Brome would be angry too, should have been angry, but after enduring the fifteen-minute-long ride to the scene, during which Brighton listed all actors and musicians he suspected of being “faggots,” the only emotion he observed within himself, as he listened to his partner presently, was glee. He concealed it by studying the pavement and shaking his head.
“…that those calls are normally very reliable,” the sweating uniformed cop was saying. “We catch 80 percent of our suspects due to similar calls. So when—”
“You are not listening to me, Officer Roberts,” Brighton interrupted. Brome’s gaze fell on the cop’s tag. It read Robbins. Turning away, Brome smirked and glanced up at the letters on the glowing awning. Nicely misspelled, he thought.
“The report we received stated clearly that you had him. Do you have him, officer Roberts?”
“The caller said he was inside and we surrounded the place—”
“Do you have him?”
“No, sir. We’ve searched the bar. He’s not inside.”
“Do you have your badge? But do be sure before you answer that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s hope so. That will be all.” The cop hurried off to shout at the reporters, who thrust their microphones at anyone inside yellow police tape. He then shouted at other cops to keep the line steady, then at the crowd to go home.
“They really should just stick to parking tickets,” Brighton said with disgust.
“What are they doing here?” asked Brome, referring to the press.
“The trusty anonymous caller, apparently, made more than one call this evening,” his partner said. “Let’s go inside.”
The amphitheater was full of yellow fog. As far as Brome could see, none of the patrons, who had been prohibited from leaving the premises, presently smoked. Nor they looked like they had been prohibited from anything. Quiet but steady murmur of their voices remained uninterrupted except for those moments when a flashlight-wielding police officer passed a table by. It was pretty clear they wouldn’t have left even had they been give a permission to do so. They simply waited for the annoying light to be turned off. And for the annoying cops to leave them alone.
The agents made their way down the aisle to the bar and its two-story-tall bartender, who might have refused to sit down, but more likely was not able to without breaking a chair.
Why can’t we ever get a suspect like that guy? Brome thought.
Brighton opened his notebook with a bit of a flourish. “Mr. Gulli? Mr. Vernon Gulli?”
“Right.”
“You’re the bartender here?”
No answer.
“You know why we’re here, Mr. Gulli. We’re looking for one of your customers… Luke Whales?”
“I only check dates of birth when I card people.”
“Please, Mr. Gulli. You must have recognized him. He’s famous. ‘Top Ads.’ Know that show? The same guy.”
“I don’t watch TV much.”
“Do you know your customers well? Regulars and such?”
“There are only few of those. Most of the people just pass through.”
“So it is possible that Mr. Whales has passed through here tonight?”
“Sure.”
“So, the host of the number one TV show in America comes up to you, asks for a beer and you don’t remember the encounter an hour later?”
“Is that show on at night? Cos I’m mostly here at night.”
“I see. Mr. Gulli, are you familiar with the term ‘obstruction of justice?’”
“Sounds pretty self-explanatory, unless you mean in a philosophical sense.”
“How about a philosophical sense of a solitary confinement cell at the county jail? Ever tried to fit into one of those?”
No answer.
Brighton wasn’t done, but a policeman appeared presently from behind the stage curtain.
“Agents, we found the escape.”
“You go,” Brome said. “I’ll finish up here.”
Giving the bartender one last glare, Brighton followed the cop backstage. Brome looked up at the giant.
“Would you notice if someone did not buy a drink?” The bartender shifted just barely. Something creaked. Brome thought of a semi truck switching into a different gear.
“I don’t force anyone.”
“I mean if a guy came up to you and asked a question or two instead of ordering a cocktail, like he was looking for someone or something, you would remember. Anything like that happened tonight?”
“It’s happening right now.”
“What about before?” Brome was patient. It wasn’t the case of “good cop, bad cop,” either. It occurred to Brome that he wanted to be patient simply because Brighton wouldn’t be. He was also wondering what Whales would be doing at a place like that. He looked around and saw no cameras. Meeting someone, or maybe making an off-the-grid phonecall. The bartender, meanwhile, was answering the question.
“Sure, before you there was a uniformed cop. Before him was another uniformed cop. Before that one was another. And before that one was a cop in civvies.”
“Great,” Brome said tiredly, then suddenly stared at the bartender’s face. “A cop in civvies? What cop in civvies?”
“I don’t know. What are the choices? A fat cop, had a mustache.”
“When did he question you?”
“Right before the uniforms started pouring in from everywhere.”
“What did he ask?”
“Same thing you ask, about some guy.”
“Luke Whales?”
“He didn’t mention his name. Said something stupid, like ‘fit, medium height, handsome.’ I reminded him that this was a gay bar.”
“If he didn’t say his name and only gave a lame description, then how do you know he was talking about the same guy?”
“Cos he was a cop, and guys in uniforms are cops, and you are a cop, even if you’re a federal cop, and you are all here together at the same time. So I took a wild guess.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“He was a cop.” The bartender also seemed as patient as a boulder his size would be. Brome sighed.
“Did he show you his badge?”
“Only feds do that.”
“So how do you know he was a cop?”
“I don’t know. He looked like a cop. Why? Was he supposed to be undercover?”
