Palindrome (34 page)

Courtney mouths something I can't decipher. Perfect. I give them both a thumbs-­up and somberly pick up the tape deck.

I carry it into Helen's room and close the door behind me. Smells the same as her room did back when we dated: same fruity shampoo, same laundry detergent. A woman of habit. There are no frills in here: made bed with white comforter, desk and lamp from Ikea. It could be mistaken for a man's room if it weren't for a bra cup I see protruding from the top drawer of her dresser. I think it looks like the room of a woman who's lonely, but maybe that's just wishful thinking.

As I place the tape recorder on her blanket, I can't hear anything but Trent Reznor describing what he'd like to do to me. I crank the music up one more level just to be safe—­it now actually feels like it's making my ears bleed, even through the earplugs—­turn down the volume on the tape deck, and hit play/record, ready to immediately dash out of the room and close the door.

But my feet don't move. Instead I watch, transfixed by the white plastic gears in the middle of the tape, spinning slowly through the transparent cover of the machine. Music and blood pounding in my ears.

All I have to do is take off these headphones for a split second and I'll know why the Beulah Twelve killed a kid, then drove to Maine and froze themselves. I'll know what three-­minute sound could possibly be worth $350K to the woman who calls herself Greta Kanter. I'll know something I was never supposed to know. Something forbidden but delicious.

I feel my hands reaching for my headphones, as if on their own accord.

Just a few seconds, then I'll slip them right back on. It's just a tape. Helen was right; it can
't hurt you.

Deep breaths. This feels right. I feel warm. Reminds me of just before the first time I had sex; the excited deep breathing, the blood flow tingling my fingers.

The headphones begin to slip off my ears. My body feels light, like it's about to surrender. My vision is going white.

And then, though they were never closed, I have the sensation of opening my eyes. The headphones are still on, barely. The music is screaming but sounds distant, like it's coming from the bottom of a well.

Savannah Kanter and I are face-­to-­face, her delicate hands over mine, preventing me from pulling off the headphones.

This is the first time I've seen her this close. She's so young, her hair so light. Wearing the same amber sundress she was murdered in, the same one she was wearing when she led me down beside that mountain stream. Her eyes are deep and wide, connoting wordlessly the depth of emotion behind them.

She whispers in my ear. A warm, glowing voice that makes me think of fresh-­cut grass. I can't understand the words, but I get the general thrust:
Don't listen. You don't want to hear it.

I lean into her, feel her aura around me. I can feel her body, hear her breathing over the distant thumping of music. I breathe in deep, want to swallow her, but she has no smell.

“What does it say?” I ask into her pink ear.

She doesn't respond.

“Is Sadie going to be okay?” I ask. She pulls away from me and smiles. I think she nods slightly, yes.

And I'm back in Helen's bedroom, hands on my headphones. I can't have been standing here long, because Trent is still singing. I'm breathing hard. My ankle burns. The tapes are still spinning, thin black film rolling gently like a low tide. I rush out of Helen's room and shut the door hard behind me. Courtney and Helen are staring at me. Their earplugs are still in. Courtney's face is stretched into a serious frown. He regards me with dubious eyes, like I'm some kind of unpredictable animal that might attack. Helen just looks concerned.

Courtney mimes a question, pointing to his ear, then at me:
Did you listen?

I exhale and shake my head.

He sizes me up, trying to tell if I'm lying. I flip him off, which actually seems to put him at ease.

I join them at the table and we sit in silence for fifteen minutes, occasionally giving each other largely meaningless eyebrow raises. Finally I turn on another song in my headphones, dash into Helen's room and hit pause. Carry the tape player back into the kitchen and set it on the table. We all pull out our earplugs.

“Why were you in there so long before?” Courtney immediately demands.

“It wasn't that long.”

“How long does it take to hit record?”

I glare at him. “I didn't listen, okay?”

I open the slot with the copied tape and hand it to him. “Here you go. You can bring this one to Orange.”

Courtney holds it up to the kitchen light, as if he can absorb its contents visually. Then squints and says, “It's broken.”

