Lost By The River

by David Moynihan

  “He didn't pay cash?”

  She eyed the papers, ruefully, nodded no.

  “Geeze, honey. Hooker with a heart of gold is one thing, but takingbiotech paper?”

  She turned to me with the kind of angry face that you only like to see if you're part of the human subsection that wants to be on the receiving edge of a whip. It was startling, frightening, and well out of the carefully constructed persona she'd been eating off of for a decade. I sympathized with her plight for 15, 20 seconds.

  “They got you too? I've been handed a couple thousand options.”

  “That much?”

  “There's incentive, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “So maybe it's time to start talking. If you don't know where he is, I'll have to hear everywhere he's been.”

  “Who are you, anyway? A detective?”

  “An expert on sin.”

  “Expert? I'll keep that in mind.”

  “Don't be too impressed. In DC, everyone's an expert.”

  EIGHT

  “OK,” she said, after settling me in comfortably to a couch in the basement. Comfy, all Sunnybrook Farm and wicker. Her place to escape from a career in escapism. Terrycloth and a cup of tea in hand, she started.

  “You don't have an issue with women like me, do you? Deep-seated hatred?”

  “No. To be honest, most of the women I knew in my younger days had that academic perspective: wanting more from certain gents in class, but only offering the one grade. Gotta admire someone who goes by what the market dictates.”

  “Right. Anyway, Ansbach came by like any other. Just about. Divorced, sloppy, but had money in his pocket. And suddenly he wasn't answering to anyone about where it went.

  “That's years ago.”

  “Yup. I didn't think much of it. Or him. Not... really. Not... particularly memorable. I remembered him. Marked down his birthday—December, a Capricorn. But... you do have some guys who stand out. Especially on a light schedule.”

  “You don't book by the half-hour?”

  “Hardly. And I mostly take clients by referral.”

  “I'll keep that in mind.”

  “So?”

  “So? So he turned out to be real, all right. Not special real. Or not that special. And certainly not enough to make you give up the profession and go propagate the species. But... there was something about him. I made his special days, took calls on short notice, advised him on clothes, diet, bathing. It was a twice a week thing.

  “He was in his forties.”

  “And set in his ways. But.. men adjust.”

  “You weren't his only one.”

  “You never are. He wore. I wasn't exactly faithful myself.”

  “Uh-huh. And?”

  “And one day disaster struck at Agate.

  “Just once?”

  “Right. It was special. Anyway, things fell apart one day. Like now. Only worse. I couldn't tell what happened to the new boss, but another one ran things then. Hot shot, 'big school, little science,' as Richard put it.”

  “So?”

  “I pieced it together later. There was a deal on the table that would have given Richard enough to afford me seven days a week. With a couple friends. In Europe.”

  “Like all the web girls write about.”

  “You read them? There aren't so many 4-star hotels... nor that many clients. But, yes, that kind of money. Some others I know have it... they don't spend it that easy. Usually. But...”

  “Mm?”

  “Well, deal was, Agate gets some obscene amount of money, 2-300 mill, and 55% of whatever the drug made. Richard's share would have been stock considerations and outright license of his patents. He owned the intellectual property, as part of a compensation package including...”

  “Wait. Wait. Wait. Forget it. I can't follow that. Let's skip this and go to the three-ways in Europe.”

  She looked at me for a long time. Her eyes blinked, rolled up towards her forehead. She nodded. “Anyway, the old CEO didn't go for it.”

  “What?”

  “Right. CEO guy wanted 60%.”

  “This sounds like a training camp holdout.”

  “I stay away from athletes. Too vigorous. For Agate, and Richard, the deal didn't get done.”

  “So, what? Richard comes over, sobs to you for a while, heads back, free agency, new team?”

  “It's more complicated. Only about six teams in the league to sign with. And that's worldwide, so you can't go play in Europe if you're not wanted here. Little progress on, you know, getting the drug available, approved by government, that kind of thing. The staff was let go, save for a few researchers on another drug Richard developed. So few people there, it's not even worth it to get frisky in the elevator. No chance of being seen... no thrill.”

