"Well, if you're here about that immigration thing," Harry said. "No luck."
He held her eye for a moment, but a vulture flying past his window pulled his gaze away. He cleared his throat, brought his eyes back to the polished wood. His fingers formed piano chords against the teak. He held them there, an awkward stretch, as he looked up at her again, this time with composure, gotten his story straight, back in command.
"Talked to Danny Burton just before I went out to lunch. He said it was impossible. Immigration information like that, don't ask me why, but countries simply don't share that kind of thing. He said we could try to get a federal subpoena, talk to a judge, try to convince him that the information was necessary to an ongoing murder investigation, maybe he'd issue an order. But still, even then, the Malaysian officials wouldn't be required by international law to obey the subpoena. So it looks like that's a dead end, Allison. Sorry."
She nodded. All she could manage. Standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob. Shifting some of her weight that way.
"You okay? You don't look well. Ankle bothering you? Your nose?"
Allison swallowed, took a long draw of air, glanced out the wide window at one of those twinkling icebergs beginning to inch away from the dock, about to catch the outgoing tide, drift into the Gulf Stream, start its long, slow melting.
"What are you doing?" Allison said. "You and Patrick. What kind of project is it you're working on together?"
"Construction," Harry said, the slightest stiffening in his posture. "Rantel, like always."
"What kind of construction, Harry?" Allison heard her voice leaving her body, a ghostly rattle of sound as if some other person were speaking through her.
"I don't get it," he said. "You never come to my office. Never shown the slightest interest in my work. Disdainful as hell whenever I try to share things with you. Now all of a sudden you've acquired this big fascination. What gives?"
"What kind of project, Harry?" Eyes still on the huge white ship, off on its own now, self-contained, out on the dangerous sea.
"It's a huge project," he said. "That's what kind it is. A career maker. The kind of project that when it's finished, a person would never have to pick up his phone, beg his old friends for some paltry favor. It's that kind. The kind that you can retire after. Play golf. Start living your goddamn life for once."
She nodded again.
"Is it so big," she said, "you were willing to sacrifice your own flesh and blood to make it happen?"
"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Allison slid her eyes from the view, regarded her husband. Watched him as he seemed to float inch by inch out of sight. Departing forever from the world she knew.
CHAPTER 34
Eight-thirty, dark outside. For all the normal, healthy people in the world, dinner was over, the sitcoms starting up. The White brothers, however, were sitting in Tricia Capoletti's office, Orlon saying, "You did what?"
"I took Allison those photos, Orlon. Took them over to her house, put them in her mailbox. All of them. Negatives, enlargements, all of them. Now she knows. Now it's over."
"Jesus Christ, man. I don't fucking believe what I'm hearing."
Tricia Capoletti said, "You shouldn't let the anger cloud your thoughts, Orlando. You should tell Ray exactly what's on your mind. Keep it precise. Don't let the anger speak for you."
Orlon stared at Ray, then back at Tricia.
"That what you think, counselor? That your idea of mental health, is it, getting your mind all nice and clear?"
"That's one aspect of it, yes."
Ray loved it. Tricia not taking an ounce of shit from Orlon, just sitting comfortably on the front of her desk, looking straight into Orlon's eyes. She was wearing army-green pants, soft brushed cotton. A light blue shirt, button-down like a man's with a dark blue tie worn loose at her throat. Windsor knot wasn't tied exactly right. Ray, an expert on Windsor knots, half-Windsors, thinking this was something he might be able to help Tricia with. Get her knots right.
Orlon made a production of sitting up straighter in his chair, getting his posture correct for the teacher. Mocking Tricia, though she didn't seem to notice.
"Okay," he said, looking toward Ray, a couple of inches away from making eye contact. "Okay, Ray, tell me something. You gave Allison the photographs, so now what's supposed to happen?"
"I didn't have a specific outcome in mind. I was just doing something to make amends. Whichever thing felt right. And this is what it was: give Allison the photos, sever our ties with the Brunei guy, both at once. I tried a couple of other ideas, but they didn't come to anything."
