Blackout, page 22
So Boyle dies, and somebody else steps into the frame and makes more demands. You killed Lee Boyle, Lieutenant, and now the price has just gone up.
This turmoil. This being nailed to a cross. He found himself imagining Xeroxes of that damning photograph all over the place, falling into God knows whose hands, and multiplying until everyone in the city had a copy.
Eve senses something isn’t right, he thought. He could see the way she searched when she looked into his eyes. Lovely generous Eve – she was toting some of Samsa’s burden without knowing what it was.
That’s an awful lot of cash to carry around, Greg, Rougier had said.
But Boyle might have demanded more. Tell yourself you’re getting off lucky. Of course, Boyle might be greedy, come back again. Confirmed dopers were notoriously twisted.
You’d have the print, the copy, the negatives. Even so, how could you predict anything in this strange inverted world? This deal with Boyle was flimsy, he knew that. But he’d bought his ticket and he was boarding the flight, even if he didn’t know the final destination.
He turned a corner and walked a few more blocks until he came to a pedestrian precinct, cobblestones and Victorian lamps and expensive little shops. He stepped inside a vegetarian restaurant called the Bounteous Planet. The room, ferny and airy, skylights everywhere, was empty. He sat at a table and ordered coffee from a young waitress wearing heavy-framed glasses that added fifteen years to her face.
He sipped the coffee, his hand a little unsteady. He’d been sleeping badly, a few hours at most. Dreamless sleep, and yet he always woke with the feeling he’d just dreamed something dire. He looked at his bandaged hand, the cotton slightly pink. He remembered smashing his fist into the glass case and the snake rearing up, tongue flashing, eyes resolute.
Boyle entered the room carrying a manila envelope. He crossed the floor in that easy loping walk of his and pulled up a chair at Samsa’s table. He had well-muscled arms, Samsa noticed. His body was in good shape, no suggestion of flab.
‘How’s the hand?’ Boyle asked.
‘Skip the pleasantries,’ Samsa said.
‘You might have severed an artery,’ Boyle said.
Sometimes I wish I had, Samsa thought. Sometimes I wish I’d died in that field.
‘Just give me the envelope, Boyle.’
‘There’s a way of doing these things. You get the envelope after I get the cash. It’s not that I don’t trust you, you understand.’
‘But I’m supposed to trust you? Is that how it works?’
‘That’s the situation,’ Boyle said. He opened a pack of cigarettes and lit one, despite the No Smoking signs. He flapped a hand to waft smoke away. ‘This bothering you, Samsa? Say the word and I’ll stub it out.’
‘Smoke all you want. You might just get lung cancer one day and die in sheer fucking agony.’
‘It’s a chance I take,’ Boyle said. ‘We live in a diabolical age where all our sweet little pleasures contain a kernel of danger. Foods have toxic additives, tobacco’s bad for you, booze fucks up your liver. And sex is taboo if you don’t take care.’
Samsa looked into Boyle’s blue eyes and thought they were just a little too bright, the pupils dilated. The way he spoke was a shade on the rapid side. Speed would ravage his good looks in a few years. He was already showing slight signs of mileage.
Samsa took the envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table.
Boyle picked it up, glanced inside. ‘I’m not going to count it,’ he said. ‘See how I trust you, Lieutenant?’ He shoved the envelope in a back pocket of his pants, and Samsa, with a sensation of sinking through tar, thought about Darcy, her college money, her future. His own savings also. Gone in a flash. Gone inside this creep’s pocket.
Boyle placed his manila envelope on the table. Samsa didn’t hesitate to open it. He saw the print, the creased Xerox, and a negative he held up to the light to make certain.
‘You’ll burn them, I guess,’ Boyle said.
‘What I do with them is my own fucking business, Boyle. I paid for them.’
‘Tetchy.’
Samsa said, ‘Don’t cross my path again. You understand that.’
‘We agreed that already,’ Boyle said. He crushed out his cigarette in Samsa’s saucer.
Samsa pushed his chair back from the table. ‘One tiny thing intrigues me about you, Boyle. I understand you’re from a wealthy family. Daddy’s a hotshot capitalist.’
