Afterburn

by Colin Harrison

  He noticed the photo of the boyfriend on the table. A big guy standing there holding his wet stump. Frightening. I really should just leave, he thought. Melissa—he meant Christina—was nothing but trouble. She lay there so innocently, dead asleep, hair a mess, a knuckle against her lips. He found her bag and not-so-guiltily looked inside. A brush, some change. A cell phone. He examined the brand and smiled to himself—it probably had Teknetrix components inside. Cosmetics. Pencil. Not much. Same stuff as Ellie, probably. Women were funny about their purses—regarded them as their privates. The menu of a restaurant called the Jim-Jack. A tiny flask of perfume. His own business card, with all his work printed on it, including his cell phone. Her wallet. What was inside? No credit cards, no driver's license, just a tattered Social Security card. Nothing with her picture on it. How could that be? She'd talked a lot about driving but had no license. Do they take away your license if you go to prison? He doubted it. Nothing in the bag absolutely verified the identity of the woman on the bed.

  Oh shit, he thought. Maybe the Christina name is made up, too. He retrieved her cell phone, clicked it on, and scrolled through its screen of phone numbers, a hundred or more, finding it a very strange group: pharmaceutical companies, German photo agencies, an East Side furniture dealer, a hotel in London he'd never heard of, two women's names to which "enema ok" was appended—and, all with addresses in lower Manhattan, a plumber, an electrician, a house painter, a plasterer, and a heating oil company. No one named Rick or Tony or Christina or Melissa or any of the other names she'd mentioned. I don't fucking get it, Charlie thought, putting the phone back in her bag, I'm completely lost here.

  Coming up to 6:30. He remembered the Sir Henry Lai phone in the bathroom and went in and closed the door. And turned on the heater. The hum would mask his voice. Sarasota, Florida, she'd said, Anita Welles. He called information down there. There is only an A. Welles listed, said the operator. He wrote the number down. She could've made this name up, he thought. I wonder if this number really is her mother's; maybe Christina is actually Anita. The name's not so far off. Maybe A. Welles is Christina's husband, a fact that I would not mind knowing. Allan Welles. Albert Welles. And what might any of this have to do with German photo agencies? Everything she told me could have been false, Charlie decided. I need a baseline reality.

  He picked up the phone again. I have the right to do this, he thought.

  He punched in the Florida number. On the third ring, a woman's voice croaked, "Hello?"

  "Is this the home of Christina Welles?"

  "I'm her mother," came the reply.

  "Anita Welles?"

  "Yes. Where is she?"

  "She's here in New York," said Charlie, relieved. "She's fine. I apologize about how early it is."

  "Oh, I've been up an hour, sugar," said her mother agreeably, as if talking to an old friend. "Had too much coffee already. We might get another hurricane. I'm sick of them. Last one wrecked my garage. This her friend? She's been trying to reach me. Tell her I'm here, will be here all day, and I want to talk to her."

  "Sure," Charlie answered, feeling much better.

  "You're calling from New York, you say?"

  "I'm a friend."

  "She's fine?"

  "She's asleep right now."

  The mother was getting curious. "You sound like an older friend."

  "I suppose I am." He wanted to get off the phone. "Would you like her to call you at any certain time?"

  "I'll be here all day. Maybe I should call there, just so I don't miss her."

  "Oh."

  "May I have your number?"

  He stared at the phone. Christina might not want her mother to know where she was. On the other hand, she might be glad. On the third hand, they'd be leaving the room soon anyway.

  "I have a pencil," said her mother, prompting him.

  He gave her the hotel number. "Ask for Suite 840."

  "You tell her I can't wait to talk."

  Now he stood over Christina for a few minutes, watching her affectionately. He wanted to see her naked again, especially her smooth breasts, but didn't dare pull away the sheet. The night came back to him. It'd be better for all concerned, he realized, if he just somehow forgot the sex, particularly if he wanted to be able to putter along with Ellie once a week or so, go back to old-people sex. And maybe it was better if Christina did not see him naked in the morning light.