Helen says, “What do you mean?”

“Look.” Courtney points. “The film is snapped in half. It won't play now. The little gear things will just spin emptily.”

I lean in to inspect the duplicate. Indeed, the film snapped cleanly.

“Was it spinning in there?” Helen asks me. “When you hit record?”

“I . . . I'm pretty sure, yeah.”

Courtney sets it back down on the table.

“Well, this one is worthless.” He looks at me. “Let's try again. We have five more blank tapes.”

I look at Helen. “What do you think?” I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.

“Why not?” she says. “You want me to do it?”

“No,” I say, putting my earplugs back in. “I'll do it.”

We all inspect the next blank tape, verify that it appears to be totally fine. I repeat the process, the second time managing to exit Helen's bedroom immediately after hitting record.

But when I retrieve our second attempt at a copy, same deal. Film snapped cleanly, right at the spot that would contain the audio from the original.

Helen is clearly on edge when she sees this second one. Courtney goes quiet.

“I don't understand.” She shakes her head.

I rub my jaw.

“I'll try one more?” I ask the two of them. They stare blankly at me for a moment, perhaps considering the implications of it happening a third time, if they really want to witness such a thing. What they'll be forced to accept.

“Okay,” Courtney whispers hoarsely.

“Yeah. One more,” Helen reluctantly agrees, chewing on the end of a ballpoint.

Fifteen minutes later, another flawless film is snapped cleanly in two.

Helen is pale. Courtney vigorously strokes his cheeks.

“Well . . .” I say.

They both nod slowly. Helen rises from her chair and wordlessly starts rubbing at the sides of her already sparkling sink with a sponge.

Courtney clicks his tongue. “So, but . . . what should I bring to Orange's?” Courtney asks slowly. “A blank?”

“Can't you wait until after tomorrow to deal with this?” Helen asks. “Once Frank has his daughter back?”

Courtney shakes his head. “I'm sure he's already pissed that we haven't been returning his calls. I have to see Orange before you see Greta.”

I let my head slip down into my hands.

“What a fucking mess,” I groan. “This tape, man. Brings nothing but trouble.”

“It's after seven, Courtney,” Helen says. Indeed, I notice for the first time the sun glowing bloodred out her window. “At least sleep on it. No offense, but I can tell how exhausted you are just by looking at you. You don't even have a plan. You're just going to barge in there and get yourself killed.”

Courtney's face looks even longer than usual as he considers this.

“Okay, so you can't bring the original,” I say quietly. “That's clear . . .” I tap a finger on the tabletop. “How about this, go in there empty-­handed. Tell him you have the tape in your car outside, and if he wants to hear it, he'll have to go out there alone.”

“So what,” Courtney asks, wiping his wet eyes. “Then I flip on the tape for him and it's blank? That's really going to please him. You have to let me borrow the real thing.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. Stand up and walk to the window, look down on Helen's view of Amsterdam Avenue. Whole scene's flushed in the hazy pink of dusk. Courtney's right: We have to deal with Orange. He fancies himself a man of his word and isn't thrilled when others renege. I breathe onto the glass, letting it steam up. The weariness has sunk so deeply into my bones I wonder if it will ever leave. I close my eyes and let my forehead rest on the glass.

Orange must be taken care of.

“Helen,” I say into the glass, “you and I have to go with Courtney. Otherwise Orange will just take the real thing. Or, if Courtney brings a fake, he'll just kill him.”

I turn around and face them with a grim smile. “We'll wait until early tomorrow morning. When Orange is low staffed enough that he won't want to bring many goons along with him and leave his place unattended. I have to go in with Courtney because Orange hates him. But he likes and trusts me and might actually follow me to the van. And you”—­I point to Helen—­“will be waiting in the backseat. To shoot him. And whoever he brings along.”

Helen flinches.

“Or just pepper spray and arrest him,” I suggest. “Whichever.”

“I can't just
arrest
him, Frank. You know that.”