"What else did you try?" Tricia asked him. She crossed her legs, hands on the edge of her desk, leaning forward. Ray had never seen her sit on her desk before. Always behind it. But there she was, sitting there, exposed to these two guys, madmen a couple of feet away. Tricia totally collected, serene.
"What I did, I drove over to Hialeah this morning early, to where the Hervis kid lives. I read they sent him home from Jackson Memorial. So I went up to the door of his house, all ready to confess who I was, what I'd done to their boy. And this guy swung open the door, big man in underwear, beer gut, rotten complexion.
"I asked him was this the place where Hervis lived, and right away the guy produces a weapon. Huge black forty-five, swings it out from behind him, points it at me. Says for me to get the fuck off his porch.
"But I stood there, asked him again if this was Hervis's house, the kid who was recently shot in traffic, partially paralyzed. And the guy cocked that fucking cannon, aimed it at my face and told me, yeah, this was the house, he was the father. Father of the paralyzed kid. "What of it?"
Orlon said, "You didn't tell him, did you? You chicken-shitted out of it. All ready to fess up, but you look at that gun and you decide different."
"No," Ray said. "I told him the whole damn thing. Start to finish. I told him about you, how you did the motorcycle guys while I was dealing with the Hervis kid. I told him about the yellow parasol, the old woman his kid killed from running the light. How she looked a lot like Mom. I stood there, looking into that gun and told him the naked-balls-to-the-walls truth. Every single little bit I could remember."
"Good for you, Ray." Tricia uncrossed her legs, leaned in his direction, and clenched a fist in victory. "That took a great deal of courage."
"Finish the goddamn story, man. What'd he do?"
"He pulled the trigger," Ray said. "Pulled it three times, then he broke down crying."
"Gun was empty," Orlon said.
Ray nodded.
"Empty gun doesn't fucking count, all that brave bullshit. Doesn't mean a thing."
"Ray didn't know it was empty," Tricia said. "He stood there, faced his crime, confessed his wrongs. Ready to accept responsibility, even death. It took tremendous courage. Tremendous faith."
"Hey, where in the hell you get your psychology degree?" Orlon said. "That's what I want to know."
"Don't," Ray said.
" 'Cause wherever it was, I'm gonna give them a call, let them know the amazing things their goddamn graduates are doing out here, curing criminals of their disease. And shit, the state's attorney might be interested in it too. They could close all the goddamn jails, ship the convicts over here, let pretty little Tricia Italiano cure them all."
"Orlon, you're over the line, man."
Orlon pulled out his pocketknife. Opened it and started digging the point into the wooden arm of the chair. Thing was all nicked and scarred already, Salvation Army stuff, so Ray held his tongue.
Ignoring him, Tricia said, "What did the father do next, Ray? Go on and finish telling your story. Part of the catharsis is to relive this moment, see it in your memory exactly as it happened, reexperience and understand it."
"The father turned around," Ray said, "just went back into his house. I heard him crying. Heard him bawling his brains out in the back of the house. Left the door standing open, anybody could've walked right in, stolen his stuff."
"How did you feel?"
"I felt shitty. I still feel shitty. I went on inside. Walked down this narrow, onion-smelling hallway, looking in rooms till I found where the kid was lying. I pushed open the door, stood there for a minute, and the kid opened his eyes and looked at me. I told him I was sorry."
"Did he respond?"
"He closed his eyes. I believe he thought he was having a bad dream."
"Jesus," Orlon said. "Listen to this bullshit. Listen to you two." Carving in the arm of the chair, Orlon said, "I can't believe it. You took Allison that photograph, didn't even keep one for us. I can't believe you're that dumb, man. That thing was worth money if we'd used it right. A lot of money."
Tricia said, "Something you said a minute ago, Ray. Let's circle back to that for a second. I didn't understand the reference. Something about Orlando doing motorcycle men."
"Whoa, now," Orlon said. "Just wait one fucking second here. If you feel you gotta confess the fucking things you did, Rayon, fine, go ahead, cleanse your immortal soul all you want. But leave me the hell out of it, you hear?"
