposed to tell her? That in his places there were men who actually paid to be the toilet, never mind worrying about which one to use?

  That thought amused him, and he was already feeling a little less stressed, even chuckling to himself, as he pulled into the motel lot, grabbed the money bag, and went in to see his accountant.

  By the time Carol was able to turn safely, find a discreet spot to park down a side street, and walk back to the Easy-Rest Motel, she had no idea where Gio had gone. It was a two-story building with rooms top and bottom, the upper ones connected with a balcony. Two smaller wings extended on either side, one containing the office and presumably the laundry and supply rooms, the other a little cocktail lounge, which according to a neon sign in the window was called EZ’S. So, playing detective, and feeling both foolish and frightened, she tried walking past the ground-level row of rooms, each with a flimsy door and a window. All were dark and presumably empty, except one where kids could be seen jumping on the bed. She went up the exterior flight of steps and tried the upper floor. Here, several were lit from within, with the draperies closed, and she had to move more slowly, trying to somehow look as if she was taking a casual stroll while pressing her face to the windows and peeping. Her heart pounded; sweat crept down her armpits and scalp. She told herself she was crazy, out of control. But she kept going.

  The first lit window showed a guy in a towel looking in his suitcase. She saw him only from behind, but it was not Gio. He pulled out some socks. She moved on. In the next lit room she saw a fellow mom, a bit younger than herself, African American, lecturing two small kids, who listened with intense seriousness. Behind the next door she heard arguing in Spanish. Next, a TV playing sports. She couldn’t see the viewer, but she doubted Gio was here for that. On the whole it turned out that being a detective was even duller than being a gangster. Then, in the last room, she saw something interesting.

  She saw a woman. And she didn’t like to say this—it was only a partial view from the back, and the woman was moving, and the light was very dim—but … well, she was unattractive. Ungainly, with a not very graceful figure. Also she
was dressed badly. She looked trashy, in a tight-fitting lace dress that had long sleeves and a kind of ruffle at the hem, over black hose and some very unfortunate red heels that didn’t even look like real leather. She had long, stringy, unkempt blond hair. She looked, to be frank, like a cheap slut and a very cheap one at that, except that, as she walked, Carol caught a glimpse of a gold band, a wedding ring, flashing quickly on her hand. So she was married. She was showing herself to, or maybe trying on the tacky dress for, a man whom Carol could not make out, seated in a chair off to the side. She could see his suit pants and tried to recall what color slacks Gio was wearing. And then—and this made Carol hold her breath—the blond woman lay across the man’s lap, and he lifted her dress, revealing a really atrocious pair of sparkly panties, and started spanking her, hard. And as he moved, leaning forward to smack her better, Carol caught a glimpse of the man’s face. And now she did gasp and quickly ran away, in a panic, terrified that they had heard her. Because she knew him. He was Paul, her husband’s accountant.

  Carol was dumbfounded. This, as detectives, or rather detective novelists, would say, was a twist in the case. In a daze, she walked to her car. Then, deciding she had to think things through, she called the nanny back and begged her to stay one more hour, saying she’d run out of gas. She walked on, aimlessly, until she saw a small corner shop and went in. She bought a pack of American Spirits, smoked one, and threw the rest away. Gio hated her smoking, and she didn’t let him know that she occasionally indulged when under stress, like right now. Automatically chewing her mint gum, she decided to walk back by the motel for one more quick look.

  But she could see, even from the lot, that the room in question was now dark. Paul and his mystery woman, the trashy slut who needed a spanking apparently, were either gone or in bed, with the lights out. But Gio’s car was still parked in a corner. She made another, slower patrol around the perimeter of the property, and when she got to the far side, she peeked into EZ’s lounge. And there was Gio, sitting in a booth, nursing a beer with his gym bag beside him and staring up at the game. She lingered by the door and watched as the back door, which led to the rooms, opened and Paul came in. Gio called and waved, and Paul waved back, stopping for a beer of his own before joining him. They talked and laughed, and Gio handed over the bag.

  Carol’s phone buzzed. It was a text from the nanny, asking if she should make dinner, and taking that as her cue, Carol left. She’d seen enough. She understood.

  When Gio got home that night, dinner was a bit late and the kids were antsy. Carol said she’d run out of gas or nearly. She’d managed, almost running on fumes, to pull into a station. Gio scolded her mildly—what if the kids had been with her?—and then checked to make sure the AAA membership had been renewed. Later, as they stood in their own room, absentmindedly disrobing, Carol asked, casually, “You know who I happened to think of today? Paul. That nice accountant. I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  Gio looked at her sharply. “That’s funny,” he said. “It just so happens I saw him today, for a beer.”

  “Oh?”

  “I had some cash to give him. You know that account he set up for me, for us?”

  “Yes …” It was a secret account in the Cayman Islands. He’d made her write the number on a tiny scrap of paper, then hide it in the head of their daughter’s old doll.

  “He thinks we should split it up, move some to the Hebrides or wherever. It’s like a whole world tour with these guys, but whatever …” He kissed her cheek. “If I disappear tomorrow, you’ll be a very rich widow.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t even say that. But I’m glad you saw him. How’s he doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Is he seeing anyone?”

