The Sudden Star (27 page)

She got up from behind the desk. "Follow me." He heard a buzzing near his ears and wondered if it was the flies. He shook his head. His ears still buzzed. Isabeau had liked the idea of using this drug. She would wait until Titus was asleep, preferably drunk, before injecting it. Even if an autopsy, a careful autopsy, was done, no traces of succinylcholine would be found, and it was unlikely anyone would notice a small puncture. Titus would smother, his chest muscles unable to move. He might even wake up and realize he was dying. Isabeau had liked that idea, too. Simon shuddered, realizing at last that he no longer wanted Isabeau; he wanted only to get as far from her as possible. But there was nowhere to go.

He followed the woman. She was saying something to him. The words seemed to come from far away, distorted by the buzzing. They went down the hall and turned a corner, passing stretchers, carts with sloppy piles of syringes and dirty bandages, stations with old notebooks and other relics of another time. He wouldn't have been a doctor then. He wondered what he would have been.

Isabeau looked happy. She sat at the head table on the stage, dressed in a sleeveless violet gown, a gauzy lavender scarf draped over her hair. She sipped her wine, smiling first at her handsome father and scrawny mother, then at Titus, who sat next to her. Titus seemed pleased with himself; the food dispute was settled, he was married. He had married Isabeau that morning in his suite, attended only by his bodyguards, her parents, and a few friends. Now he reigned over the supper club, smiling down at the crowds seated at tables or milling around the room, all of them busy consuming the free food and wine.

Simon stood in the back of the room near a door. He had eaten all he could, even stuffing some oranges and pears into his pockets for tomorrow. He had even forced himself to push through the crowds to congratulate Titus, knowing the man might find it odd if he did not. Isabeau had smiled at him while stroking Titus's arm. For a moment, Simon was about to speak: "Titus, your wife is going to kill you, I told her how." He had shaken his friend's hand and retreated. Titus would not believe him. No one would. He would get thrown out of the city, or worse; Titus would still die. It's not my fault, he told himself now. If he'd believe me, if it wouldn't hurt me, I'd tell him. He wondered when Isabeau would act, knowing she couldn't do it too soon, not before she had won the trust of at least some of his associates.

Near the stage, a group of people cheered. The cheer spread through the room, echoing from the ornate walls. Simon blinked. At a nearby table, Aisha waved at him solemnly, signaling to him to join her and Takaishi. He shook his head. Disoriented suddenly by the crowd, the noise, the greasy smell of cooking food, he turned away. Something hit him in the leg; he looked down and saw gnawed chicken bones. He was nearly hit again by fruit rinds. The entire floor would be covered by broken wine glasses and the remains of dinner before the night ended. He stumbled from the room, needing air.

He found himself in the lobby. It was almost empty; no one except Titus' guests and residents was being allowed in, and most of them were at the party. The doorman and three bodyguards were near the desk. Feeling weak, he sat down in a chair and closed his eyes. He had to do something soon. This strain was going to make him sick. He was beginning to realize that Isabeau wasn't likely to let him live once Titus was dead, and she wouldn't have to be subtle about it either. No one was going to worry about how an insignificant doctor died.

"What's the matter, Doctor?" He looked up into the yellowish eyes of Kathleen Ortega. "Aren't you enjoying the party?"

"I'm not feeling so good."

"I know. Isabeau's married now. Isn't that just too bad. Makes things hard for you. Well, you'll just have to live with it, won't you." She hooked her fingers over the top of her khaki pants. "There's going to be a show later, singers, dancers, everything, but I guess you're going to miss it, aren't you."

A police officer, a lean, beak-nosed man, was approaching them. Ortega spun around. "Anita Gilberto?" the policeman said. Ortega, watching him suspiciously, nodded. "I want to talk with you, I've got some questions."

She glared at him, then at Simon. "What questions?"

"You'd better come with me."

"I won't until you tell me what's going on."

