The Four-Night Run (12 page)

“Your move?”

“My move. You know.” He did a little shuffle. “My move.”

“Oh, that move.”

“But I guess I ought to thank you anyway. Thanks for . . .”

“For saving your ass?”

“Yeah, for that.”

“Blixen asked me to look after you.”

“You did the old woman proud.”

“For some reason she trusts you.”

“Maybe she should trust a razor.”

“Wait a second,” said the Nightingale, and then she went over to the huge man on the ground, still rolling, still shouting in pain. She leaned over him, put her hand gently on his forehead, and spoke to him softly. His howls quieted, and she spoke to him some more, and he listened without saying a word, and then she leaned her ear close to his mouth.

“You wanted to know who’s looking for you?” she said when she returned. “Everyone. And not just because you’re on the front page of the paper. The order’s been passed that anyone with any word of where you are should go to Dirty Dirk’s.”

“Whose order?”

“He didn’t know.”

“Did Caleb Breest give it?”

“He didn’t know. But there’s money behind it. Big money.”

“We have to get out of here before the reinforcements come,” said Scrbacek. “Or worse, before Ed steps out the back of his diner.”

“Where are you headed?”

He thought for a moment, wiping more blood from the bridge of his nose. “Remember what the Contessa said, about finding the answers in my past, my present, my future?”

“I remember.”

“Maybe I’ll start at the beginning.”

“So, which way’s that?” she said, looking around.

The night sky was changing, a grayness reaching its fingers menacingly across the black. He faced the coming dawn and pointed to his left.

“That way.”

He walked along one street and then over to another and kept walking, always keeping the dawn to his right, ignoring the sirens that rose behind him. The Nightingale was walking with him, he was sure, but a hundred yards on, when he asked where she had learned to fight like that and turned around for an answer, she was gone, vanished into the thinning night. He looked along the street, swept his gaze over the rooftops, saw nothing. He rubbed more blood from the bridge of his nose and continued on his way, still hunted, still without refuge, still with less than a clue.

But no longer without hope.

THIRD NIGHT

20

T
RENT
F
ALLOW
, PI

See him there, Trent Fallow, PI, dark stringy hair, five-day growth of beard, Buddy Holly glasses, mouth an open O through which he breathes, constantly, gulping in the liters of oxygen needed to keep his great bulk fervidly metabolizing. He is obese, Trent Fallow, PI, morbidly so, he hasn’t been able to appreciate the woof of his dick for decades, but don’t blame him—he’s just big-boned.

Trent Fallow, PI, wears tentlike jeans, cinched at his equatorial waist, and a scabrous checked sport coat over T-shirts bearing cheap advertising slogans from down-and-out Crapstown joints, picked up on clearance for a buck and a half. And he packs licensed heat, a Colt Detective Special with six .38 cartridges and no safety device, which he harnesses in the gap between the folds of his chest and the loose fat hanging from his arm. One would never consider him quick on the draw—he’s not actually quick at anything—and, in a fair fight, by the time he could lumber into position, excavate the revolver from his slabs of fat, and wrap his pudgy finger around the trigger, a quicker shot with an automatic could have riddled Fallow’s stomach with lead, reloaded, and riddled it some more. In a fair fight, he wouldn’t stand a chance, Trent Fallow, PI, which is why he avoids fair fights.

See him there, Trent Fallow, PI, stepping out of his office to make his way through the streets of Crapstown. His T-shirt today heralds Honest Dan’s Expired Condoms at 69 West Buchanan Street, with a slogan on the back: More Bang for the Buck. It’s noon, but for a guy like Fallow, who prowls for scraps in the night like a hyena, it seems ungodly early, and sleep lays crusty in his blackened eyes. He’d still be in bed nursing his wounds, but he has a job to do, a desperate job on which his very life hinges. He grabs a tabloid from the vendor on the corner.

“How you doing, Frankie?” says Trent Fallow, PI.

“Good, Mr. Fallow. Real good.”

“How’s the wife?”

“Still dead, Mr. Fallow.”

“Attaboy, Frankie. You doing something right.”

He tips Frankie the usual dime and glances at the front of the paper. His bruised and bloody face spasms with nervousness. From the wince at the newspaper and the damaged face, the inevitable assumption rises that the newspaper headlines and the brutal beating he recently suffered are somehow related. He folds the paper quickly, twists his head, flashing worried looks fore and aft, and then steps back to Frankie’s shed.

“Hey, Frankie,” he says, dropping a fiver and a Trent Fallow, PI, business card on a pile of papers, just atop the face of J.D. Scrbacek smiling above the fold on the front page. “Do me a favor.”