‘I have that misfortune.’
‘You started out with some terrific advantages, didn’t you? So where did you foul up?’
‘Who gives a shit. Here I am. As is.’
‘A convincing argument for abortion, Boyle.’ Samsa stood up. He had to get away. The idea of his cash lying in Boyle’s pocket increasingly riled him.
Boyle reached out, clasped his wrist. ‘Linger a moment, Lieutenant.’
‘We’re finished. Take your hand off me.’
The waitress came to the table with the coffee pot in her hand. ‘Refill?’ she asked.
Boyle switched into sunshine mode, which he could seemingly flick off and on at will. He smiled dazzlingly at the waitress and said, ‘My good friend here is in bad need of one. Be a sweetheart and pour me a cup while you’re at it, honey.’
The waitress fetched fresh cups and filled them, then wandered off.
Boyle said, ‘I just happened to see on TV that you’re in charge of the murder investigation. What a convenient situation. You’re not about to collar yourself, are you?’ He picked up the chunky metal salt shaker from the table, shoved it under Samsa’s nose like a microphone and fired a few quick questions in the manner of an inquisitive broadcaster. ‘Does some patsy get to take the fall, Lieutenant? Is that how it’s going to pan out? Or does Almond get lost in a shuffle of paper? Tell me how you see the situation shaping up. Our viewers would dearly love to know.’
‘Get that goddam shaker out of my face.’
‘One last thing.’
Samsa waited. A pulse beat in his neck. His bandaged hand felt numb. He could see it in Boyle’s expression, something else was coming, it didn’t end with the 25,000 bucks, and he’d known that going in. But what were his choices? The only choice that mattered was one he’d already made in a rain-sodden field, and every move after that was forced.
‘I need one small favor.’
‘Fuck yourself, Boyle. There’s nothing left.’
‘This is a very small thing,’ Boyle said.
‘Boyle, listen good. I’m walking out of here. I’m going back to my office. We had a deal. I’ll regret it to the day I die, but it’s done.’
‘Uh, it’s not that simple, Gregory.’
‘I paid you, for Christ’s sake.’
‘And I’m everlastingly grateful to you.’
‘My heart is overwhelmed. Now I’m leaving.’
‘A killer to catch, huh?’ Boyle asked.
Samsa stepped away from the table.
‘A killer to catch?’ Boyle called out, laughing. ‘Or some stupid fall guy?’
Samsa kept moving, seeking the doorway, the street beyond. He wanted the air out there, no matter how dense and polluted. He stopped when he heard Boyle say, ‘Things got a bit mixed up, Gregory J. And I’m deeply sorry. But the woeful thing is – there’s another print.’
33
Jimmy Plumm looked at the cash piled on his desk. He slid a hundred-dollar bill from under a rubber band and held it to the light. Then he smelled it as one might sniff a cigar. ‘I have to be careful these days, Lee. So many good counterfeiters around. So much sham money.’
‘We’re clear now,’ Boyle said.
‘Even steven.’
‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ Boyle said. ‘Except for a little random violence and the daylight robbery of my Porsche.’
‘Business is very cruel,’ Plumm said. ‘A moment, before you go rushing away, Lee. I’m curious. How did you raise this much money?’
Boyle tapped the side of his nose. ‘No can say.’
‘Daddy come good?’
‘Daddy isn’t involved.’
‘Ah. You have other sources.’ Plumm fingered a strand of long hair away from his shoulder.
Boyle was restless here. He didn’t like Plumm, didn’t like Plumm’s office, the heavy brocade drapes drawn against the sunlight and the sense of being imprisoned in some eternal night. The desk lamp threw out a sickly light the color of a withered lime.
‘Have a drop of port before you go, Lee.’
‘Hate port, sport.’
‘A little vino then? This is a red-letter day, after all. And to think I was worrying about you, imagining Raseci ruining that pleasant face of yours.’
Plumm was already pouring wine from a decanter into two glasses. He pushed one across his desk toward Boyle, who shrugged and picked it up.