This is going nowhere, Brome summed up.
“See anyone going backstage?” he asked for the sake of formality.
“We have restrooms back there.”
“Fine. One last thing. Have you seen this officer around here since?”
The bartender looked around. “I don’t see him now.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gulli.”
Brome headed for the curtain. The last booth on the right caught his eye. There were two glasses on the table, but no sign of patrons. He looked around. A total of two other booths were vacant, and as many tables. All were clean.
“Mr. Gulli!”
“Agent?”
“I don’t suppose you’d know who occupied this booth tonight?”
“Sure wouldn’t.”
“Do you have waiters here?”
“No, just a bus boy. Bogdan!”
Following the bartender’s eyes, Brome witnessed someone in a booth across the bar convulse out of a nap. He turned out to be a youth of no more than twenty, who, once his legs had unfolded with some struggle from under the table, came to stand almost as high as the bartender’s chin. Blond, in a white apron on top of a dark t-shirt. The bartender gestured at Brome, and the kid, as though forced to move by suction Gulli’s hand had created in the smoky air, floated closer. His red eyes regarded the agent with confusion.
“He doesn’t speak much English,” the bartender warned.
The bus boy shook his head. “A leetle beet.”
Brome turned and pointed at the empty table. Nodding gravely, the boy headed toward it.
“Hey, wait
. No.” Brome had to reach out and catch the kid’s shoulder in order to prevent him from scooping the glasses. The sleepy eyes were now even more confused, moving between the agent’s face and the bartender’s.
“Mr. Gulli, how long does it usually take… Bogdan?.. to clean a vacant table after the patrons left.” The boy nodded again, thoughtfully.
“He’s pretty quick, especially on a busy night. Oh, I see what you’re saying, agent. Too bad I didn’t pay attention who sat in that booth.”
“How about you?” Brome turned to Bogdan. “You remember who occupied the table?”
“Yes,” Bogdan said. “People.”
“How many?”
“Two.” He raised two fingers after glancing at the glasses.
“Two men? Or a couple? How did they look?”
“Oh, I’m don’t know. Dark, many people. See full. See empty. I’m cleaning.”
Brighton returned from behind the curtain. The bartender turned away.
“A trapdoor,” Brighton announced. “Under the stage and into the basement, then sewer. Looks about a hundred years old. What’s this?”
“I think he was here. With somebody.”
“Why? Did the kid see him?”
“He saw the booth was occupied. He cleans empty tables. Quickly.”
“I see,” Brighton said.“Did Luke Whales give you an autograph? Who was with him? Did you see him go through there?”
“He doesn’t speak English.”
Bogdan nodded, uncertainly.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Officer, get the DNA from the glasses and have someone check the phone in the back.”
“You found an OTG phone? Is there really no way to trace it?”
“No. Which is probably why Whales came to this shithole. I personally can’t understand why OTGs are not illegal yet.”
“That will be all,” Brome said to Bogdan, then seeing no immediate reaction, added, with a little wave of his hand, “Bye.”
The kid smiled, nodded and went back to his booth.
“There’s more,” Brome said. “The bartender says there was a cop here dressed in civvies right before the uniforms overran the place.”
“A detective?”
“I don’t know, but he’s not here now.”
“You think he was the one sharing the booth with Whales?”
“He didn’t buy a drink.”
“Whales might have been waiting for him, so he bought two.”
“Could be.”
“You got a description?”
“Fat, mustache,” Brome shrugged.
Brighton chuckled grimly.
“I can arrest half a dozen of those without leaving the spot. Hopefully we’ll get something better from the glasses.”
“Speaking of leaving the spot. Are we done here?”
“I was going to chew the bartender out for forgetting to mention the trapdoor, but… to hell with it. I’ll have a cop do it.”
“Sewers, then?”
“No need. I sent Robbins to check it out. Let’s go back to the office and sift through possible contacts.”
Chapter Seven
We were out of the sewers, but life didn’t stink any less. On the bright side I had enough cash chips to last a few months. Unfortunately, there was also the dim side, which said I wasn’t going to last long enough to spend that cash. With no plan and possibly the most recognizable face in North America, I didn’t have much going for me in the chances department. Or friends department. To be fair, I gained two companions, who seemed to be providing help, but the manner in which they had appeared and the fact that I had no idea who either of them were, were not all together reassuring. I felt like ever since I’d climbed over the fence that morning I was being led, or even passed around like a relay baton. It was time to stop the race.
We were in some alley, walking in silence, no so much “going somewhere,” as “away from somewhere.” It was getting cold. My companions, who seemed perfectly at ease and had given no indication of intending to stop in the foreseeable future, noticed my absence after a dozen steps and turned around.
The ninety-pound girl with a cute nose and some pretty insane conspiracy theories, and a much heavier cop look-alike named Lloyd. It was the latter whom I addressed first.
“I think it’s time we talked,” I said.
“You’re probably right,” said Lloyd.
“Now that we’re far enough from the bar and the cops, maybe you could tell me who you actually are.”
