Any Minute Now (13 page)

“I don't know,” he answered. “I have nothing to say.”

“I hauled a man halfway through a window tonight.”

“So I heard.”

“News travels fast in your neck of the woods.”

“The jungle drums were going to beat the band.”

Her eyes opened, and at the same instant she gave him a curious smile, one he'd never seen before except maybe, once, on a dolphin.

“It's been a long time since you sat there.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“We're not starting again, Whit.” It wasn't a question.

“I know.”

“I can't do it.” Her eyes never left his. “I won't.”

“I know that, too.”

“Then why are you here?”

He stretched out his legs, crossed one ankle over the other. “Safe harbor.”

For a long time, Charlie watched him, then she closed her eyes. Soon enough she was fast asleep, the curious smile still on her lips. Whitman had just closed his eyes when his mobile vibrated. It was time to go. For an instant, he considered staying. The truth was he didn't want to leave Charlie, did not want to leave this haven, damaged though it was, the past that enclosed them both.

Then he rose, silent as an owl. The company car was waiting downstairs.

*   *   *

“So, kitten, you're not a reporter, and if you're a PI, I'm Beyoncé,” Sydny said. “So, come on now, who are you really and why are you so interested in Adam?”

Julie sighed. “The girl Adam was dreaming of that night? That's me.” She paused, keeping her gaze steady. It was crucial now that Sydny believe this final lie, which was why she was going to leaven the falsehood with grains of the truth. And in so doing, she thought, maybe I'll get something out of this, too. “His name isn't Adam, by the way. It's Greg, but most people call him Whit.”

“Makes no difference to me what his name is.” Sydny had stopped drinking. “But go on.”

Julie sighed again. “The truth is … well…” Her faltering was entirely real. “I'm not so good in bed, and when I learned about you, I thought, Okay, maybe she'll be able to help me.”

“Help you with him.”

“Yes.”

“In bed.”

“Right.”

Sydny shook her head. “I don't know whether to laugh or cry.”

Julie gave her a shy smile. “I guess either would be appropriate.”

“Poor kitten.”

Sydny looked like she meant it, which helped Julie pluck up her courage for her next question. “About orgasms…”

Sydny cocked her head. “What about 'em?” Then she held up a hand. “No, for Christ's sake, don't tell me. You've never had one.”

“I don't think so, no.”

“You don't
think
so? Kitten, if you'd had one I one thousand percent guarantee you'd know it. Plus which, you wouldn't want anything else when you fucked Adam or Greg or Whit, or whatever his name is.”

Julie felt flushed with shame. “Then I guess I haven't.”

“Poor kitten.”

“What do I do? About Greg, I mean.”

“It's you you have to work on, kitten, not Greg.” Sydny stood up. “Now I have to get back to work.”

Julie, heart thundering in her breast, stood up, too. “I just need a little more info—”

“About Greg, uh uh.” Sydny gave her an arched eyebrow. “Pay the man, kitten.”

Julie did as requested, then followed the pole dancer out the door. The street was cold and dark, inhospitable after the café and the club. Julie gave an involuntary shiver.

Sydny smiled a foxlike smile as she stood in front of her. “Okay, you're not a reporter, you're not a PI, and if you've never had an orgasm you sure aren't Greg's new squeeze, so now what's the deal?”

“I walked out, you know. I stood on the street outside the club for five or ten minutes before I went back inside.”

As if she were a mesmerist, Sydny's eyes locked with hers. “You really are a poor kitten. We'll have to cure you of that.”

“How d'you mean?”

The two women, face to face, were standing close enough to inhale each other's breath. Julie, terrified, had an urge to turn and run. At the same time, she felt magnetized to this spot, unable either to retreat or to advance. What on earth is happening to me? she asked herself. Her heart was fluttering in her chest like a frightened bird.

“I mean,” Sydny said now, “I see more in you than you see in yourself.” Her eyes seemed as big as lanterns, and as bright. “Someone told you to come here, to ask questions about Adam or Greg or Whit. Someone's interested in him.”