  “So what's the deal now?”

  “Two-fold. The company's getting cut in two. I think. They're going to license off his new drug—a pill, Richard says. That's pretty much set in stone. Money goes to pay off the investors of the thing, and you can hang on through development if you want a share of royalties. Richard was proud of it, but, you know, other people have pills. And—”

  “And?”

  “And somebody was buying the rights to Richard's other drug. He gets a chunk of that fee. So does Agate. Here comes Europe.”

  “So, Richard's vacationing a bit early? Makes sense. Heck, I saw that kind of dough coming in, I'd be getting that old beater up off of blocks and ready to pull the double-wide out there to paradise...”

  “You would, wouldn't you? This was more involved. Richard... he didn't know much about money. Nothing, really. Didn't spend on art, travel, cars... none of that. But the amount kept rising in his head. He told me how much he'd give me... too much.”

  “So?”

  “So—look. You get that feeling sometimes. The friend at the other end of the club isn't going to cover his teenage buddy's dance, right? I took care of my other clients. I advised Richard to seek other services. Referring him.”

  “But never to a woman of your stature.”

  “You're not as dumb as you look. Just some names I knew. Safe and disease-free.”

  “That include that Chinese gal?”

  “Chi—what?”

  “Yeah. Tracked him to a spot last night. Vaguely famous in the area. Service at cut-rate prices. Some other folks were there about him.”

  “I—I never. That—”

  “Aw, come on. You split off with a guy and want him to stay pure? Women.”

  Eyes rolling again. This time far into the back of her skull. Reminded me of Vegas and slots.

  “Pure—no. Clean, is a requirement.”

  “Right. OK. He ever talk about his wife?”

  “I discourage comparison. It's disrespectful to both of us.”

  “Understood. But what about complaints? She demand more money? More time with the kids?”

  “Not... much. Indifference there. Richard met his regular appointments with me. Weekly, 'til I started pulling away.”

  “How about vacations?”

  “We took those together. Brief ones. Package deals to the Caribbean. Low-rent, actually, but tolerated it.”

  “You go to office parties?”

  “There weren't any that I recall.”

  “Fine. Great. What did he do... outside of work and you?”

  Pause again. Blinking. Beneath her eyelids I imagined the pupils doing a 360 inside her skull. Nod again. Smiles now, like the plumber's an ass but the basement's flooded and it might just reach the second floor, where the new carpet is, so homicide must be postponed. Resignedly, she sat down.

  “He ate.”

  “What?”

  “Richard liked to eat. All these dive places. Never cooked. Restaurants he went to, they knew him. He insisted I go to a couple. One by the courthouse especially, place a girl like me seldom enjoys visiting, unless we're having a real encounter. Supposed to have the best kung pao chicken in the land. Staff knew him.

  �
��Courthouse? Wait—Sichuan Dragon? That the place?”

  “I think so.”

  “The doctor ate at the Dragon... Regularly.”

  “Yes. Same dish each time. They had it cooking before he even paid at the counter. Made things awkward when Richard stuffed his face before I even got my veggie.”

  “If he was eating there once a week...” I smiled.

  “Yes?”

  “Ansbach really is a genius.”

  NINE

  By her request, after our appointment ran so long, I did the embarrassed john out back to my car. A new patron was arriving shortly, and the lady had to, she said, “compose herself.” My inner voyeur wanted to hang and catch make and model on the next guy to pop in, but I'd little time. Lunch shift had ended at the restaurant in question, so I sped down the highway, dodged a mess of construction, and waited outside for the carryout crowd to thin.

  Cops fluttered in and around the area, eagerly courting up traffic scofflaws, marijuana possessors, and business owners who undertook construction without fully complying with the permitting process, so I wasn't able to consume my preferred liquid meal. I walked into the Dragon, claimed a seat with entrance view and ordered one from column A.

