Target, page 30
“It’ll have to be tomorrow,” she said. “That’ll be our best chance.” Her breathing was still uneven.
“Yes.”
“I think we should make two separate attempts, in case one fails.”
“Yes,” he said again. “I intend trying to sabotage something in the satellite itself; it’s still open.”
She nodded against his shoulder. “I’ll try to create some imbalance in the fuel: from what Hannah said tonight, that’s where they expect a problem. A misfire would cause the least suspicion.”
“It’s not going to be easy,” he said, more to himself than to the woman.
“I’ve thought about that,” she said, seizing the words.
“What?”
“There’s a high degree of technology here.”
He pulled further away, curious at the point she was trying to establish.
“If we’re caught … if either of us is caught … then they’ll be able to break us easily enough. Scopolamine or some other truth drug. I wouldn’t want to, but I wouldn’t be able to stop involving you as well.”
He put his hand against her shoulder, shaking her. “D “Darling,” he said. “What are you talking about?”
“We mustn’t get caught,” she said urgently. “If we’re detected, we mustn’t let ourselves be caught.”
He lay quietly, feeling her wet body against him, digesting what she had said. She was right about the impossibility of their being able to resist any sort of scientific interrogation.
“We’ll just have to be careful,” he said. “And make sure we aren’t detected.”
It was too glib. Bohler knew; it wasn’t the sort of response to satisfy her.
“Yes, my darling,” she said. “Please be careful. Please be very, very careful.”
Bohler remained awake long after Gerda had drifted into a whimpering, occasionally twitching sleep, his mind occupied with what they had to attempt the following day. His thoughts drifted increasingly away from the sabotage he would attempt on the satellite head, towards the Project Director. Hannah Bloor was attractive, he thought — sensationally so.
Paul had bathed his sister in the Wichita Falls motel room, cleaning her of the filth with which she was encrusted, and in her purse he had found the heroin dose which had been sufficient to get back to Washington. But that had been almost twelve hours ago and now she sat cross-legged at the foot of his bed, hollow-eyed and staring up at him beseechingly; she had her arms clasped around her, trying to contain herself against the pain which was feeling out for her body.
“Help me, Paul. Please help me!”
“How can I, for God’s sake?”
“What do you mean, how can you? You know the places … where to score. I’ve got to score, Paul. You don’t know what’s going on inside my head. I hurt. I really hurt. You have got to do something, to stop the hurt.…”
“I don’t know anyone … don’t have any contacts.”
“Bullshit, Paul. You’re the great drug lawyer in this town. Paul Peterson, the voice of freedom. Don’t tell me you don’t know the places … use it yourself maybe.”
“Marijuana, Beth. Only marijuana. Not the sort of shit you’ve been pumping into yourself.”
A fresh spasm swept through her, stronger than the rest. She gripped at herself and whimpered, lips tight between her teeth. “Please, Paul. Please.”
He jerked up from the bed, walking aimlessly around the room. Behind him she groaned again and he turned back eagerly. “A doctor. I’ll get Dad’s doctor. He’ll help.”
“That’s bullshit, too. And you know it. No doctor will help me, not the way I want to be helped. It’ll be a clinic and that’ll take until tomorrow and I don’t have until tomorrow. I don’t have until anywhen.”
He fumbled for his address book, scrambling through it for names. There was a secretary at the drug rehabilitation center but there was no reply when he tried her number. He saw the name of Rubie Weinhart, whom he’d twice defended for marijuana possession and managed an acquittal. But the third time, when the man was arrested for pushing cocaine around a school in a black area of the city, he’d refused to represent him.
“Ooooh!” The agony gasped from his sister and he turned to see her doubled up, gripped by stomach cramps.
Weinhart answered on the third ring; there was music and the sound of people in the background. The pusher heard him out, sniggering towards the end, and Paul had the impression that the man had held the receiver away from his ear, so that others could hear the conversation.
“You jiving me, you mother?” demanded Weinhart.
“There’s a reason … a special reason,” said Paul desperately.
“Like setting poor old Rubie up for another bust.”
“I’m your defense attorney, for Christ’s sake. Why should I set you up?”
“You were my lawyer,” qualified the man, “until I needed you and then we got a set of rules we’d never heard of before and Rubie went to the slammer.”
“And you’d have gone to prison before that if I hadn’t represented you. So you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you shit, man. I paid the fee.”
“Just once. Help me just this once. I need help, very badly.” He was begging, Paul realized, uncaring. The man was holding the telephone so that others could hear; he detected the sound of muted laughter.
“There’s a mark called Arnold,” said Weinhart. “Puerto Rican dude who runs the Greyhound bus area, right in your patch. Ain’t the best stuff, but if you’re out in the rain, even a leaky umbrella is something.”
“Where do I find him?” demanded Paul, anxiously.
“Around,” said Weinhart, generally. “There’s a spic deli where he sometimes eats, down the block. And a bar called Maxi’s, right opposite. If he ain’t around, then the Lord who cares-for junkies don’t like you none.”
“Thanks,” said Paul.
“You ain’t got nothing to thank me for,” said Weinhart. “And I ain’t got nothing to thank you for, mother.”
