Benchley, Peter - Novel 07 (34 page)

 
          
 
It was Lupone. He put an arm around
Preston
and guided him down the corridor and spoke
in a voice as low and rumbling as a freight train on a faraway track. "I
got a deal for you. Raffi says he'll whack this Kirk if you want.''

 
          
 
''Oh?"
Preston
croaked.

 
          
 
''It's a shitty thing, jump the missus' bones
while a guy's inna joint."

 
          
 
"That's ..." What should I be?
Grateful? Surprised? Appalled? Outraged? No! Not outraged. The man is offering
you a favor. "That's very nice of him. But why should he—"

 
          
 
"Call it professional courtesy."

 
          
 
"How can I—"

 
          
 
"Who knows? You run this publishing
house, right? You say what gets printed and what gets squashed. Maybe someday
some guy inna witness-protection program wants to narc on us, make a buck
stabbing his family inna back with a kiss-and-tell book. You remember your
friend Raffi who whacked that prick for you. Maybe you work it out so the book
dies of natural causes. Whattaya say?"

 
          
 
What do I say? I say I've been drugged by
Jivaro Indians and am having a hallucination.

 
          
 
What he said was "Puff . . .I'm grateful.
Please tell Raffi I owe him one, just for the thought. But I figure it this
way: If that's what her taste runs to, guys like that, then I'm better off
without her."

 
          
 
"Yeah, but the insult ..."

 
          
 
Think! "She'll pay for the insult."

 
          
 
"How?"

 
          
 
"With regret,"

 
          
 
Lupone seemed to absorb the words like a
sponge. Then he grabbed
Preston
's
chin in one of his
Smithfield
hams and looked deep into his eyes and said, "I heard a Christian
charity. The Sisters of the Rosy Sepulcher told me all about it. But you! You
make the pope look like a shy lock.''

 
          
 
Then he kissed
Preston
. On the mouth. And walked back and told
Raffi, who looked like he'd just heard that the Martians had landed at Grover's
Mill.

 
          
 
Duke's group still hadn't gotten out, so
Preston
went outside and sat on one of the benches
in the exercise area and had another smoke.

 
          
 
He replayed the scene with Margaret, waiting
for the inevitable surge of pain. It didn't come. He guessed he was in a kind
of shock. The pain would come later.

 
          
 
He wanted the pain now, wanted to know what it
would be like, so he reached for it by summoning the image of Kimberly. His
baby. He had lost her. Never again would he—

 
          
 
Balls! You don't own your children. How do you
lose something you never had? Whatever he had with Kimberly wasn't lost. It was
changed, maybe, but there was nothing he could do about that. And—who could
tell?— maybe the changes wouldn't be all bad.

 
          
 
The pain wouldn't come. But sometime it would,
sometime when he didn't expect it. He prayed it wouldn't be on some lousy day
when he was all alone and found himself passing a dark and welcoming saloon.

 
          
 
To his surprise, he felt admiration for
Margaret for having the guts to read the death sentence over the corpse of a
marriage that had probably been clinically dead for a long time. If she could
find happiness with Kirk, good for her.

 
          
 
A couple, visitors, came out of Peacemaker and
saw him. The man said something to the woman, and the woman nodded and said
something back, and they started toward him.

 
          
 
Preston
knew right away who they were, and the first thing he thought was, I wish I'd
put on a tie.

 
          
 
They were the Ralph Lauren twins, she in a
casually tailored Ultrasuede suit and a casually cut silk blouse with a silk
scarf tossed casually over one shoulder and an anchor-link gold chain around
her neck and a gold Rolex on her wrist, he in jodhpur boots and a pinch-waist
tweed jacket and a shirt that looked as if it used to be a tablecloth at
"21" and a wool tie and a paisley handkerchief in his breast pocket
and a gold Rolex on his wrist.

 
          
 
"Mr. Preston?" said the man.

 
          
 
"Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey."

 
          
 
They weren't surprised that he knew who they
were. They were accustomed to being recognized, entitled to be known.

 
          
 
They shook hands, and Mr. Godfrey said, *'They
said inside there—"

 
          
 
“. . .in group," Mrs. Godfrey
interjected, evidently pleased to know an "in" word.

 
          
 
"... that you have been
particularly—"

 
          
 
"... close to Priscilla."

 
          
 
Preston
wanted to throttle her. She was one of those discreetly arrogant women who
never say anything out of place, never raise their voices, but express their
innate superiority to their husbands by never letting them finish a sentence.

 
          
 
"I like to think we're friends,"
Preston
said.

 
          
 
"Do you have any idea—"

 
          
 
"... where she could be?"

 
          
 
"She didn't show up? At all?"

 
          
 
"We wondered if perhaps she's—"

 
          
 
"... afraid to face us."

 
          
 
"I saw her last night. She was looking
forward to seeing you."

 
          
 
"I must say, we find their attitude
quite—"

 
          
 
"... irresponsible."