  Joint was no-frills. Uncovered tables, smell of the fryer gleefully blasting out behind a plastic curtain, soy with sodium and peanuts in everything. Food came quick, so I devoured it, watching idly as a Chinese soap opera played out on the small set next to the sushi bar. Dragon was a family-owned joint, legendary for lack of service, so when the mom caught me watching, she shouted something at her son behind the counter, he nodded, switched over to the local news. I looked at him apologetically... it hadn't been a bad program on screen, just didn't have any kicking that I could spot, and only a little fly-by-wire.

  Story of the day was Agate's missing CEO. Only he wasn't gone without a trace. Breaking reports had his clothes found on a corner of the old C&O Canal, parallel to the Potomac River, some 2 miles from his house. There was blood, lots of it, on the scene. DNA tests pending. I watched bemused as an impossibly slender girl with serious career aspirations and a strong background in looking slender explained what the incident really meant for us all.

  Neighbor of the alleged dump site came on screen, old guy who'd yet to sell and cash in on the real estate boom, said the spot was isolated, away from the roads, often employed by teenagers and illicit lovers who didn't have the scratch for a motel.

  I needed to find Ansbach. Fast.

  I dropped a few bucks down at my table, looked to the owner and her son where, on break, they slurped noodles.

  “Spectacular food!” I said politely. She was befuddled. He translated.

  “A friend of mine said this is the best Chinese food on the Eastern seaboard. I didn't believe the guy. But now I'll take his suggestions to heart.” More translations. Pause. She nodded. Conversation over. “You might know him,” I said pleadingly. “Comes in all the time.” More nods. “Here's a picture.” I handed over a clipped printout. The mother returned to her noodles. The son picked it up, puzzled, looked at me, then glanced back at another customer, Chinese fellow who read a newspaper in his own language several seats down.

  “He wants him too,” said the son. I nodded. Realized my play at obsequious had failed. Again. Sometimes typecasting is accurate. I was about to leave, recognized a bruise on the other man's face. Diameter of the purple blotch matched the span between my knuckles. He saw me looking. I said thanks to the staff and wandered over. He smiled. Behind his tabloid one hand held a 9mm. Paper and gun both pointed at my gut. I nodded. We filed out, me first, him behind.

  In the parking lot, he indicated a Japanese SUV. I wondered where his patriotism lay. At the door I turned to ask him, but he whacked me on the back of the neck with the barrel of his gun, and I wasn't too talkative for a time.

  Blow didn't completely knock me out. Face jammed against the tinted window, my hands cuffed to the door, I had time to study the asphalt as we sojourned. Driver knew his stuff, veering east away from the traffic, avoiding the beltway, and sending us down across the DC line. I wanted to compliment him for his yeomen performance, but he saw me looking up bleary-eyed in the rearview, leaned back and smashed me in the forehead. Carpet smelled nice on the way down. I thought of asking him which aftermarket retailer had floormats in that color, but passed out before I got the chance.

  Outside it was dark when I came to. I was in a bed. Nice one, with three-digit thread count sheets. Room had a handful of woodcut prints, tastefully arranged, but otherwise a soothing locale that discouraged thought. Not a hospital. I felt my forehead, discovered my right hand was strapped down tight, but my left digits, roaming free, caressed the edges of a damp cloth. Nothing appeared broken, but there was a migraine working overtime.

  Sitting up was painful. Personal inventory showed I'd been sleeping too long, but had no spots before my eyes. In my peaceful surroundings, I deliberated on an appropriate and delicate means of explaining to any and all my return to consciousness.

  “Hey, dammit!” I shouted. “Where the hell am I?”

  I repeated the chorus to my rant, at increasing decibels, until someone flipped a latch and entered my room, bearing drink.

  She had one of those dresses on, silk, dragon-patterned, with a slit up its side the length of the Great Wall. She smiled at me polite, answered no questions, lay the beverage on a nightstand next to me, and walked towards the door.