Julie seemed to be in a kind of trance. “Wha—” She had to clear her throat of an unknown emotion. “What?”

“Who sent you here, Julie?”

“A man.”

“Of course, a man. And you obeyed.”

“He's … he's my boss.”

“Yes, but you're under his thumb.”

“Of course! I—”

“Stop. There are ways, Julie. If you stop being afraid. If you're brave enough to free the strength inside you.”

“I don't understand.”

“That's why you went back inside.” Sydny leaned forward suddenly, and her lips brushed Julie's. The kiss, soft and knowing, lasted only an instant, but Julie's lips tingled for hours after. She stood, transfixed, the night seemingly on fire. With Sydny watching her, a gentle smile curving her lips, her heart expanded. It was as if she finally recognized the true nature of the person living inside her own skin.

 

12

At three a.m. precisely, Paulus Lindstrom contacted Valerie in the agreed upon manner. That is, he used a burner phone she had given him, punching in a specific number. He made the call out in the street. He did not much care for being on the streets at three in the morning, not because he was afraid of who might leap out of the shadows, but because it reminded him of his hellish teenage years.

In those days, his parents had no clue as to his condition. Unable to sleep, he would roam the streets at night, looking for what he could not say. But one cold, snowy winter's night as he stood huddled on a street corner unable to decide which way to turn, a limousine pulled up, one smoked glass window rolled down. Thinking the person inside was going to ask for directions, he stepped off the curb and bent to the window. A man handed him a five-dollar bill and said, “Go get yourself something hot to eat.” He had stood in the gutter, paralyzed by a shocked humiliation as the window closed and the limo drove off.

“Yes?” Valerie said in his ear, startling him.

“Something's happened.”

“I assume it's significant.” Her voice was still sloughing off the fur of sleep.

“I was made uncomfortable by it.” Lindstrom was still thinking of that five-dollar bill and all it implied. He'd thrown it in a trash can as he'd hurried home through the thickening snow, tears overspilling his eyes.

“Then you'd better tell me.” But before he had a chance to utter another word, she said, “Are you walking? Keep walking. And tell me immediately if you see anyone around.”

Lindstrom craned his neck. He imagined snowflakes caking his eyelashes. “There's no one.”

“Okay, now step into a doorway and don't move. Do you see a vehicle slowing or stopping?”

“No,” Lindstrom said. “Listen, I'm getting more and more uncomfortable.”

Valerie hesitated for a moment. “Do you want to come over here?”

“I do,” Lindstrom said in a very small voice.

“Okay. Give me your location.” When he did, she said. “Just stay there. I'll have a car to you in—hold on … fifteen minutes. It would be sooner, but we need to make sure the area is sanitized before we come near you.”

“Sanitized?”

“Swept and, if need be, cleaned of watchers,” Valerie said with the patience of Job.

Lindstrom looked around wildly, as if he had been thrust into a horror film. “Now you're frightening me.”

“I don't meant to, Paulus, but these are frightening times. Mobius has made it so.”

*   *   *

The moment Valerie severed her connection with Lindstrom, she removed another mobile from the drawer of her bedside table, unlocked it with a passcode, and punched in a speed dial number. She spoke in low, urgent tones to the man who answered, giving him the particulars of where Lindstrom was and the parameters of the circumstances he had found himself in.

Then she called Preach.

“There is no reason to worry,” he said in his soft Louisiana drawl.

“But he's being threatened by Luther St. Vincent, the head of NSA's Directorate N.”

“Again, there's no cause for concern. I am familiar with Luther.”

Valeria was used to this. Preach seemed familiar with virtually everyone; his personal network seemed endless.

“You made the right move, as always,” Preach continued. “The situation will take care of itself.”

“I can never understand why you're so sure everything will always go our way.”

Preach laughed, and somehow, deep down in the base of her brain, she was wholly reassured.