Boyle sipped and said, ‘Nice, very nice. I’d be happy to sit here all day, Plumm, but I have places to go. Do I get a receipt?’
‘Very funny, Lee,’ Plumm said. ‘You won’t let me in on the secret of this money?’
‘I’ll carry it to my grave.’
‘Then we’ll let it go like that, shall we?’ Plumm extended his hand and Boyle took it. The handshake was too firm to be friendly. But you couldn’t expect amiable gestures from Plumm. Even a handshake had to establish some kind of supremacy.
Fingers tingling, Boyle walked to the door.
Plumm said, ‘Terrible thing about your girl, by the way.’
‘Terrible is right,’ Boyle said.
‘You aren’t in trouble with the police, are you?’
Boyle shook his head. ‘No sweat.’
‘Let’s hope they catch the culprit.’ Plumm had his glass raised in the air. ‘And let’s hope you’re back in business before too long, shall we?’
‘Let’s hope.’ And Boyle stepped out, took the stairs quickly. He was hyper. He had $15,000 in his pocket and he was free of Jimmy Plumm. $15,000. Great score. And so easy. Samsa had been backed up, manacled, stripped of options and going round in circles like a blind guy without his stick.
Boyle was flush. Money gave him a feeling of invincibility. What to do with all that bread. Out on the sunny street he remembered something Vass kept harping on – ’It’s not too late to change your life, Lee.’ With the bucks bulging in his pocket he could begin a reconstruction of himself, split from this city, do something with his future. Such as? Go back to college, get a degree? In what? Pharmacology, so you could design your own drugs?
The idea of buckling down and getting the brain refocused was a drag. Why work if you don’t have to? When you can get other people to do it for you? Like sad little Almond. Nancy, that cunt, before her. And before Nancy, the French exchange student called Paulette, whose only true exchange had been one of body fluids.
Let’s hope you’re back in business before too long, shall we?
Yeah, let’s.
Let’s put our mind to work on that one.
He reached the Taurus, parked in the same alley where his Porsche had been vandalized. He got in, spread a little speed on the back of his hand, snorted – up up and away. His stash was practically gone. But he wasn’t fazed. Nosiree.
He drove out of the alley, air-conditioner blasting. He headed for the freeway. He turned on the radio, found a Bach cello suite on a classical channel, sweet and deep and melancholic. This fondness for classical music was the solitary debt he owed Hugh, who had thousands of albums he played endlessly, and Boyle in his childhood had developed a liking for it. Which was about the only aspect of his youth Hugh had approved of, albeit grudgingly. Monique, of course, she went off to learn the violin at Hugh’s insistence, despite having a tin ear and an aphid’s brain.
His mind was fizzing. He came off the freeway, approached a stop sign, slowed. This was familiar territory. This was where he wanted to be.
He hung a right, parked under a tree, left the engine running. He was hot. He adjusted the flow of cooled air directly into his face.
There she is.
He saw her step out of a VW convertible a hundred yards away. He watched the guy behind the wheel skip lightly over to the passenger door and follow her up the drive. She turned to say something to him, and the guy reached for her hand and simultaneously thrust his head forward, obviously expecting a kiss, but it didn’t come.
Instead she moved toward the porch. The kid, filled with youth’s mighty persistence, went after her, caught her by the arm and swung her round to face him and she pulled away. She said something – he saw her lips move but couldn’t read her words – and then she entered the house, running fingers through her brown hair as the door closed. Boyle thought he detected a certain weariness in her movements, the way her shoulders slumped.
A boyfriend? Or maybe this kid with the shiny black hair and model looks was just making a play for her, only he wasn’t getting very far. The relationship, whatever it might be, had obviously hit some snags, and the young guy was applying pressure. The kid lingered on the shadowy porch a few seconds. Boyle could hear him call out quite distinctly, ‘I love you, Darcy.’
She didn’t open the door.
The kid charged down the steps and jumped back in his car. I love you Darcy. So that was the kid’s pitch. I love you and my hidden agenda is I want inside your pants. And Darcy – was she holding out?
Well well. Young virgins might have visions of delight.