  “At least tell me your name, Angel,” I said. But she giggled and split.

  Thirsty, I slammed the fluid, wondered too late if it was drugged right as my eyes closed.

  A man stood over me. I felt the blur diminish, stared at him, drew a blank.

  “We meet under the most unusual circumstances, Mr. Drake. You seem... a very physical thinker.”

  It was the fellow from the embassy. Feng? Fang?.

  “Peril of the western mind. Want to explain how I got here?”

  “Of course. You see, Mr. Drake, a man working for one of my associates seems to have run afoul of you. Repeatedly. You are perhaps involved in the same matter. We gave you the opportunity to discuss this measure previously, but you declined to share information. There have been some unfortunate incidents.”

  “Looks like you're stuck with downmarket employees, pal.”

  “The man in question has been disciplined. His supervisor has yet to face the ramifications of these actions. And, you are now here.”

  “How long've I been out?”

  “Only a few hours. You required rest.”

  “Right. Anything happen?”

  “I have ordered a late supper for myself and several acquaintances. You are welcome to join. We have clothes for you and significant delicacies.”

  “I mean, anything happen with Agate? Missing CEO. Blood found at house. Huge purchase you're trying to make. Another company officer we're both looking for...”

  “Please, Mr. Drake. We can discuss such matters after dinner. If you will excuse me. I need to prepare for this event. No doubt you must do the same. A shower can be a refreshing thing. And, forgive me, but there is still some blood on your face.”

  He went out without giving me a chance to reply.

  I showered. Shaved. Came back to find my jeans pressed and a new shirt. They'd thought better of re-outfitting me and treated my fashion sense with the respect it deserved. Maybe I could get through the evening without a fight.

  Peaceful. That's me.

  The gal with the chipau came back for me. Her dress had changed, western business. She passed over a phone.

  “What's that for?”

  “You've been... here for a while. Would like to call wife?”

  “Right. Yeah. Her. Thanks.”

  “Dinner in fifteen minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  She smiled nervously and split.

  I checked the messages. Three or four from Agate, one from my buddy who'd been doing paper for the battered working gal, and several from a he
dge fund operator I'd once pulled from a nasty little bit involving some non-male-appearing pro's on 14th. He'd seen me on the tube that afternoon, offered big money if I'd just meet him in person and shake my head yes or no on some issues.

  Quit. Quit now. Walk out the door. Go for the metro. Go home. Go away.

  The social secretary returned just as I grabbed my keys. She escorted me to the dining area.

  I entered a room jam-packed with the chattering class, Beijing-style. It was a private residence, off Connecticut avenue, but not the embassy, unless they'd skipped fencing the place.

  Fang saw me, waved me over.

  “Another gathering place for us. This is a business location, owned by my friend with SinoInvest. Would you care to meet him? It's always a good thing to meet someone who can give loans.”

  “I'm not that into debt. Though I owe one of your staffers something.”

  “As I told you, Mr. Drake. That gentlemen is no longer with us. Ah, but here he comes. J.D.,” added Fang, waving over a dapper sort from the far end, “come meet an American. A real... original.”

  The man strolled over, calm and posed, group focused on him enthusiastically, aspirants to the high priest of money, hanging on his every word. I thought of acting respectful, but my business thrives on the compulsion rich men have to now and again mesh with low companions. I wondered if he'd take a sock in the arm properly as greeting, decided naked brutality wouldn't fit with the decor.

  He made the rounds, accepting compliments gracefully, now and again shaking hands. When he came to me Fang stood at his side warily, minder to his eminence. With casual politeness J.D. reached into his coat, pulled the case and business card. Fang, deferentially but earnestly, grabbed the card and slipped it into my hands, keeping the big guy away from the unwashed.

  JD Lieu.

  Vice President

  South China Bank

  There were offices listed in DC, Shanghai and Hong Kong.

  “Keep that card!” shouted Fang, and the others laughed. “You might need a loan!”