 
          
 
"They say if she ran away—"

 
          
 
"... there's nothing they can do about
it." Mrs. Godfrey kept the ball and ran with it. "They showed us
their idiotic form that absolves them of all responsibility. I assured them
that their form would be dross in the hands of our Mr. Preble."

 
          
 
Mr. Godfrey explained. "Of Preble,
Plunkett and Twyne?"

 
          
 
Preston
said, "I don't think she ran away. She would’ve told me. Or somebody. I
know she would’ve."

 
          
 
"Then where—"

 
          
 
". . . is she?"

 
          
 
"I don't know."
Preston
reached for his cigarettes. He offered them
to the Godfreys, who reacted as if he were serving a pate of cockroaches.
"But I'm going to find out, I promise you."

 
          
 
"If you'd call us," Mr. Godfrey
said, handing
Preston
a business card, "even if Priscilla
won't—"

 
          
 
". . . any time, day or night . . ."

 
          
 
". . . we'd be extremely grateful and,
you may be sure—"

 
          
 
"... our gratitude will not be simply a
handshake and a pat on the back." Mrs. Godfrey smiled at
Preston
and took her husband's arm and turned him
back toward Peacemaker.

 
          
 
Preston
looked at the card and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He felt
disheveled—hell, he was disheveled, compared with them—and dirty. The
"dirty" was their fault.

 
          
 
Forget it. And since he had recently been
proclaimed a paragon of Christian virtue, he added to himself, They know not
what they do.

 
          
 
The Godfreys were almost at the door when Mr.
Godfrey said, "You know what I need. Bunny?" and put a hand inside
his jacket.

 
          
 
"Not here, Dillon." She pulled his
hand out of his jacket and glanced
Preston
's way.
"It isn't fair ... to them.”

 
          
 
"Bui Bunny, I need one. I need a
drink."

 
          
 
So do I, Dillon. So do I

 
          
 
GUY Larkin had retreated to his bunker. His
door was closed, and when
Preston
knocked all Larkin said (snapped, really) was "Come!"

 
          
 
Larkin had even removed his "Have a Great
Day" button. His voice said he resented the interruption. "What is
it?"

 
          
 
A man sat across the desk from Larkin, wearing
an outfit with more parts than a Mercedes (all it lacked was spats), making
notes on a yellow pad. An expensive briefcase was open on the floor by his
feet. This was a lawyer, had to be, a gladiator summoned to do battle with Mr.
Preble of Preble, Plunkett and Twyne.

 
          
 
"You called we,"
Preston
said.

 
          
 
"Oh. Yes. This is Mr. Bixler." He
looked at the lawyer. "Scott Preston."

 
          
 
"Just a couple of questions, Mr.
Preston," Bixler said pleasantly. "When did you last see Priscilla
Godfrey?"

 
          
 
"Last night. I've already been through
this with her parents."

           
 
“You what?" Larkin came out of his chair.

 
          
 
“Guy ..." Like a dog trainer, Bixler
motioned Larkin to sit down.

 
          
 
“They asked,"
Preston
said. "What'd you want me to do,
lie?"

 
          
 
"No," said Bixler. "Not at all."
He cleared his throat. "It might be better, though, if you refrained from
discussing the matter with them. Now: for my records, are you aware, Mr.
Preston
, that all patients check into The Banner
Clinic of their own accord, that they are free to leave at any time?"

 
          
 
"Sure. But what does what I think have to
do with I anything?"

 
          
 
"Just answer the questions, Scott!"
Larkin said.

 
          
 
"I did."
Preston
favored Larkin with what he hoped was a
patronizing smile. "Guy."

 
          
 
Bixler ignored Larkin. "A precaution, Mr.
Preston. There's a chance, I'd say remote, that you might be asked ... in the
event Miss Godfrey doesn't ... I don't think there's any likelihood, really ...
to give a deposition."

 
          
 
"Okay,"
Preston
said. "Go for it."

 
          
 
Bixler looked at his pad. "Are you
further aware that under its charter from the State of New Mexico, the
clinic—unlike, say, a hospital—has no more liability for the welfare of its
clients than a hotel?"

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
"No?"

 
          
 
"Look, you think people come in here
looking to sue somebody? They come in here looking to save their lives. Nobody
reads all that crap they make you sign."

 
          
 
Bixler did not look pleased. "Did
Priscilla Godfrey say anything to you about wanting to leave, intending to
leave, wishing she could leave?*'

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
"Did she ever talk about wanting to be
alone, get away to think, that kind of thing?"

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
"Are you the only person she confided
in?"

 
          
 
"How would I know?"
Preston
was beginning to enjoy this. "If she
confided in anyone else, she wouldn't tell me, would she? That's what confiding
means."

 
          
 
Bixler gave him a hard look. "So it's
possible she told someone else she was intending to leave."

 
          
 
“Not likely."

 
          
 
"I didn't ask you if it was likely. I
asked if it was possible."

 
          
 
"Sure, it's possible. It's also possible
she was kidnapped by a sex-crazed jai alai player. But it's not likely."