  Gio shrugged indifferently and took off his pants. “I guess.”

  “But no one special?”

  Gio scowled and went into the bathroom. “How would I know? Why do you care?”

  “No reason.” She followed him, standing in the doorway while he put toothpaste on his brush. “I just thought maybe you’d like to invite him to dinner sometime, and if he has a partner, to invite them both. He’s a nice young man.”

  Gio pulled the toothbrush from his mouth and waved it, splotching the mirror. “I’ll invite him to the barbecue like everybody. But that’s it. You know I like to keep these things separate.”

  She did. In fact he didn’t know, or at least didn’t speak, about his employees’ lives at all. She learned about their children’s births and their divorces secondhand. Now she felt she knew more about Paul than Gio did. She had always guessed he was gay and keeping it a secret from the macho guys in Gio’s world. But now she knew the truth. She understood his secrecy, why he always showed up for parties alone, even why he had used a meeting with Gio to cover his hidden rendezvous: Paul was having an affair with an older, married woman.

  44

  Joe and Yelena ate dinner, ordering room service to minimize their exposure. Afterward, Yelena ran the bath and began shedding her clothes.

  “Want to join?” she asked, holding up the bottle of vodka she’d been icing.

  “You go ahead,” Joe said. “I think I’ll make some tea first.”

  He stood at the small countertop, which held a microwave as well as bottled water, cups, spoons, and the basket containing the other stuff the hotel left out for them, like assorted tea bags, a fancy scented candle, and some chocolates. Placed prominently in the center of the gift basket, as a joke, but also as a precaution, was the artfully designed clear plastic case, which they now knew contained not perfume, but a deadly disease. Joe reached for a cup.

  “Don’t use the bubble water,” Yelena told him. “The tea will be gross.”

  “Good point. I’ll be right with you,” he called, as she stalked away and shut the door.

  Once she was gone, he got out the last Dilaudid he’d been saving, wrapped in a bit of paper. He crushed it in a spoon and then added flat water. He lit a hotel match to dissolve it, then lit the scented candle, too, as cover. Joe got the sealed syringe he’d hidden in the lining of his jacket, loaded it, and carefully injected himself, using his tie as a tourniquet. Instantly, the knot in his stomach began to untangle, and the throbbing inside his skull lessened, as if a volume knob were dialing down. Pleasure—warm numbness, dumb darkness—threaded his veins, circulating forgetfulness and sleep. He snapped the needle, for the safety of the maid, and threw it into the trash.

  “Joe, hurry! Fuck the tea!” Yelena yelled from behind the bathroom door, as he sat, soaking up his own inner warmth and meditating on the million-dollar box.

  When Yelena got out of the tub, after a long hot soak and a fair amount of cold vodka, she saw Joe conked out on the bed again, still clothed, and with the tea unmade. Just a cup of water cooling in the microwave.

  “Joe, Joe, you really are getting too old for me,” she teased, as she brushed her wet hair and tossed the loose nest of tangled strands into the trash. It fell on the floor and, leaning to pick it up, she saw something shiny in the wastebasket. It was a used and broken syringe, wrapped in tissues. Looking closely at Joe’s left arm, she found the little mark. She put the needle back into the trash and then got into bed. He mumbled and, sensing her presence, wrapped his arms around her, then drifted off again, eyelids dropping.

  “I understand,” she whispered to his vacant form. “It is painful to kill someone, even when it is a pleasure.”

  45

  In the morning, Joe woke up feeling much better. Well rested, he drank a black coffee, showered, and even shaved. Then he put on his suit and tie while Yelena, dressed in jeans and a black top, finished packing. They would locker their bags at Penn Station and pick them up when, or if, they could.

  “I think we’ve let them stew long enough,” he told her. He got out Clarence’s phone, went to the long list of missed calls, all from the same name and number, and hit dial.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning,” Joe said. “You must be Adri
an.”

  “That’s correct. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Just call me Joe.”

  “Well, Joe, you could be a bit more imaginative in your choice of pseudonyms, but I like your simplicity. Let’s hope the rest of our relationship is this straightforward. I believe you have something I want to buy?”

  “I do indeed.”

  “And the item is in good condition?”

  “Mint condition. Still in the original packaging.”

  “Fantastic. And the price?”

  “I believe you quoted Clarence a figure of one million?”

  “Right, but that was to cover five people and a lot of expenses. You’re only one man. Or are you?”

  “Like you said, let’s keep things simple and stick with an even million.”

  “Fine. I’m not in the mood to quibble, and I have it ready, so when and where do we meet?”

  “I’m ready anytime. Someplace nice and public.”

  “Do you know where the High Line is?”

  “I do.”

  “I happen to know a building, right beside it, that has a parking garage. We can meet on level three, nice and public. Say, after lunch? At two?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Adrian gave him the address, and Joe repeated it while Yelena listened. “I look forward to meeting you, Adrian,” he said.

  “And I you. Bye, Joe.”

  Adrian was adamant. Heather was not coming with him.

  “It’s got nothing to do with bullets, baby. Or with how tough you are. There’s just no way I am—I mean we are—going to risk exposing the baby to this virus. Who knows what kind of damage it could do, even at the molecular level? This is the first time it’s ever been used.”

 

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