“Anything, Mr. Fallow.”

“You see this guy plastered on the front page, you give me a call, all right?”

“Will do, Mr. Fallow.”

“You call me before you call anyone else, you got it? Even before the police. You let me take care of it, and there will be a bonus in it for you.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Fallow.”

Trent Fallow, PI, pulls out more cards from his pocket and places them in a pile beside the scratched change tray. “Pass the word. Anyone finds him and calls me first gets himself a nice bonus. A nice bonus. Okay, Frankie?”

He winks, and Frankie winks back.

“Will do, Mr. Fallow.”

“Good boy, Frankie,” says Trent Fallow, PI, before heading off, not noticing the way Frankie, the fifty-three-year-old newsboy, still mourning the death of his life’s love after a brutal six-month battle with ovarian cancer, stares after him with dark cheeks and narrowed eyes before taking the neat pile of cards and dumping them in the trash can.

Trent Fallow, PI, has himself a killer of a problem, and it isn’t his fault. Ask him, he’ll tell you—it isn’t his fault. It all started at Dirty Dirk’s one night when he was simply minding his own damn business. Dirk’s, where he can’t anymore show his face until the problem is solved. He was at Dirk’s when Joey Torresdale called him over. What was he going to do, say no to Caleb Breest’s right-hand man? Hell, the Lady Baltimore was on the stage, and what he wanted to be doing was to edge his way between the tables and flash his fivers and wait for sweet Baltimore to sashay that firm white ass of hers over to him and squat down in those strappy heels and pucker those sexy lips like she’s got his schlong right there between her teeth while he snaps her thong just enough to stick the bills inside and maybe catch a whiff of her sweet sweaty scent. That’s what he wanted to be doing. But when Joey Torresdale called him over, Trent Fallow, PI, came running as usual.

“Hey, Trent,” said Torresdale, his big putty nose red from too much booze. “I want you to meet my dear friend J.D. Scrbacek. He’s representing Caleb.”

“Hey, good luck on that,” said Trent Fallow. “We need the big guy out and about.”

“J.D. is looking for a PI to work with him on the case. I told him you’re the man.”

“You got that right,” said Fallow. “Anything you want, J.D., you got.” Fallow pulled a card out of his jeans. “Whenever you’re ready to sit down and lay out what you need, give me a call.”

“I will,” said J.D. Scrbacek. “Yes, I will.”

And so he did, that son of a bitch, and now Trent Fallow, PI, is in the big dark deep.

21

T
HE
M
ARINA
D
ISTRICT

J.D. Scrbacek, the object of Trent Fallow’s ire, had slipped unnoticed through the streets of the city while the PI was still snoring in his fetid bed like a fat boar. As the dangerous dawn reached across the whole of the night sky, and a gray light rose as if from the streets themselves, Scrbacek had hunched himself deeper within the turned-up collar of his raincoat and scurried forward as if in a race with the sun.

The landscape was different here than in the heart of Crapstown, the streets better paved, the cars better maintained, the tenements rehabbed into garden apartments and the occasional town house. The windows of the lower levels still were barred, true, but the cast iron was of a higher degree of craftsmanship. And there were no slashes of graffiti here, just flyers tacked onto posts hyping a community rally to protest Diamond’s casino development plan. The trees growing from square plots in the sidewalk were alive, the flowers in the flower boxes had blooms. Coming out of Crapstown to the Marina District on the northern fringe of the city was like emerging into a fresh and fragrant dawn.

To Scrbacek the landscape here was as familiar as an old friend. He had spent his first few years after law school right here, eating in the Portuguese diner patronized by the commercial fishermen who docked their boats in the harbor, shopping in the mom-and-pop grocery, sipping cappuccino in the coffee bar that opened beside the dry cleaner, walking the dog along the still undeveloped coastline, crabbing in the bay.

It was an impossible conglomeration of ruins when they had moved there, buying and rehabbing the house because it was the only way they could afford a place of their own. But they were not alone in their industry. A whole community of pioneers worked to turn the Marina District into something other than a swath of urban blight. And, against all odds, they had succeeded. Scrbacek had always been proud of his part in the rebirth of the Marina District. He looked upon its resurgence as a personal triumph, though he had also been quick enough to leave as soon as he had freed Amber Grace from a death sentence and became a legal eagle earning enough to afford his own building in Casinoland.

But now here he was again. And this was the street on which he had lived. And this was the house.

