Afterburn (57 page)

"So I guess that was why I put the money in the car. I wanted my father to find those boxes and not have to worry. It was stupid, Charlie, it was so incredibly stupid. I loved him so much, you know? I just wanted to—I don't know, I wanted—"

"Redemption," Charlie said, in a voice far from himself. "You wanted redemption." He was tired now, but he asked, "I don't understand why you didn't just head down to Florida as soon as you got out of prison."

"Because I don't want my mother caught in this." She lit a new cigarette. "I think Tony got me out of prison, Charlie. My sentence wasn't over yet. I think he did something with the police, paid somebody, and they just released me."

"He knows you took the money."

She nodded. "I have to assume that."

"What does Tony want now, the money or revenge?"

"Probably the money," she answered.

"Could you retrieve it and give it back?"

She didn't answer him directly but instead went to her purse and pulled out a picture. "This is what they did last week, that first night we were together. This is what was waiting for me when I went home, Charlie."

He looked at the Polaroid. A man holding the wet stump of his arm, T-shirt spattered with what looked like blood. "Who is that?"

"That's Rick."

Leave, he told himself. "Where's he now?"

"I don't know . . . I doubt they killed him, though."

Charlie studied the photograph, then set it aside. I need sleep, he thought. I'll deal with all this in the morning, figure out what to do next. They were safe in the hotel. He picked up the phone and requested a 6:45 wake-up. She got under the blankets. He rolled onto his side behind her. Ellie's sleeping alone, he thought sadly. Alone in her sleeping-pill dreams.

"Been a long time since I spent the night with a man," Christina murmured. "It's nice."

"You feel safe?" he asked softly.

She gathered his hand toward herself. "Starting to."

AWAKE, RUNNING ON CHINA TIME,
light melting in through the window, clock said 6:15. He eased out of bed, wanting to leave now yet afraid to break the spell and rush back into his life. Teknetrix, Ellie. Back felt stiff. Needed the smelly tea. He looked at his feet—bony, chopped up on one side, cadaverous veins. He felt exhausted—sleepy, mouth sour—yet oddly alive. Get yourself into the game, Charlie. He drifted through the room. She looked small and vulnerable in the bed. He turned on the television, hitting the mute button, flashed through thirty channels, saw Dan Marino throw a touchdown pass. Still kind of missed Don Shula. He turned it off and stared at her cigarette butts. Goddammit, Charlie, he told himself, you're fifty-eight years old, you spent the night with a woman who just got out of prison, who lied to you . . .

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 worth 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.