In the bedroom Beth had toppled sideways. She lay hunched up, knees almost to her chin. She was shaking as if she were very cold, but there was a sheen of perspiration on her face and when he touched her arm, it felt damp.
“It’s all right,” he said, bending over her. “I’ve got a score. It’s going to be all right.”
Her teeth were tight together now and he saw that she had bitten her lip: blood wavered down her chin. He looked down at her, helplessly. He pulled the cover from the bed and put it over her, then ran from his apartment to the Volkswagen outside. He knew every shortcut to be taken and reached the station area in five minutes. Apart from the bus depot, it seemed quiet: the people on the streets were mostly black. He went to the delicatessen first, parking directly outside and hurrying in. He stopped, just beyond the doorway. He saw three men, one white and two blacks, at the food counter. He went further in, staring around in case the man was somewhere else in the shop. There was no one who could have been identified as a Puerto Rican.
He went to the first man at the counter, nudging at his arm.
“I’m looking for Arnold,” he said. “He eats here a lot. Do you know a guy called Arnold?”
The black turned slowly, examining him, then shook his head.
“Puerto Rican,” said Paul. “Smart dresser.”
There was another headshake and the man turned back to his food.
Paul took the car back towards the bus depot. He had to park some way from the bar. He started walking fast towards it and finished at almost a run. It was a bar typical of major terminals, large and dark: a place for strangers. There was a jukebox immediately inside the door, booths beyond, a long bar to the left and a doorless telephone cubicle at the rear. Paul progressed slowly along, head moving right and left. The barman came almost as soon as he edged onto a stood and Paul fought against his impatience, calmly ordering a beer; he’d been gone almost an hour, he calculated. She had been bad when he left, so what would she be like now? He held his hands together tightly before him on the bar, aware that they were shaking. He offered a five dollar note, indicating he didn’t want a tab run up, and when the man brought him his change Paul said, “I’m looking for Arnold.”
The man shrugged. “I’m Ray and I’m gay,” he chanted lightly.
“Puerto Rican guy. Uses this bar a lot.”
“You a friend of his?”
“I want to be.”
The barman ran his eyes as far down Paul’s body as was possible across the bar and then up again. “There’s friends and friends,” he said.
“I want to see Arnold,” insisted Paul.
“He know you?”
“Not yet.”
“Perhaps he won’t want to.”
Paul bit at the anxiety, knowing that if it showed he would lose the chance. “Why don’t we give it a try?”
Paul had left his change on the counter. The barman picked it up without a word and walked away. He took his time, serving several people further along the bar, and Paul clutched at the beer, feeling it warm between his hands. His eyes were constantly on the barman and then he looked beyond, to the telephone. Would she be able to answer, if he called? Probably not. And what could she do, other than scream for help — help that he wasn’t able to give her.
He had expected to be able to detect the contact, perhaps see a head jerk and then someone further along turn to look up at him. When the approach came it was from the other side, from the direction of the door and not from the barman at all. Paul felt pressure against him, as someone got onto the adjoining stool, and then the man said, “You the guy who’s looking for a friend?”
Paul jerked around. He wouldn’t have thought the man was Puerto Rican — his features were those of a black man.
“You Arnold?”
“I’m many things to many men,” said the man.
“Arnold,” said Paul, positively.
“If we’re making introductions, what’s your name?”
“Paul. I need help.”
“And who told you that you’d get it from me, Paul?”
“Someone I know.”
“And unless I know him too, then we’re just jiving here for nothing.”
“Rubie Weinhart.”
The Puerto Rican pulled back at the name and his face set in an expression of contempt. “That’s a cocksucker you got for a friend, Paul, and I don’t think you and I got anything more to talk about.”
The man shifted, preparing to move away and Paul snatched out, holding his arm. There was something hard and ridged beneath the sleeve and Paul wondered if it were a knife.
“Wait,” he said, imploringly. “Please wait. Don’t go”
The Puerto Rican looked down at the restraining hand. “People lost fingers for doing things like that,” he said. “Ever wondered how you wipe your ass without fingers?”
Paul took his hand away. “Sorry,” he said.
“That’s what the world’s full of,” said Arnold, making to move again. “Sad, sorry people.”
“I didn’t say Weinhart was a friend of mine.”
“He sure as hell ain’t a friend of mine.” The man was standing now, about to walk away.
“I’ll pay anything. I must have something. It’s for somebody who’s sick — very sick.”
“People never care what it costs and they’re always buying for someone else, never themselves,” said Arnold. “World’s just knee-deep in good Samaritans.”
Paul started to cry. He was unaware of it until he felt the wetness and then he rubbed his hand across his face, not caring that the man could see the breakdown. “I’ve got a sister,” he said. “I’ve got a sister who’s so full of shit that she’s coming unglued. If I don’t get something for her, she’s going to go out of her mind.”
“Sick people go to doctors,” said Arnold, unmoved.
“She needs something now, right now,” said Paul. He’d shouted and the Puerto Rican looked quickly around the bar, seeing what attention had been attracted.