The man pulled out his revolver, pointing it at her stomach. "March," he said. "We're going to take a walk, and you're going to answer those questions or be very sorry."

Her eyes narrowed. She looked at Simon as if he was to blame. He shrugged; it wasn't his worry. She walked away with the policeman. Simon leaned back in his chair, watching them go out the front door, wondering if he would see Ortega again. He imagined her in the jail, and smiled.

Someone was tapping at his door. Simon, sprawled on the sofa in his waiting room, struggled into wakefulness. His shirt, covered with sweat from the summer heat, stuck to him. He fell asleep often now, sometimes unable to make it to the bedroom. Sleep had become his drug, his only means of escape.

He heard the tapping again. It was probably Aisha. The party might be over by now. He dragged himself off the sofa and stumbled to the door. "Aisha?" he shouted.

"Open this door before I shoot the fucking lock off." It was Ortega's voice. Stunned and still sleepy, he began to open it before changing his mind. He tried to close it again; Ortega had her foot in the crack. She pushed and the door swung open, propelling him toward the desk.

She slammed it shut. Her forehead was streaked with red, her shoulder was bleeding. She said, "You talked, didn't you. You talked to somebody. You were waiting in that lobby to be sure, weren't you." He shook his head, puzzled. She came closer. "René sent you down here, didn't he. I guess I got scammed. I didn't think you could do it, always using someone else to do your work, aren't you. You coward."

He was completely bewildered. "What are you talking about? René's dead, isn't he?"

Her face contorted. She kneed him in the groin. Groaning, he doubled over and fell to the floor. He moaned, clutching his abdomen; he could think of nothing but the pain. He felt a foot on his shoulder. He tried to roll away but could not. Ortega was saying something else, but he couldn't make out the words. He struggled for breath.

She leaned over him. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth. "Who'd you tell? Who'd you tell about me?"

"Nobody," he managed to say.

"You better say more than that or you'll get a good kick."

He closed his eyes. The odds weren't with him. If he hadn't been incapacitated, if she weren't armed, they might have been matched, her training against his greater height and weight. Every nerve in his body was humming; he was going to be sick. He swallowed, trying to control himself. "I don't know anything," he gasped. She kicked him in the chest. His lungs emptied and he choked.

"I don't know anything," he finally managed to say.

She stood up. Her booted feet retreated over the beige carpet. He forced himself to sit up, leaning his back against one of the desk legs. Ortega was seated on the sofa, next to one of his lighted lamps. Oddly, he found himself thinking about the kerosene he had wasted leaving them on. Ortega's gun was pointed at him.

"You really don't know anything, do you?"

"No," he said.

"What'd you mean when you said René was dead?"

"Just what I said. You had him killed, didn't you? Aisha was sure you had, and then you came here, probably because you couldn't hold the organization."

"Listen, Negron, I want to make something very clear to you. Isabeau doesn't want to see you dead, don't ask me why, but I'll do things to you, make you wish you were. You better think about that before you tell me one more thing, and it better be the truth. Did you know that policeman was sent to kill me?"

"No."

"Did that girl know, that Aisha?"

"Of course not. She's scared enough of you, she just wants to keep out of your way. She ran all the way down here because she's afraid of you, she was sure you'd kill her and her friends."

"That's real funny." Ortega rested one foot on a knee. "They're still alive, at least they were last I knew. That old man's still trying to kill me. I've been trying to find out who he hired to do it."

"What happened," he said, "to the policeman?"

She chuckled. "Don't ask. He was the second, they sent a dope after me the first time. I'm going to send a message to René, the only one he'll understand. I'm going to find out who's in back of all this and I'm going to kill him."

"I don't care," he said, hating her for beating and degrading him. "It has nothing to do with me."

"You better see that it doesn't. Isabeau's trying to find out, and she will, she hears a lot. You better see your name doesn't come up, and you better be sure if you find out something, you tell me,"

"I can't find out anything."