Scrbacek stood in the shadows and searched the landscape. He had checked out the parked cars one by one, walking carefully past, peering inside to see if there was anyone sitting with a cup of coffee and the remnants of a half dozen donuts waiting for him to pop up at his old haunt. The cars had all been empty. The street was deserted. He stood a moment more and examined the town house across the way. No lights, no movement. In a lower-level window, a poster for an antidevelopment rally had been slipped behind the glass. Still the rabble-rouser. He took a step toward the house when suddenly a door opened beside him. He jumped back into the shadows.

A runner in her long-sleeved T-shirt and gloves, turning away from his position and heading off down the street, ponytail bobbing like a pony’s tail.

The day was blossoming, and so was the danger. When the runner was far enough away, he left the landing, scooted across the street, and stepped up to the front door of his old house. He pressed the button of the bell that had never worked while he had lived there. It still didn’t. He lifted up the knocker, with an exotic face on its handle that looked vaguely like that of the Contessa Romany, and let it drop.

A dog barked, and a long moment later a light appeared through the door’s peephole, died for a few seconds, and appeared again. Then the door opened just enough for the dog to stick his black shiny muzzle through, gulping at Scrbacek’s scent. Through the crack, Scrbacek saw a woman clutching at her robe.

She was beautiful still, with long black hair, high cheekbones, lovely eyes. Older now, tired, but still oh so beautiful. Behind her was a man in jeans and no shirt, with bare feet and dirty blond hair. The woman looked at Scrbacek’s face for a long time without saying a word, then opened the door a bit wider to search the street behind him. Satisfied, apparently, that there was no immediate mortal threat, she opened the door wide enough for the dog, a great black monster, to leap through the opening and jump up to his chest. The dog showed his teeth and then licked Scrbacek’s chin.

“You’re a mess,” said Jenny Ling after she had let him in, closed the door firmly behind him, and slid shut both of the locks.

“I’ve had a rough couple of nights,” said Scrbacek, kneeling down to scratch the dog’s neck as the dog flipped his hind legs back and forth like a hyperactive wind-up doll and breathed in Scrbacek’s foul gaminess. “Hey, Palsgraf, how’s my buddy? How you doing? You still a good dog? Yes, you are, yes. Yes, you are.”

The dog thrashed his tail and washed Scrbacek’s face with his great pink tongue.

“He remembers you,” she said.

“It’s nice to be remembered.”

“What happened to your nose?”

Scrbacek stood and wiped at the wound. Still oozing. “I cut myself shaving.”

“What were you using, a Bowie knife? I’m making coffee. You want coffee?”

“Not if you still make it thick as sludge and tasting of acid.”

“None for you, then,” she said, turning and heading for the kitchen. As she did, she passed the man with the blond hair. “This is Dan,” she said without stopping. “He was just leaving. Dan, meet America’s most wanted, J.D. Scrbacek.”

Dan stared at Scrbacek for a moment and then turned to follow Jenny into the kitchen. “You want me to call someone?” said Dan.

She opened the refrigerator, pulled out a can of coffee, started heaping teaspoon after teaspoon into a coffeemaker. “I want you to call no one. If I thought anyone should be called, I’m perfectly capable of picking up the phone myself.”

“Jen,” said Dan, “it’s not a good idea for you—”

“Go home, Dan. Get stoned, play guitar, watch television. Do exactly what you normally would do in your ultraproductive day.”

“I think I should stay.”

“What did I tell you about that?” she said, patting his cheek gently. “It’s not your strong suit, is it, thinking? Get your clothes on and go home.”

Dan swiveled his head to stare at Scrbacek, turned to look again at Jenny, and then strode out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

“That’s Dan,” she said to Scrbacek.

“So I gathered.”

She filled the water reservoir of the machine and plugged it in. “What are you doing here, J.D.?”

“I’m in trouble.”

“Your car’s blown up, your house is burned down, your intern’s dead, they think you did it, and your client, Caleb Breest, the dark lord of Crapstown, is not amused at his attorney. Yes, J.D., you’re in a boatload.”

“And it’s following me around.”

“So you bring it here. How nice for me and how typical of you. Are you clean?”

“I need a shower.”

She stared at him.

“Yes, I’m clean. Forever, now. Look, I’m sorry I haven’t called. But I’ve been thinking about you.”

“How heartwarming.”

“Don’t act all hurt and bothered. It was you who got the restraining order.”

“And you didn’t deserve it?”

“It was a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“You brought a gun into our house. Into our house.”

“It was a client’s. It wasn’t loaded.”

“And I was supposed to know that when you waved it in my face?”

“I was a little cranked. It was a bad time. But now I’m clean and I’m in trouble and I need your help. Can you help me, Jen?”