  In the bathroom, again with the door shut, he canceled the wake-up call, then dialed his apartment to see if Ellie had left a message, which she hadn't. In the game here, Charlie told himself. He showered then, letting the hot water pound him as he soaped and resoaped his crotch. He'd be walking into his apartment building unshaven, he realized, in the same clothes from the day before, but so be it. He toweled off and dressed in the steamy bathroom, and when he finally emerged, he found Christina sitting awake in the bed.

  "You want some breakfast?"

  "Sure," she said groggily.

  "I let you sleep a little longer."

  She pulled a pillow toward her. "What time is it?"

  "Almost seven-thirty."

  "That's nice."

  "I did a sort of ridiculous, paranoid thing," he confessed with a smile.

  She rolled over, as if to drift back to sleep. "What?"

  "I called your mother."

  She frowned. "Say that again?"

  "I called your mother."

  She looked at him in horror, no longer sleepy. "When?"

  "Maybe an hour ago. I just wanted to check to see if you were who you said you were. She said she might give you a call here."

  "You gave her this number?"

  "I didn't think it compromised me much."

  "You?" She suddenly threw back the covers and looked for her clothes. "You? I can't believe it."

  "What?" he said.

  "That was incredibly stupid," she cried hatefully, wriggling into her panties and bra. "Who gave you the right? Now they know where I am! God! For someone who makes fucking phone parts, you're pretty stupid!"

  "Wait, now—" he began, confused and hurt.

  She was shaking, eyes wild. "I have to get out of here."

  He put his arms around her. "Now, look—"

  "You fucking jerk!" she screamed, breaking loose from him and pulling on her heels. "They're probably downstairs, waiting!"

  She stuffed her remaining things in her bag and walked straight out the door. He looked around the room quickly, gathered up his watch and wallet and the picture of the boyfriend, since it seemed somehow incriminating, and followed her.

  In the elevator down, she shook her head in fury. "Tony or the cops or somebody has her phone bugged."

  "You didn't tell me that."

  "I didn't think you would fucking call my mother, Charlie!" The elevator doors opened. Christina stalked quickly toward the hotel entrance, head down. "I can't believe you did that," she hissed.

  They exited the hotel on Sixty-first Street, and he was about to suggest they find a place to eat breakfast when she hurried away from him.

  "Hey!" Charlie called. "Hey!"

  She waited at the curb for two taxis to pass, taking the opportunity to slip off her heels, then ran barefoot across Fifth Avenue into Central Park, dark hair bouncing behind her—too fast, Charlie thought, I couldn't catch her in a million years. He watched her run with one shoe in each hand, then disappear through the trees. He looked up and down the street, feeling confused. What was the problem? Except for calling her mother, hadn't he comported himself well? They'd had a nice night, hadn't they? I pay for a great room, he thought bitterly, I give her a great fucking time, and she runs away from me? What's she so scared of? No one's here. He glowered at an elderly woman who stood admiring her small dog as he deposited a tiny curl of shit onto a piece of tissue paper.

  Then he eased along the avenue, actually enjoying the morning but feeling an odd new pain in his back. All that screwing last night, he thought proudly, pulled something. But it'd been wor
th it. Would he ever be able to do it again like that? Why not? He still had some of the Chinese tea in the apartment. And more on the way! Thinking of it put him in a better mood. He'd look at the paper with breakfast. Eggs, he could make eggs, for God's sake. Read about the Jets. Bill Parcells. Call Ellie and listen to her babble about the azalea bushes.

  As he turned the corner to Sixty-third Street, a tall man carrying the New York Post appeared in front of him. "Like to introduce myself, sir." He extended his hand. "Name's Tommy."

  Charlie gave the man a vague nod but kept walking. Kelly the doorman stood in front of the apartment building flagging down a taxi. In and out of the heat all day, always a smile.

  "Sir?" called the tall man, following Charlie.

  He turned around in irritation. "What?"

  The man slid the newspaper back, revealing a black semiautomatic pistol. "Get in the car."

  Which had slid up behind Charlie silently, another man getting out of the back door, a third in a green baseball jacket behind the steering wheel.

  "Hey, fellows," said Charlie agreeably, "you got the wrong guy here."

