Dover Beach (12 page)

"That's being rather melodramatic, I think."

"Maybe, but private eyes are melodramatic." She paused. "And you're a private eye, I think."

I smiled. That was the nicest thing Gwen had ever said to me. "So what are we going to do about this, Gwen?"

"I don't know, Walter. But it's very important that you solve this case."

"I think you're right." Silence. "Gwen, did you ever get the feeling you were born in the wrong century?"

"Walter, everyone in the world has that feeling."

"True." We both stared into the darkness. I turned to her. "Gwen, would you like to make love?"

She turned to me. "Yes," she said.

We were no longer setting records, but we did all right.

Chapter 11

It snowed the next day. I spent the morning in my office, trying—and failing—to figure out what else I could do. My three days were half gone, and I didn't have any ideas.

After I had visited Bobby, I had gone back to Northeastern and poked around some more, hoping to find another professor who knew something about Cornwall. No luck. Then I went to the Registry over on Nashua Street, just to satisfy myself that Winfield hadn't missed some reference to Cornwall in their records. No luck. I considered going back to Government Center and trying on my own to find records of the scientists taken by the British. But our government didn't work that way. If you didn't know someone, you didn't get anywhere.

So I sat and watched the snow and felt my dream slip away with the passing minutes.

Maybe it was all for the best. No matter what Gwen said, she really wouldn't
mind
if I went to school. But that was ridiculous. She was right: I was a private eye.

And besides, I wanted to go to England.

Finally, I started reading a book—the only solace I could think of. And that meant I didn't see the van appear out of the snow and come to a halt outside my building.

I did, however, hear the clomping of feet on the stairs, and I was at my door in time to open it for my visitor.

"Jesus fucking Christ, can't you get any lights on the stairs?" Bobby complained. "I couldn't see a damn thing."

"Hi," I said. "You can't see a damn thing anyway."

He wiped the snow off his coat. "I really do think the weather is worse nowadays," he muttered. He peered around at the bare dirty walls, the yellowed linoleum floor. "So this is your office. Very stylish. Bet it impresses the shit out of your clients. Sorry—client."

"My Renoirs are out being reframed," I said. "Have a seat."

He sat. "Even if you don't have electricity, at least you could get a phone. Save Mickey driving in a goddamn snowstorm."

"Can't afford one. Besides, they don't work for shit. So, Bobby, what brings you and Mickey out in a goddamn snowstorm?"

He looked around some more. "Don't suppose you have any Scotch, do you?"

I shook my head. Did my finely tuned senses detect some uneasiness?

"Don't see how you can be a private eye and not drink," he grumbled. "So how's your case comin'?"

"Okay."

Bobby glanced at the book lying open on my desk. "Working hard, I see."

I didn't bother to reply. I figured he would come to the point in his own good time.

"The thing is," he said, "I think maybe you're making a mistake about wanting to go to England. I mean, not just England—forget about the Brits—but anywhere. I mean, things are getting better around here, right? At least compared to a few years ago. And you've got all your friends—Gwen and Linc and Stretch—he's kind of a jerk, but I suppose he's okay. And you and me, right? We go back a long way too."

"Friends help friends out," I observed.

Bobby nodded. "That's what they do, I guess," he said softly. "You're a lucky man, Wally."

I didn't say anything.

"I talked to a guy this morning," he went on after a brief silence. "He works for the Feds—he's one of the guys overseeing the locals, making sure they enforce all those wonderful edicts comin' out of Atlanta. Anyway, he's corrupt as hell, and we maintain a very close, meaningful relationship, if you know what I mean. His boss, on the other hand, is a turd. He thinks he has a sacred duty to get those laws obeyed—he's sorta like Stretch, you know? Taller, though.

"Anyway, I brought up your case with my friend. And he says he thinks—he thinks, mind you—that he saw a folder in his boss's file cabinet one time, and it was filled with documents about the British occupation, or whatever you wanna call it. He thinks he can get his hands on that folder."

"But he doesn't know if—"

"He doesn't
know
anything, Wally. But he figures if what you're lookin' for is anywhere, it's in that folder."

"When can he get ahold of it?"

"Tomorrow, maybe the day after."

"It has to be tomorrow," I said. "My time's up tomorrow."