"Then just keep out of the way." Her voice was raspy. Something in what she had said made him realize she didn't know what Isabeau was planning for Titus, didn't know why Isabeau needed him alive, at least for a while. Something could go wrong. Isabeau might need him to cover it up. Suddenly everything seemed clear to him, obvious. Isabeau would kill him once she had what she wanted. Kathleen Ortega might kill him out of rage, if someone tried to kill her again or if his name, however innocently, came up during her investigation. Titus might kill him; he might not. Simon had been pushed into a corner and had only one way out. For some reason, the dim hope cheered him. He had to go to Titus and take his chances. Isabeau would fall; Ortega would be without her protection. Titus might kill her too.

Ortega rose. "A bullet grazed my shoulder," she said. "I need something for it."

"I can fix it." He got to his feet, slowly and painfully. He would pay her back for everything. He hoped it would all be very clear to her before she died. He kept his eyes focused on the carpet, as if she might read his thoughts if he looked directly at her.

"Don't. Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

"You still don't trust me." He lifted his eyes and glanced at her.

She smiled.

ELEVEN

Werner Takaishi

Aisha trembled. She closed her eyes, trying to sort out what Simon had told her. A voice inside her head was whispering: They're alive, René, Ildico, Juan, they're alive and safe, I ran for nothing. She clasped her hands, trying to stop them from shaking. Ildico had been right, she was always right. She bent forward and rested her head on her knees. Her face was wet. She couldn't bear it now, thinking about her journey, surviving here, worrying about when Takaishi would get tired of her and what she would do then. It was all crushing her, twisting her up.

She raised her head and looked across the room at Simon. He sat at her small table, drinking the bottle of wine he had brought with him. Behind him, her faucet was still dripping into the sink,
plop, plop.
She leaned back against her couch. The sunlight streaming through the window behind her made everything seem too bright; the gold rug in the center of the floor glowed, the red couch she sat on burned. Simon's white shirt shone. He lifted the bottle again and drank from it.

She said, "They're still alive. Ildy's still alive." She wished she could feel happier about it, but then, even when she had assumed they were dead, she hadn't really felt it; it had seemed too far away. Now they were alive, and she couldn't feel that either.

"It doesn't matter," Simon responded, putting down his bottle. She blinked; the pale yellow of the wall behind him hurt her eyes. "That doesn't matter to us one way or another. I have to warn Titus somehow." He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "You were right about Isabeau all along. I should have listened to you, you always stuck by me, I just didn't appreciate it."

He looked appealingly at her. She stared back and did not respond. "Look," he went on, "I need you now. I promise I’ll make it up to you."

"What do you want?" she said tonelessly.

"You've got to go to Titus, tell him everything, convince him."

She sat up straight, clenching her fists. "You want
me
to go," she said as quietly as she could. "He'll think I knew about it too, if he believes it, and if he doesn't, I get in bad with him and you can deny the whole thing. That's good. And if he tells Takaishi, I'm finished." She was shaking again. She pressed her arms against her sides. "Well, I don't have to go to Titus. I paid off my debt. Takaishi's taking care of me now. There's no reason for me to get mixed up in any of this. Tell Titus yourself."

"Don't you want him alive? He never did anything to you."

She considered that. It was true. It didn't matter. Anyone who had risen as high as Titus had climbed over dead bodies on the way. It was only fair that someone else climb over his. "Yeah, you're right," she said at last. "He didn't do anything to me, he didn't even ask me to pay him off in bed. But I can stay out of all this. Who knows, Titus is smart. Maybe he'll find out anyway."

Simon's lips were a straight line. "All right," he murmured, "you say you aren't involved in this. Titus might not think so, and Kathleen Ortega's had suspicions about you. If Titus goes, she'll kill me, and she'll probably kill you too, just to be safe. If Isabeau's caught, Ortega falls. Think of it that way. Ortega'll be gone forever, and you won't have any worries any more. Someone's trying to kill Ortega anyway. Titus might be able to collect for taking care of her."