  The driver in the green jacket lifted up his sunglasses at the same moment as the first man slipped a tight hand around Charlie's arm. "I don't think so," he said politely.

  THEY DROVE DOWNTOWN, with Tommy looking through Charlie's billfold and finding the Vista del Mar papers in the breast pocket of his coat. His hands were cuffed tightly. The driver introduced himself as Morris.

  "We didn't expect your girlfriend to go running into the park."

  Charlie stayed silent.

  "Ran pretty fast, too."

  "I guess so."

  "You'll help us out, won't you?"

  "This guy's name is Charles Ravich," announced Tommy. "We have his home address, work address, and this looks like—some kind of vacation place in New Jersey."

  "See if he has a wife."

  Tommy consulted the Vista del Mar papers. "Elizabeth."

  "What else? Keep looking."

  "Phone in his pocket."

  "Charles," asked Morris. "Does she have your number?"

  "Yes."

  "Turn it on, Tommy. See if she calls him."

  "Hey, hey!" cried Tommy, finding the photo of the boyfriend and waving it in front of Morris. "Look at this."

  "What kind of animal would do that?" Morris shook his head. "Fucking barbaric."

  They drove south for five minutes, then cut west on Fourteenth Street and then one block south into the meatpacking district. There they stopped and hustled him out of the car in front of a rusty door in a wall. I'm going to get out of this, Ellie, he told himself, don't worry.

  "You got back trouble?" Morris asked, watching Charlie.

  "I'm fine," he said.

  Inside the building, they pushed him up some cement steps and then across what appeared to be an old factory floor. He noticed a rotten mattress to one side. In front of him stood a large worktable, some utility lamps, and three heavy chairs. Sitting in one was a man of about sixty.

  "You go . . . here," said Morris, pushing Charlie onto the stained, chopped-up table and cuffing one of his arms to a ring. "This is Mr. Ravich," he said.

  "Hello, Mr. Ravich." The older man lifted a hand.

  "Who are you?" said Charlie. "Tony?"

  Morris smiled. "I told you we got the right guy."

  Tony stood up. "Mr. Ravich, I can see you're a successful businessman."

  He shrugged.

  The phone in Tommy's hand trilled. He handed it to Morris. "Yeah?" He listened. "It's her," he said.

  "Let me have it." Tony took the phone. "You got my five million dollars now, Christina? . . . Didn't you see what happened to your last boyfriend? . . . I don't care about that—I want it in three hours. You've wasted a lot of my time, you know that? Years. And what is this fucking IRS shit? I have to meet my wife for lunch. If I don't have something by eleven o'clock, your new boyfriend will be something you can put on a sandwich. Then we'll go after your mother, okay? We know she's home now, we know where she is in her little pink bedroom . . . Don't call me that . . . And don't call anybody down there . . . If my guys don't get my—It's not bullshit. My guy says she's watering her lawn right now, bunch of flowers climbing up the garage . . . Now you believe me?" He looked at Charlie. "She wants to talk to you."

  Tony held the phone to Charlie's ear. "I'm sorry," cried Christina. "I'm sorry."

  "Tell them where—"

  Tony pulled the phone away. "You call back in ten minutes. Ten minutes . . . You're going to help us out here."

  Now Tony called another number that Morris had given him. "Yes, hello, Mrs. Ravich? . . . This is the Bell Atlantic office, yes. Just checking the line, ma'am." He nodded at Charlie. "Everything's fine . . . We had some workmen in the vicinity. Yeah. Thank you." Tony hung up. "Sounded like a nice lady. So, Charlie, here's the situation. We have you and we know where your wife is. We don't have Christina, but we know where her mother is. She knows where the five million is that she stole from me, but she isn't saying."

  I don't want to tell them, Charlie thought, but they've got Ellie. And Christina, or whoever she is, couldn't care less. "It's in two large boxes in the backseat of an old blue Mustang convertible in her mother's garage," he said. "She told me that."

  "No, it's not," answered Tony. "We've been through that place like mice. There's no car like that. We found a bunch of antique dolls and things, but nothing like that. I know. I been on this for months."

  "I can't help you," said Charlie. He noticed Tommy carrying in two large toolboxes.