“We’re not far enough for that yet. But I will tell you this. I’m someone who knows you didn’t kill that guy. I know you’ve been set up and I even know who set you up, only I won’t tell you that, because right now, knowing it will do you more harm than good. Instead, I will tell you that I’m here to help you. And that for me to be able to do that, you’ll have to leave it at that for now.”
“Leave it at that?” I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “You know who killed the draft marshal, and I’m supposed to ‘leave it at that’ so you can ‘help me?’ Are you out of your fucking mind? The only help I need is to prove that I didn’t kill the guy. The police are only after me because they think I killed the guy. Instead of pulling me out of that bar, all you had to do was tell them what you know. That’s it! I would have gotten my life back then and there.”
I inhaled and just kind of touched the sides of my head with my fingers, to make sure my skull hadn’t exploded. Lloyd watched me as though he didn’t know what I was. Iris watched us both with interest.
“Come on,” I said finally, turning around. “Let’s go back there. They’re probably still, you know, at the scene. We’ll just take care of it right now.”
I took a few pointed steps, confirmed that no one was following and stopped again.
“Why aren’t you coming?”
And suddenly it was obvious.
“Wait,” I said. “You don’t really know any of that. The killer, the set up, right? Otherwise it just wouldn’t make sense. You really are out of your mind. Missed your meds? Look, Lloyd, I don’t mean to offend. I know all about missing the meds and I appreciate you leading me out of that bar, but I think we should go our separate ways from here. Iris, I really appreciate all you’ve done, too. You should probably stay clear of me as well.”
“Where are you gonna go?” she asked.
“I think the best thing to do would be to find another phone and call my lawyer. Have him arrange a peaceful surrender, explain my flight by the lack of meds, go from there.”
“From there, you’ll have about a day to live,” said Lloyd.
“Oh, come on.”
“Look, I don’t care if you think I’m nuts, but you think you’re smart and you’re not. You’re stupid. You think proving you didn’t kill that man is your main problem, but it isn’t. Your main problem is why you were set up in the first place.”
“Oh, and I suppose you know that, too, but won’t tell me, because it will do me more harm than good.”
“No, I don’t know that. But I know somebody who does.”
“Are we going to see this person?”
“Yes, but not today. Today we need to get off the streets and lay low. It’s not too late, but it’s dark. It’s best to stay inside when it’s dark.”
I looked over at Iris. Her breath plumed gently in front of her face. Her hands were in her pockets. Her cute nose was red. Lloyd’s latest did not seem to faze her. It fazed me.
“I think I’m going to take my chances with the lawyer,” I said.
Lloyd stared at me, shook his head.
“You know what? Fine. Lots of luck with the lawyers. If he needs it so badly, he can send someone else to talk to you. I don’t have patience for this. ”
He turned away and drifted to a distance of about twenty steps, where he went up to the nearest wall and leaned against it. Iris came up to me.
“You know he’s not lying, right?” she asked.
“No, I don’t know he’s not lying. I b
elieve he’s not lying, which is not the same thing. And even if he’s not lying, it doesn’t mean he’s right. It just means he believes what he says.”
“And what if he’s right?”
“Then I guess I’ll be dead very soon.”
She grinned and peered into my eyes, one at a time.
“Good luck,” she said, stepping back.
“Thanks again, Iris.”
She nodded, went up the alley and disappeared behind the corner. Lloyd continued to lean on the wall, ignoring me. I let him ignore my wave and began walking back the way we came.
The alley lay wide and bare, like a dried river bed. Most of the windows shimmered with blue light of after-dinner TV programming. The sky was a blob of deep purple with streaks of pink running through. I turned right at the next street and walked along fences of various height and fashion, until I emerged on to a great, brightly illuminated avenue. The sign said “Broadway.” I stood for a minute, letting the lights and the car noise sink in. When I began to walk again, it was to the left, where in the distance the towers of the downtown were rising. About a block later it occurred to me that I should be looking for a service station. A service station would have a vending machine.
I found one soon enough, its hovering logo spinning slowly against the purple sky. The phone vending machine was outside near the door, and I couldn’t help speeding up when I saw it. Hi, Larry, this is Luke Whales. Now listen very carefully… Larry, it’s Luke. I don’t have much time. I talk; you listen… I ran through a few more openings in my head, trying to pick the best one. But as I reached the machine and got out one of my cash chips, I realized that I had no idea what Larry’s number was. I looked around, as though expecting it to be written on one of the pumps or flashing in the window. There were two cars at the station. One parked in front of the store, the other at the pump. The woman in the car at the pump was looking right at me through the window. I hastened to turn my back to her and found myself staring into the camera lens.
It’s a scene, I told myself. You’re a guy buying a phone at a gas station. Action!
It worked. My limbs relaxed. The fingers began to cooperate. I chose, paid, and the drawer slid out, with a shiny new phone to be claimed inside. Cake in the park. Took me about twenty seconds. Now I just needed to call information and get Larry’s number. I turned away from the camera and began to casually walk away, punching the numbers into the phone. On my fourth step two sirens simultaneously went off nearby, and in another five seconds, which I spent motionless with my mouth agape, two police cruisers flew in from two sides of Broadway, screeching to a halt in front of the station.
Project Antichrist Page 5