 
          
 
"Look here!" This time Larkin came
all the way to attention. "You think this is a game, Scott? You think
you're back in Skull and Bones? This is serious business, mister, and I don't
like your attitude. In fact—"

 
          
 
"Guy ..." Bixler raised his hand
again.

 
          
 
Larkin would not be denied. "I haven't
liked your attitude from day one. Let me tell you something: I would say the
chances are slim, very slim, that you will ever . . . ever . . . receive . . .
your . . . medallion!" Thus delivered of his thunderbolt, Larkin sat down.

 
          
 
Bixler said, "Thank you, Mr.
Preston."

 
          
 
"Have you called the police?"

 
          
 
"For what? No crime has been committed.
People have gone AWOL before. Sometimes they hitchhike into town and get drunk
or take drugs. Usually they come back."

 
          
 
"And if they don't?"

 
          
 
“Get out, Scott!" said Larkin.

 
          
 
Preston
was
tempted to wish Larkin a great day, but he suppressed the impulse and left
without saying anything.

 
          
 
When he had closed the door behind him, he
heard Bixler say, "Not smart, Guy," and Larkin reply, "I hate
Yalies."

 
          
 
Priscilla had said nothing to anyone about
doing anything or going anywhere. The last person with a recollection of seeing
her—and it was easy not to recall seeing someone, because in the evenings
everybody milled in and out, watching television, eating ice cream,
chatting—was Twist, who told Preston he had been watching a movie on TV, Cry
Freedom, and Priscilla had wandered in and watched for a few minutes, but when
someone hit the Steve Biko character with a club she had left, saying something
about there being too dam much pain in the world.

 
          
 
"I wouldnVe remembered it," Twist
said, " 'cept for 'dam.' Here's this dude gettin' the shit kicked outa
him, and here's little Gloria sayin' 'dam.' "

 
          
 
"She went to bed?"

 
          
 
"Beats me where she went. She split, 's
all I know."

 
          
 
It was dark, long after the evening lecture,
before
Preston
had a chance to slip away and go into
Priscilla's room. He shut the door and turned on the light and stood and
looked. Everything was in place. Her clothes hung in the closet, her cosmetics
lined a bathroom shelf, a copy of "The Big Book" was open on the desk
beside a pad and a red pencil with which she had been underlining passages.

 
          
 
He went to the desk and opened the top drawer
and found her wallet, full of credit cards, her driver's license and $385 in
cash.

 
          
 
This was not a woman who had run away, not a
woman who had gone into town for a few drinks.

 
          
 
Because he didn't know what else to do, he
went to the dresser and opened the drawers. He didn't know what he was looking
for. Something missing. But how would he know if something was missing? He paid
no attention to what people wore.

 
          
 
Except for the Godfreys.

 
          
 
Except for Priscilla.

 
          
 
The first two drawers were full of lingerie.
The third held blouses and a couple of T-shirts and a pair of exercise shorts.

 
          
 
The fourth was packed with sweaters. He was
about to close it when, for no reason at all, he remembered what she had been
wearing the night she arrived. A linen skirt and navy blue pumps and ... a blue
cashmere sweater.

 
          
 
It wasn't there.

 
          
 
All right! Wherever she had gone, she had worn
a sweater, which meant she had left at night, because no one would wear a
sweater in the desert in the daytime.

 
          
 
He examined the closet. Two dresses and half a
dozen skirts, including the linen one, hung on hangers. Amid them was an empty
pants-hanger. Did she ever wear slacks? Jeans? He couldn't remember.

 
          
 
Shoes. The blue pumps were there, and a beige
pair and a black pair, a pair of shower clogs and a pair of Topsider moccasins.

 
          
 
But no running shoes, the shoes she wore on
their walks. Her Nikes were gone.

 
          
 
Okay. She had gone out at night and had planned
to do some walking.

 
          
 
She had had an accident, maybe been bitten by
a snake or hit by a car.

 
          
 
No. There were security guards all over the
place, and cars passed by all the time. Somebody would have found her.

 
          
 
She had gotten where she was going but had
been unable to get back.

 
          
 
Why?

 
          
 
Because they wouldn't let her.

 
          
 
Who was "they"? How the hell do I
know who ' 'they'' is ? Nobody lives around here except . . .

 
          
 
Banner.

 
          
 
Preston
felt sick. Don't avoid it. Look at it.

 
          
 
Okay. Banner invited her up the mountain
again, and she went and—Go ahead, torture yourself!—this time she let him hold
her—"May I hold you?" Jesus!—and they did the Deed of Darkness and
she's still up there, rutting around like a sow.

 
          
 
No. Thank God. She knew her parents were
coming today, she wanted to see them, to show them how far she'd come, she'd
told him that. And Banner wouldn't dare keep her up there. He wasn't completely
nuts, no matter whether he was still sticking things up his nose from time to
time. He'd have to know people would be looking for her.

 
          
 
So?

 
          
 
So she went up there. Maybe he invited her,
maybe he didn't, but she went up there. . . .

 
          
 
Why would she go up there if he didn't invite
her?