“Sure you could. Just plant some drugs on him. Or book him for un-­permitted weapons.” I smile. “He is a fucking criminal, after all. You'll find no shortage of drugs and prostitutes in the club. Don't tell me you've never broken procedure to get some guys you knew were nasty?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Guess I'm calling in sick again tomorrow, huh?”

N
INE IN THE
morning. Sunday.

Gonna be a big day, one way or another.

Courtney looks approximately 10 percent more awful than he did last night as he pulls the minivan into a parking garage two blocks from Orange's place on 59th Street.

Guard in the booth asks for his parking permit, and Courtney slides him two hundreds. Guard blinks, then lifts the bar for us.

Courtney wordlessly pulls into a spot three stories up. The garage is packed full of cars, but there's little foot traffic at this hour. He shuts off the ignition.

In the backseat, Helen's got a picnic spread of police tools beside her. The implements of apprehension: handcuffs, pepper spray, baton, Taser.

“Taser might work well,” I muse.

“Just . . . really try to get him alone,” she responds with a deadpan stare.

“If we're gone more than a half hour and haven't texted, it's probably gone to shit,” I say. “Don't come in. Return the van, take my phone and the tape, and meet Greta tonight to get Sadie back. I don't think she ultimately cares who delivers it.”

Helen purses her lips. Shakes her head slowly like she can't believe what she's gotten caught up in.

“Helen,” I say. “Promise me. If we don't get back, answer Greta's call, tell her you have it, and make the swap. I have to take care of this Orange situation, or else even if I get back Sadie we're going to have to go into witness protection.”

She nods grimly. “I'll do it.”

“You'll like her,” I say. Look deeper into her eyes than I have since showing up at her door yesterday morning, hoping I'm connoting something vaguely romantic.

“I'm sure I will,” she says. “But I'm sure she'd strongly prefer
you
picking her up from Greta in one piece. Don't screw up.”

“Just get that Taser ready.”

Courtney and I step out of the van. I take a deep breath of Manhattan parking garage air: notes of gasoline, exhaust and general malaise.

“Leave your knife,” Courtney instructs. “They'll just take it from us anyways.”

“I know. I'm not an idiot.”

I wave good-­bye to Helen through the window and follow him out onto 57th. Squint. Billboards, ­people listening to headphones, honking cabs. I hate this fucking city.

Two blocks to Orange's. Our boots clomp over cold, pigeon-­shit-­splattered cement. The thought of descending below ground again so soon after the cellar is stirring up something nasty in my gut. I could use a cigarette.

We arrive at the heavy metal grate. To our right, a Chinese Laundromat, on our left the dirty Polish restaurant advertising specials that don't sound like food. Feels like months since we last stood here. I hit the buzzer, and we stand shoulder to shoulder, expectant as two grooms waiting at the altar. Seconds pass, a minute. I pull up my pants and tighten my belt a notch. I've lost at least eight pounds since we were last here. I buzz again. Nothing.

“Maybe they're not open this early?” Courtney muses.

I shake my head. “Twenty-­four/seven operation. Lust never sleeps.”

I buzz again, then kick the door in frustration. Am surprised to see it swing open. This door is never left ajar. I look at Courtney with concern.

“Something's wrong.”

Courtney smirks. “Hope Orange is okay.”

We plunge through the gate, clank down the metal staircase. Air is still.

At the base of the stairs, we turn into the corridor lined by the whores' rooms. The lights are all on, and the doors are all open. That's a first. My neck hairs prick up. This place is dead.

I peer into the first room on our right. Bare mattress draped in fluid-­resistant plastic, huge mirror on the ceiling, all illuminated by lights on the floor that emit a low, frosted, ostensibly erotic glow. Enough empty pegs on the wall to hold two men's outfits at a time. Spray can of Febreze beside the mattress. I'll bet Orange buys that shit wholesale.

Courtney looks over my shoulder.

“Think everyone's out at brunch?” he asks.

“Let's go,” I say, continuing down the hallway.

But it's only once I see that the glass doors leading to the front desk and gym are agape—­and there's nobody inside—­that I'm sure something has seriously gone awry.