Steps pounded down the stairs before she could answer. Jenny bade Scrbacek to sit while she went to the entranceway to say good-bye to Dan. Scrbacek could see them there—the woman, the man, the dog—but not make out the words of their soft yet urgent conversation over the gurgling and hissing of the coffee machine. Finally, Dan leaned down to kiss her, and Jenny gave him her cheek. Dan patted Palsgraf’s head and took a final glance at Scrbacek. Jenny locked the door behind him.

The thick smell of coffee permeated the kitchen. Jenny came back into the room, filled one of her huge coffee cups with the thick black slop, and sat down at the table with Scrbacek. She took her first few sips in silence. The dog raced around the room until fitting himself into a curl around her feet.

“Remember how long it took,” she said, “for us to sleep together—all the hesitations and false starts? How scared I was because with you I was crossing some sort of line?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“There was a Korean boy in college I never told you about, but that was just to piss off my folks. You were different.”

Scrbacek smiled weakly.

“Now there’s Dan. Things have a way of slipping from us, you know what I mean?”

“Tell me about it.”

“What do you want, J.D.?”

“A shower and some sleep.”

“And?”

“And I need some answers.”

“Boy, have you come to the wrong place. I don’t even know the questions anymore. Anybody know you’re here?”

“Just you and Dan, and someone I trust completely.”

“Is there anyplace else you can go? Think now. Anyplace?”

“No.”

“And you’re clean?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can shower and sleep. You hungry?”

“No, thanks. I just ate at Ed’s.”

“Ed’s?”

“Cute little bistro in the heart of Crapstown. But if you could put some bread, cheese, and fruit in a bowl outside, that would be great.”

“Outside?”

“For a friend.”

“What is he—a bird?”

“Close. I still don’t understand what is happening to me, Jen, but a fortune-teller told me part of the answer to how I ended up in this catastrophe was somewhere in my past.”

“A fortune-teller?”

“The Contessa Romany from the boardwalk.”

“I’ve seen her sign. She has a good sign.”

“So I was wondering if you had any ideas.”

“On what a fortune-teller had in mind? Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”

“I came to you,” he said, “because you knew me better than anyone since I entered the law. If anyone has the answer, you do. Any ideas on what it was in my past that may have brought me so much trouble.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

He stared at her as she took another swallow of her coffee.

She smiled over the brim of her oversize cup. “Think, J.D. Who’s been responsible for everything that’s happened to you since the very first day we met?”

“I don’t know. Who?”

“DeLoatch.”

It had been almost a decade since J.D. Scrbacek, after a quick cigarette, walked with understandable nervousness into the majestic brick building that would be the center of his world for the next three years. He wore tan pants, a white shirt, suede bucks. It wasn’t his normal look, the preppy-on-the-make look, but it wasn’t a normal day, J.D. Scrbacek’s first day of law school.

Whatever he had been in his suburban idyll of a childhood and his spent youth at college was gone, discarded now in favor of some future other. Isn’t that the bedrock hope of education, to learn enough to transcend the self, to become something new and better? And where better to start then at the Gap? So he bought all new clothes for school, choosing his wardrobe carefully to match his aspirations. He added a suit, too, from an upscale clothier—a blue suit, pin-striped and double-breasted, as was the style then—bottoming out his bank account to do it. He had considered wearing the suit that first day, but instead left it hanging in the closet. The suit, he felt, would be a bit much. This was still school after all, he was still a chrysalis. The suit was for after, when the process of becoming was over, and he simply was. Was what? A mover and a shaker in the big-money world. A man to whom wearing double-breasted suits and taking for himself all that came with them was as natural as breathing. Someone of whom the mother who made him tapioca pudding and the father who died could be proud. But for now, for the first day of law school, he kept the volume low and limited himself to the tan and the white and the suede.

There were a hundred and twenty of them in the classroom that first day, nervous aspirants to the law, waiting with great expectation for their first law school professor to enter their first law school class. The hushed conversations all faded as the door opened. The man strode into the room with a proprietary air, as if he owned the room and the chairs and the very air inside. They didn’t know it yet, the aspirants, but that was how a trial lawyer entered a courtroom. He was small, this man, thin, with a great shock of gray hair and lively blue eyes. He stood before them in silence, as if gathering his words from a place on high, and the students sat on the edges of their chairs. The students had already bought their hornbooks. They held visions of making law review. Their fathers were lawyers, their uncles, their best friends’ mothers. They were ready, they had plans. They would be prosecutors and entertainment lawyers and public defenders. They would represent Greenpeace, they would represent Google. They would become investment bankers, divorce lawyers. But the path would be hard, they knew, and some would fail, tumbling lost into the lesser professions, like dentistry or accounting.