*   *   *

When Preach's armed driver delivered Lindstrom to her front door, Valerie had a large hot toddy waiting for him. He loved hot toddies even on warm nights. He was always cold, he'd told her.

“Do you know why Luther St. Vincent was so insistent about Mobius?” Valerie said.

Lindstrom shook his head, miserable.

“And up until now you had no inkling of either his interest or his involvement?”

“No. Omar Hemingway had been in charge of Mobius from the get-go.”

They were sitting together on her sofa. All the lights were on, another thing he liked. He was totally averse to darkness or shadows in a house.

Lindstrom was holding the mug with both hands, staring into it.

“Did you give it to him?”

Lindstrom looked up, startled. “What?”

Valerie sighed inwardly. “The update on Mobius.”

“I didn't want to; he scares me. But I did.”

“I think he scares everyone, Paulus.”

Lindstrom's head sank down onto his shoulders, like a startled turtle withdrawing into its shell. “Even so,” he said mournfully.

Clearly, St. Vincent had upset Lindstrom, frightened him, badly. If it had been anyone else, Valerie would have given him a reassuring pat on the knee, but she knew Lindstrom wouldn't appreciate that.

He looked at her from under heavy brows. “I don't want to go back to my apartment.”

“I don't blame you.” She smiled with the supernatural reassurance Preach had given her. “You'll stay here.”

“Really?”

He was such a little child. “You can bunk right here on the sofa; there's plenty of room.” She rose. “I'll get you bedclothes.” She was also going to update Preach, although he might already know; he was uncanny that way. She pointed. “The bathroom's right down the hall. There's a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet and I'll put out a set of towels for you.”

As she was about to turn away, he said, “Valerie?”

“Yes, Paulus.”

“I just wanted to say…”

“Yes?”

He smiled up at her shyly. “I like your apartment.”

*   *   *

They stood in moonlight, like the best of friends; many of the streetlights were out, a testament to the District's ongoing fiscal crisis. The asphalt was opalescent from the rain and the occasional oil slick. The city had grown quiet, as if the last of the rain had swept all sounds away along with the dust, grime, and grit that had been in the air. Only a distant hum, as of a colossal generator, came to them, like a rumor from some hidden underworld.

Sydny gestured to a car that had appeared out of the night, and had now pulled up to the curb, its engine idling. “Someone is waiting for you.”

Julie looked at the car: it was black and it appeared armored. For an instant her heart lurched in her chest. Had Hemingway come here? At once, her eyes lowered; she felt engulfed in shame.

Sydny stood very close to her. “Don't do that, kitten. Shame is bad for your health.” She tapped the side of Julie's head. “You know, here, where things get fucked up easily.”

“Who's in the car?”

“A friend I phoned. All he wants is to talk.”

Julie stared into Sydny's beautiful, cat-like face.

“Listen, kitten, everything is in your hands. If you don't want to get into the car you can simply walk home.”

For some reason she could not explain, she trusted this woman. “I don't think I want to do that.” She took a step toward the car, then turned back. “Why do you do what you do?” she asked. “Is it out of necessity?”

“You mean is it the only thing I can make money at?” Sydny laughed. “I have a degree from Georgetown. Poli-sci, the theory and practice of politics.” She arched an eyebrow. “In this town, I'm making the best use of my degree.” She squeezed Julie's hand. “And there's something else. Something important, vital even. I like it, kitten, and in life you have to do what you like, otherwise your life is shit. I love being onstage. I love showing off my body. I love the sheen my skin gets when I work the pole; it's the same sheen I get during sex. But most of all I like the control I have over the men watching me. I can see what's in their eyes. They fantasize about me in the dark, and after they go home. They fuck me in their minds. I can't tell you how great that feeling is. It's like, I don't know, like how I imagine having wings would be, soaring up into the clouds.”

A pair of worry lines appeared between Julie's eyes. “But what about what happens, in, you know, Heaven?”

“What, the lap dances? They don't mean anything. It's acting 101, kitten, nothing more.”

“But there are exceptions.”