Overdose (5 page)

Somebody knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Gorton said.

Kelly entered.

“We found the car,” he said laconically.

“Where?”

“Las Cruces. It’s less than an hour’s drive from the border.”

“I know. That’s it. They can kiss their money goodbye. He must be already in Juarez, maybe even farther away.”

“Who knows,” said Kelly. “A rented car with four men . . . They may get stopped at the border.”

“Of course,” Gorton muttered. “Of course.”

Once he was alone in the office again he turned back to the window. The same wall, the same pieces of newspaper, flying lazily up and down in endless circles.

That’s it. The case of the
‘Robbery of the Decade’ is over on the same day it began. It can be closed safely at any moment now. They will of course look for Borovsky, describe him in numerous communications and discuss his potential whereabouts with Mexican authorities. But finding him now is extremely unlikely. And even if he is captured, that would not help return the money to the bank. The money is gone for good.

He would know how to spend it, how to hide it, how to make it untraceable. There’s a lot of things he knows now. A lot. He knows how to rob a bank. He knows how to get away. He speaks Spanish. He can hit the bull’s eye from a dozen different weapons. He even knows how to skydive.

Seriously, why did he have to spend all that time at the gun range? And that parachute jump. Well, it’s a no-brainer. A childhood dream or a relatively new wish . . . Running away with a load of money from the woman with the grim smile is a more or less new wish. But jumping off a plane with a parachute—and having the whole world to yourself as you free fall through the clear blue sky—that seems more like a childhood dream. And all you need is just one jump. And what boy doesn’t dream about shooting like a real cowboy—hitting the bull’s eye every time and being equally comfortable with every kind of handgun and rifle and whatever else they may need to shoot when facing the bad guys. Well, maybe not every boy dreams about it, but enough of them do. But only very few actually get to do it. Only those who are capable of living their life according to a simple principle: every decision leads to an action.

The mobile phone vibrated. Gorton glanced askance at the number and looked away. Later. Later . . . The phone vibrated for a few long seconds, then gave up and calmed down. Instead, the desk phone began ringing angrily. Gorton put his hand on the receiver without picking up. He kept looking at the phone, but didn’t see the detested number any longer. A different picture
flashed before his eyes . . .

A straight gr
ay road under the scorching sun. Mountains on the horizon. A car speeding along the highway. In the driver’s seat—a man in his mid-forties. His head is balding and his posture bears signs of many years of slouching in front a computer. But his eyes behind the sunglasses are decisive and look straight ahead. Until just recently he was spending his days going to the job he could no longer stand, coming back to an indifferent woman who after nearly twenty-five years of marriage still didn’t know him, and gathering a collection in which he had lost interest a long time ago.

Now he is an independent, confident man, riding toward his new life. Whatever this new life
may turn out to be—even it turns out to be rough and painful—it would be what
he
wanted. Unlike that dull existence that he had been calling a life for years. And all this is because now his every decision is followed by an action. Because for four months he has been taking a double dose of
Arbidium XT,
which as of yet is not available in any pharmacy even with a prescription.

Gorton slowly raised the receiver to his ear and just as slowly dialed the number. He didn’t even have to look it up on the blue pen.

This time it was Dr. Moore who picked up the phone.

“Lieutenant, if you try calling me once again, I will file a formal complaint. I hope the police takes cases of overstepping authority seriously.”

“This is the last time,” said Gorton. “At least today. I promise. And this is a very quick question. You still have some
Arbidium
left, correct?”

“Of course.”

“I’m going to send one of my guys over to your place. Please give him the same ten-month dose you gave to Borovsky. We need it as material evidence.”

“I see,” Dr. Moore replied. “Material evidence. Certainly. Wouldn’t a few pills suffice?”

“No,” Gorton said firmly. “The dose of
Arbidium
must be exactly the same as the one you gave to Borovsky. This is important.”

“I understand,” said Dr. Moore. “But now I’m confused.”

“Why?”

“Do you need
Arbidium
or the stuff Borovsky was taking?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Dr. Moore sounded surprised. “I told you, Borovsky was in a control group. You know what a placebo is, right? He’s never touched real
Arbidium
. All he was getting were lactose pills. Sugar. So which one do you want me to send over with your man? Hello? Lieutenant? Lieutenant? . . .”

When Norm, a Boston businessman on a trip to Tokyo, gets into a random bar conversation with a stranger, all he expects to get out of it are some tips on Japanese etiquette. Instead, he quickly finds himself in an odd discussion about masks he wears every day, midlife crisis and happiness. As their conversation gets stranger and stranger, Norm starts questioning everything he thought he knew about himself -- and about what it means to be happy.