"Go ahead, Ray. This is bothering you, isn't it, this thing Orlando did?"
"Yeah, it is. It bothers me. I feel responsible, like I did it myself."
"Oh, Jesus." Orlon stood up. Black T-shirt with sweat rings growing in the pits.
"Now look here," Orlon said. He was facing Tricia but talking to Ray. "I came over here tonight 'cause my brother said he wanted me to meet the woman he was going to marry. And I only stayed this long out of respect for Rayon. The man hasn't shown much of an appetite for women over the years, so I thought I should encourage him any way I could. But this is turning out to be a fucking freight train full of dog shit. And I'm not staying around to see it crash."
"Is that right, Ray?"
"What?"
"What your brother just said. Is that what you think I am? The woman you're going to marry."
"Those were his exact words," Orlon said. "Verbatim, ad nauseam."
"I just said that to get him over here. That's all. Make him curious to meet you."
Orlon slid his hand across his smooth head, and said, "Hey, look, I need a quick time-out to pee, okay? Don't say anything good while I'm gone."
He headed for the door, Ray telling him to wait, come back, but Orlon lifted a hand over his shoulder and waved backward at them. Out the door, shut it. Tricia looked down at the rug, shaking her head. Ray just sat there, all the blood drained from his body. Embarrassed, angry. Wanting to run the fuck out of there, strangle Orlon.
Minute later the door to the office opened again and Orlon walked back in, said, "Hi, guys. I'm back," and sat down again.
"So where were we?" Ray said.
"I don't know," Tricia said. "Actually, I think this may be enough for tonight. We've covered some good ground."
Orlon took out his knife again, went back to work on the chair.
"Is that what you want, Tricia?" Ray said. "You want us to leave now?"
Tricia studied him for a long moment, then said, "Do you think facing the boy and his father is enough, Ray?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you've taken care of your personal responsibility, but do you think you have a larger social obligation as well?"
"Oh, man." Orlon rolled his head around, stared up at the ceiling.
"Well, Ray? Do you?"
"She's doing it," Orlon said. "She's doing that exact same thing Mom used to do, thing I hated so much. Asking you questions, but they aren't questions. Backing you into a box."
"What're you saying, Tricia?"
"I'm asking you if you think you're ready now to go to the authorities, talk to them the same way you talked to the boy and his father. Use the same courage."
"See," Orlon said. "See what I'm telling you."
"I don't know," Ray said. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"Well, I know," Orlon said. "The answer is no. I'm not ready, and I'm not going to let someone else go and squeal on me either."
Orlon folded up his knife, put it in his pocket. Came back out with his five-shot .25. Black with a small rubber grip. At home he kept it lying beside his keys and sunglasses on the kitchen counter. Whenever he went out, the thing went with him. "Smash, grab, dead on the slab," that's what Orlon liked to say.
Tricia was looking at the pistol. Orlon standing there, pointing the weapon halfway between Tricia and Ray.
"It's okay, Tricia," Ray said. "He gets like this. Don't let him bother you. It's a control thing. When the spotlight moves away from Orlando White, he's got to act like this, pull out a gun, make everybody look at the Big O again. Big Zero is more like it. Big nothing."
Orlon was looking at Ray now. Mouth clamped, eyes flickering.
Ray stood up, reached his hand out.
"Gimme."
"No."
"You're acting that way again, Orlando. You're being a little kid. Just some little kid."
"Look," Orlon said, bringing the pistol up, pointing it directly at Ray's chest. "I already had one mother. Nobody gets to have two. So just shut the fuck up, okay? Let me think what I've got to do."
"Do something, Ray," Tricia said. "Handle this."
"You got a suggestion?"
Looking at Orlon, trying to see into his eyes, see what voltage he was on at the moment. Not much, it looked like. Ray thought of that Jack Nicholson thing, Polanski cutting his nose. How that was Orlon's world view, his way of figuring out how to act, all of it based on some totally fucked-up idea of a movie. Trying to push his own personal movie into new territories.