“Easy boy,” he said. “Easy.”
“A hundred dollars,” said Paul. “Just one purchase, a hundred dollars. That’s three times the rate.”
“Now how does an innocent boy buying goodies for his sister know what the rate is?”
“I know.”
The Puerto Rican stood looking at him for several moments. Then he said, “Down by those telephones there’s a men’s room. Why don’t you go and have a little pee-pee?”
Paul hesitated, then got down from the stool and walked the length of the bar. The barman saw him and smiled. As Paul went by he called, “There’s piranha fish in the urinals. Maybe you’ll be lucky.”
The lavatory smelt of sour urine and unflushed toilets. The wall was spidered with graffiti and telephone numbers and holes had been gouged in all the cubicle doors. The noise of occupation came from one of them and there was a man standing at one of the stalls. Paul walked to a stall at the end and tried to isolate the entrance from the window reflection. Two men came in, each going to a cubicle. The man further along the line zipped up his trousers and made towards the exit. As he left the door remained open and Arnold entered. He walked towards Paul, but stopped as he did so, looking beneath the cubicle doors to see if they were empty. He moved to the adjoining stall and raised a finger against his lips in warning against conversation, gesturing behind him. Paul had already counted out the money and had it ready in his pocket. He offered it immediately. The Puerto Rican took it, carefully checking the bills.
“What?” he said, softly.
“Heroin,” Paul whispered back.
From behind a flowered handkerchief in his top pocket the man took a cellophane sachet of crystalline powder, handing it across the separating barrier towards the younger man. At that very moment the two cubicle doors smashed open and a voice yelled, “Hold it!”
The shout was the signal for others waiting outside. The door from the bar burst inwards and three other men came into the lavatory. The two in the cubicles were crouched down, both levelling guns.
“Motherfucker,” screamed the Puerto Rican. He swept out with his hand, striking Paul across the bridge of the nose and sending him stumbling backwards, blinded by tears. Through the blur he saw the man running at him to kick, and tried to roll himself into a ball. One of the men who had come through the door grabbed for Arnold’s shoulder, off-balancing him, so instead of hitting his groin the kick caught Paul high on the thigh, numbing him. Then the two others got to him and, almost casually, one of them kneed the Puerto Rican between the legs and stood back, watching him collapse onto the floor. Paul was suddenly aware of the reek of what he was lying in and pulled himself upwards. As he did so, he felt himself being seized and spun against the wall.
“You know the way,” said a voice. “Arms outstretched, legs apart. Try a smart-ass move and you won’t have an ass to be smart with any more.”
Paul still couldn’t see very well and his nose stayed numbed from the Puerto Rican’s blow. “There’s an explanation,” he said; it sounded adenoidal.
“Jesus!” said a voice. “There’s always an explanation!”
The Puerto Rican made another grab for Paul, but now he was handcuffed and one of the detectives twisted the linking bar. The man jerked away in agony.
“He sure don’t like you none,” the policeman who was searching him said to Paul.
“I said there’s an explanation.”
“There always is. Never made a bust yet when the guy admitted to being an addict.”
Paul’s vision began to clear, as his hands were swept behind him and cuffed: it hurt his shoulders and upper arms.
“Let’s go and hear all about it,” said the drug squad officer, shoving Paul towards the door. There were more detectives in the bar and two uniformed men at the door, preventing any escape. As Paul went by, the barman glared at him sullenly. He was put into a different car from the Puerto Rican. It was difficult to sit, manacled the way he was, and the pain increased. He had to perch forward on the edge of the seat.
“What’s the time?” he asked the man next to him.
“We got all the time in the world,” said the man.
“Please,” said Paul. “What’s the time?”
“Nine-thirty,” said the detective. “And if you got an appointment, you just missed it.”
Two hours, calculated Paul. He closed his eyes against the despair. Would she have become unconscious by now? Or been driven berserk by the withdrawal pains, crashing and falling around the apartment? There was no point in trying to argue in the car, he realized. Speed was all that mattered and it would be faster to wait until the precinct house, where he could see the sergeant or lieutenant or the captain in charge.
It was a dirty, much-used, institutionalized sort of a building: a tired anthill. Paul was jostled straight past the station sergeant, up a broad flight of stairs to the first floor and then along to the drugs room. It was an open area of several desks, with an arrest cage in one corner. Leading off it were two doors, which he assumed opened into offices occupied by senior officers. Both were ajar and the offices were empty. The Puerto Rican called Arnold was already there, twisting and jerking against the men who held him.
“Put him in the cage, for Christ’s sake,” said the man in charge of Paul.
Arnold swung against the bars, as soon as he was thrust into the cell. “This is entrapment, motherfuckers. And you know it. This is a frame, and by this time tomorrow I’ll have writs out against every one of you.”
All the detectives studiously ignored the drug pusher, knowing it would increase his fury. It did. He pulled back and forth against the bars, screaming obscenities and threats. One detective unstrapped his gun from the waist holster and brought the butt against the man’s fingers, sending him writhing back against the wall.
“Assault,” hissed Arnold, his face tight against the pain. “Now I’ll get you for assault too, mother.”