Ray N. Kuili

I
t takes only a couple of sentences to describe the technique of tightrope walking. It takes years to master it. But when you take your first confident step onto that rope pulled tight as a guitar string, and realize that you are still standing, you know that nothing in the world can stop you from taking the next one.

“
Arigato Gozaimasu
,” said the waiter.

He bowed respectfully and walked away.

I studied the bill. The total was impressive—it was even higher than I had been expecting. Still, it was completely befitting the place. What else could you expect in a screamingly posh bar on the top floor of a Hyatt hotel in the middle of Tokyo? Where a single night costs you almost as much as your airfare from Boston. Where the night view behind tall windows brings to mind the neon-covered futuristic skyscrapers of the city in
Blade Runner
. The city of surreal streets that Rick Deckard keeps prowling in search of the dangerous fugitive. Rick Deckard, that always gloomy, middle-aged man who in reality is searching for himself.

But who these days remembers that decades-old movie? Plus, searching for yourself is a risky business. Who knows what you might find if you search long enough . . .

“First time in Japan?”

The question had the air of a statement. I turned and found a man at the next table looking straight at me with a nearly invisible smile. I nodded.

“Just arrived. Apparently it shows. Did I do something wrong?”

The man’s smile became more pronounced.

“Everything. But they have fairly low expectations for foreigners in this place.”

“How nice of them. So what did I do?”

“Well, for example, you handled the bill incorrectly. The waiter handed it to you with both hands. You accepted it with a single hand and without paying much attention.”

“Did I offend him?”

“No. You were just impolite. But it’s all right. You’re a
gaijin
, after all. As long as you keep your feet off the table, you’re good.”

“I’m what?”

“A
gaijin.
A foreigner.”

I nodded again, this time indicating that I had found the information useful. I knew his type. He had probably spent a few months in Japan and now was having a great time dropping local words in front of visitors. A cheap but effective way to assert oneself.

“That’s too bad,” I said. “I didn’t realize I was already breaking rules without trying. I was told that in Japan even foreigners are better off if they know something about local etiquette, but honestly I didn’t expect it to be that different.”

“You were told right,” he approved. “A business trip?”

“Yes.”

“Then indeed you would be better off if you knew a thing or two. People here take you more seriously if you show some effort.”

“I was short on time,” I said, trying to make out his face in the shadow. “Someone else was supposed to fly out next month. But our partners threw an unexpected tantrum, so here I am. I hardly had time to pack, let alone study the local etiquette.”

Dim yellowish light was shining on his face from the overhead lamp, leaving his eyes in the shadow.

“Yes,” he agreed. “We’re always short on time, aren’t we? You know, if you’d like, I could teach you the basics.”

The unexpected proposal sounded rather appealing, but I was hesitant to accept it. I had never been a big fan of making random acquaintances, especially those that smelled of insistent altruism. But there was that meeting next morning and even without his comments I knew that my knowledge of Japanese culture was limited to samurai, sushi and hara-kiri. For the tenth time I thought that going on this trip had been a mistake. They should have picked someone else. Someone who at least had been to Japan. Then, for the tenth time, I told myself that perhaps that was exactly
the reason they had picked me. Some people’s failures are inexpensive.

My neighbor waited patiently.

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble,” I said, finally.

“No trouble at all,” he assured me, getting up.

“Tom,” he introduced himself, joining me at the table. “
Sumimasen
.”

For a moment I thought it was his last name, but then I realized that he had simply called the waiter who was
just passing by our table.

While Tom was conversing with the waiter in Japanese (to my unsophisticated ear his pronunciation sounded very fluent and accent-free), I studied his face. He was, or at least looked to be, in his early forties. His slightly angular Caucasian face, with a prominent jaw and a well-shaped chin, seemed very fresh, as if he had just taken a shower and shaved after a relaxing, long sleep. He appeared completely at ease with everything—the odd-sounding
foreign words that he pronounced so effortlessly, the posh, laid-back ambiance in the bar, and the dazzling lights shining above the streets outside the enormous windows. His immaculate fitted shirt was accentuated by a watch that shone dimly on his wrist every time he made a gesture. It seemed as if that entire place had been built just as the backdrop for his effortless presence.

“Sorry about that,” he said, finally letting the waiter go. “I didn’t want us to have to wait for him later. They get rather busy around this time. As I was saying, I’m Tom. And you are?”