Boyle watched the VW swing in a loop and stream past him. He slipped the Ford in behind the little convertible and followed it, seeing the cocky way the young guy drove, one hand loosely on the wheel, the other dangling over the side and tapping the panel. Look at me, I’m young and horny and driving this neat little auto, and the breeze is doing these real nifty things to my hair.
Boyle’s mood was darkening swiftly. I don’t like you. Not even a little. I don’t want you getting in Darcy’s pants, buckaroo.
He followed the VW several miles. The young guy turned the car into an alley behind a row of houses. He parked, ran a comb through his hair, checked his face in the mirror and then got out, hitching up his jeans with a swiveling little motion of his hips.
Mr Cool. God’s gift. You think.
He pushed open an iron gate in a fence and entered a backyard.
Boyle parked the Taurus close to the mouth of the alley, exited the car, strolled to the gate. The yard led directly to the rear of a two-storey house. Boyle saw the kid stand outside a pair of sliding glass doors. He was waiting for something, tapping one foot, whistling, cheeks puffed. He just exudes confidence, Boyle thought. He’s young, the world at his feet. Fucking fool. Milk behind his ears.
The glass doors opened, a girl appeared. She had yellow hair piled high on her head and wore a gray sleeveless T-shirt, cut-off Levis and red and blue starred boots that went halfway up her calves. She had big tits and her mouth was a slash of violet lipstick. Boyle, concealed by shrubbery, saw the girl draw the kid inside and slide the doors shut with a deft movement of her foot.
This is interesting.
First he drops off the lovely Nightingale, then he comes here to visit this chick who looks like she’s just failed an audition for lead vocalist in a country band.
Boyle pushed the gate, entered the yard and made his way through the foliage to the back of the house. He edged along against the wall until he was within a few inches of the glass doors. A quick peek was all he wanted. A look inside.
So let’s do it.
What’s this?
The kid, his jeans rolled down to his ankles, ass bare, was ferociously humping the girl on the floor. She had her legs upraised on either side of him, and her cut-offs had been discarded and her sleeveless T-shirt pushed up around her neck. She was still wearing the tacky boots. They were going at each other like rutting skunks, the kid pumping away, the girl clutching him, her mouth wide open.
This young asswipe was playing goddam games with Darcy. He had his flash blonde cutey he was banging on the side. He dropped Darcy off after school and came straight here to get laid, which could mean he wasn’t scoring with Darcy, who was the kind of girl you’d gladly introduce to your parents.
The bimbo was a dark secret stashed on the side, a girl you’d never take home to Mom and Dad in a hundred years.
Boyle didn’t like this at all. It offended him deeply. He sometimes convinced himself into thinking he had a tiny pocket of decency left, and it was this fictive moral sense, exaggerated by chemicals, that was outraged by the kid’s duplicity. Fizz fizz.
The greaseball cheapened Darcy. It was a goddam insult. And Boyle was filled with a hot flood tide of anger as he stood outside the doors and watched this savage coupling on the floor and listened to the first orgasmic sounds emerge.
He clenched and unclenched his hands time and again. Sweat poured down his face.
Darcy betrayed, he thought. By this creep. This cretin.
He’d open the glass doors and go inside and just do something about this whole goddam situation. But not now, he had an appointment to keep, one he didn’t want to be late for.
With reluctance he had trouble overcoming, he turned and went back to his car, thinking of the treachery done to Darcy, and picturing her with her hair colored black and her mouth lipsticked and maybe some shadow under her eyes. Yeah.
34
Samsa approached the hatch and asked Sergeant Docherty for the key. Docherty slid it across the surface of the counter and Samsa picked it up, closing his fingers around it. He looked along the corridor at the locked door. It was one thing to give Boyle your own money – an act that filled him with resentment so deep he couldn’t begin to measure it – but this was something else.
There’s another print –
Why had he imagined that Boyle would just take the money and cheerfully crawl away under a rock anyhow? Fear of exposure. Naïve optimism. At bottom, some huge blind primal need to trust, because he hoped with all his heart Boyle would keep his side of the deal.
And that, dear Christ, was a monumental stupidity, and he cursed himself for believing it could ever have been otherwise.