  "Sure you can," responded Tony, smiling as he looked at Charlie's card.

  "How?"

  "I'm seeing here that you're the chief executive officer of a company named Teknetrix. Sounds like big money to me. You're the deep pockets. Your girlfriend stole my money and you're going to pay me. She can pay you back herself."

  "You guys've made a big mistake," Charlie said in a let's-forget-everything voice. "I don't have that kind of money. And I don't know where your money is. I thought it was in the air-conditioner boxes."

  Morris pulled a drill out of the toolbox and plugged it in.

  "It's just money," Charlie added.

  "It's not just money." Tony shook his head, tired of being misunderstood. "It's a lot of things, Charles. It's the dishonesty, the lack of respect. It's the fact that it wasn't my money, not exactly. I had to pay that out of other funds. Which set me back, you know? Another little problem developed . . . that also cost me money. Also, we thought it was somebody else for three years. A stand-up guy named Frankie. He knew we wouldn't believe him when he said he didn't do it." He nodded at Morris. "My friend here is very persuasive. We got some information out of her boyfriend and he didn't want to give it to us."

  "Tony, Tony," said Charlie, pulling against his handcuff experimentally. "Let's be reasonable."

  The cell phone rang again. "Yeah?" said Tony. "Just a—" He held the phone out. "Okay."

  Morris started the drill.

  "You hear that, sweetie?" asked Tony, waving at Morris to stop. "That's right. We'll do that to your mother if you don't help me out here." He handed the phone to Charlie.

  "Yes?" he said. "Yes?"

  "Charlie?" asked Christina. "You all right?"

  "I'm fine."

  "I'll do anything, Charlie."

  "Give them their fucking money back!"

  "I don't have it!"

  "Last night you told—"

  "My mother got rid of the car!" she cried. "I didn't know."

  "When?" he screamed. "When didn't you know?"

  "I just found out," cried Christina in his ear. "Yesterday, Charlie."

  "You could have told me."

  "I'm sorry. I can't call the police."

  He missed a breath. "Because these guys have your mother?"

  "Yes, Charlie."

  "So it's me or your mother?" he said in frustration.

  "No, no, not exactly, Charlie."
r />   Morris took the phone. "Give me the number of your phone," he said to her. He wrote it down. "Don't go anywhere." Morris clicked off, then handed the phone to Charlie.

  Tony's face soured and he shot his lower jaw out. "Start calling, start getting me my money, you asshole." He pulled out a book of crossword puzzles, checked his watch. "Three hours. I'm not sitting here longer."

  Charlie stared at the phone. This wasn't happening. An hour ago he was in the shower in the Pierre Hotel. His head pounded. No coffee, no tea, past 8:00 a.m. already.

  "And anything stupid, we'll go say hello to the missus."

  "I get it, all right," Charlie muttered bitterly.

  He dialed Ted Fullman at Citibank. How hard can this be? he thought. Ted works in a bank. He'll send over some money and I'll get out of this. Five million easy come, five million easy go—a briefcase from Sir Henry Lai. "Ted, Charlie Ravich."

  "What can I do for you today, so early?"

  He heard the sound of computer keys. "Do you ever make cash disbursements?"

  "Sometimes, depending."

  He rubbed his temple. "I mean, can you send cash over to my office?"

  "How much?"

  "A lot. Six or seven figures?"

  "We generally don't provide cash in such sums."

  "Of course."

  "We'll provide a bank check."

  "How fast?"

  "Same day, a few hours by messenger."

  "Do you ever provide cash?"

  "Not on short notice, Charlie. Not seven figures. We have a lot of forms that have to be compiled when the sum is quite large on a personal account."

  "Forms?"

  "Government forms, money-laundering, all that kind of thing. How much you want?"

  "A lot."

  "Anything over, maybe, fifty thousand will need a signature from someone downstairs, and then—"

  "Just a moment."

  "I can get a bank check," he said to Tony, his hand over the phone.

  "You gotta be kidding me." He flipped through his puzzle book, looking for one that he hadn't completed. "Cash, Mr. Ravich. Cash is king."

  "How about a wire transfer to an offshore bank account?"