But then Ray looked at Tricia, saw the way she'd started to shiver as she stared at the gun. Lost all her professional composure; all her psychological training wasn't working for her now.
And where was Ray? Which side of this shit storm was Ray on? Hell if he knew. Maybe it was all just to get laid — his recent adventure into psychology, all that reparation business. Maybe everything he'd been thinking he believed was just because of Tricia's cashmere sweaters. His entire view of life, the reason why he did what he did, based entirely on being a total, complete sucker for cashmere and redheaded women. Not a whole lot different from Orlon believing in Chinatown as his sacred gospel.
"So what're you going to do now, Orlon?" Ray said.
"I don't like this," said the therapist. "I don't like what's happening here."
"Mom brought you into her hospital room," Orlon said, eyes bobbing up from wherever they'd been. Looking straight into Ray in a way he almost never did. "There at the end, it was you Mom talked to, not me. I was born two minutes after you, but I'm always the little kid. You're the older, wiser brother. How was that gonna make me feel? You go in there, she talks to you, tells you what to do, the answers, whatever the hell she told you. You come out of that room, it isn't you anymore. It's some other guy.
"I'm standing there, waiting my turn. But I don't get a turn. She dies. Whatever it was she said, you aren't talking about it. So there we go, growing up, the two of us, you with the message, me with shit. Nothing. I gotta listen to you 'cause I don't know, maybe this is what she told you. Maybe this is part of the big answer, the thing she was seeing in her fever, because I don't even know where to begin with guessing what she told you."
Tricia slid off the desk. She stepped forward, made the third point on the triangle. She reached her arms out, one toward Ray, one toward Orlon.
"Maybe I can help," she said. "Maybe if you both talked to me, we could work through this."
Orlon looked at her.
"You see what I'm saying to you, Rayon? You see how bad it was to me, not knowing the thing you got told?" Looking at Tricia Capoletti, then back at Ray.
"I've done the best I could," Ray said.
"You should've just told me. You should've said it straight out. Here's what Mom said. She told me this and this and this. But no, you had to hold on to it. It was your secret, the thing that made you the important one. I'm this asshole, this kid, this je
rkwipe. I'm never going to grow up. And the reason is — the reason I couldn't grow up even if I wanted to was because I didn't know the thing, the big secret. So I had to make do. I go on making my movie. Never told anybody till I told you the other day. Never let on what I was doing, recording everything, trying to punch up the drama wherever I could. That's what I was doing. That was my secret. That's what I had."
"All she told me, Orlando, was to look after you. Try to keep the family together."
"That's all?" Orlon looked back at Ray. Mouth closed now, gun pointed at Tricia.
"That's every word she said to me."
"Shit, that's not so much."
"No, it isn't. But it's still a hard job."
"You didn't do it very well either, Rayon. You botched it, I'd say. Look at us. The shit we're into."
"Yeah."
"I thought there was more to it. I thought she told you something important."
"I don't think she knew anything important. I think she was just a simple woman. She wanted to travel, but she couldn't afford to. That was her. That was everything I remember about her."
"Why didn't you tell me before now? Why the fuck did you keep it to yourself, Ray? You could've just come out and told me. But no, you had to hold on to it 'cause it gave you the power over me."
"Orlon," he said. "I didn't think you cared. You never asked me."
"Shit," Orlon said. He lowered the pistol. "Shit, shit."
Tricia said, "This is good. We're getting it out now. We're getting to the core."
Orlon looked at her again. He raised his .25.
Saying to Ray, "Mom told you to keep the family together. So is that what you thought you were doing, giving Allison the photographs? Trying to keep us together in jail. Is that what you thought?"
"At that particular moment," Ray said, "I guess I wasn't thinking about Mom, what she said."
"No, you were listening to this one here," Orlon said. "Listening to this shrink, totally disregarding the solemn promise you made."
"I thought it was right at the time."
"But now you see it wasn't."
"Wait a minute," Tricia said. "Your brother is twisting this around, Ray. You had a genuine feeling. You went to that boy's house and you confessed, and what you felt afterward was real."
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