"All right, all right. I'll talk to him, see if I can set something up for tomorrow."

I let it sink in for a few moments. "This is really fantastic, Bobby," I said finally. "I don't know how I can ever repay you."

"I don't know either, Wally." Bobby stood up. "I'll talk to this guy in the morning and try to set it up, then I'll let you know what's goin' on."

"Great. I'll be here. If there's anything—"

"Just don't spread it around that I'm bribing this guy, all right? The last thing he needs is for Stretch or someone to turn him in."

"Of course. Thanks, Bobby. This is really—"

"Yeah, yeah. I know." He looked around once more. "So what are you gonna do with your fuckin' Renoirs if you go to England?"

"I'll give 'em to you, of course. I bet Mr. Fitch would like them."

"That's really generous of you, Wally."

"That's what friends are for," I said.

Bobby grinned. "I'll be in touch."

He turned and left my office. I stood by the window and watched as he walked out and climbed into the van next to Mickey. When they had disappeared, ghostlike, into the snow, I sat back down at my desk. My book suddenly didn't seem interesting anymore. I tossed it aside, leaned back in my chair, and thought until it was time to go home.

* * *

"Bobby may have found what I need," I said at supper. "I'll know for sure tomorrow."

"How did he find it?" Stretch demanded. "Who did he get it from?"

"I'm sworn to secrecy. But it sounds promising."

"I'd be careful about Bobby's friends, Walter. They're not to be trusted."

"Do we have a little jealousy here?" Linc wondered.

"I just don't want Walter to be misled," Stretch said.

"Why would anyone want to mislead Walter?" Gwen asked.

"I don't know. I just think he ought to be careful, that's all."

"Of course I'm going to be careful, Stretch," I said. "But it's pretty straightforward: I need proof that'll satisfy my client. If he doesn't accept my proof, it doesn't matter what I think."

"And if he accepts it, you've solved the case," Gwen said.

"More or less. I mean, I don't actually have this guy Cornwall to show my client."

"But that's out of the question, if he's in England," Gwen pointed out.

"Well, right." I looked down at my stew.

"This is exciting," Linc said.

"It certainly is," Gwen agreed.

I agreed too, but somehow no one seemed very excited. Linc left the table a few moments later and went up to bed. The rest of us finished our meal in silence.

Chapter 12

Another day at the office—another day of waiting, helplessly, for events to take their course.

A private eye shouldn't be helpless; a private eye should be in control of events. That was what attracted me to the business in the first place: I had spent my life feeling like a leaf in a hurricane, powerless in the wake of the ultimate power, the power that had transformed everything. Here was a chance to change. The events I would control might be trivial, but only if individual lives are to be considered trivial—a subject open to debate, I suppose, but one on which I have my own opinion.

The thing was, at this point I didn't really care. This had gotten a lot more serious than simply determining my self-image as a private eye. My entire future was at stake, and that made for a certain tension in my soul as the morning dragged on.

I tried to be rational, to keep my perspective. There were plenty of ways in which things would not work out: the mysterious file might not exist, or might not contain the proof I needed; Winfield could be lying about having the money, or about taking me along. The odds, really, were absurdly against me.

But there was a chance. And that made rationality very, very difficult.

Early in the afternoon there were the customary footsteps on the stairs and knock on the door. "Come in," I said.

Doctor J entered, sans shotgun. "Hey, Wally, how you doin'?"

"Okay, I guess. You got a message for me?"

He nodded. "The boss says: Charles Fingold, Room 304, JFK Building, two-thirty. Got it, Wally?"

I repeated it to him.

"You got it."

"Did he say anything else?"

Doctor J smiled. "He says fo' you to get a phone. I say so too."

"Well, both of you can go to hell."

Doctor J's smile widened into a grin, "He says good luck. I say so too."

I grinned back. "That's more like it. Thanks."

He gave a little wave, and then he left.

* * *

The JFK Federal Building is across Government Center from City Hall. I was there on time.

A soldier searched me at the door and took my gun away. A bribe would be required to get it back. Irritating, but that's life. Except for holdouts like Linc, people had gotten used to the government, and more or less accepted it. There had been too much chaos; we were willing to pay a few bribes in return for a little normality. When the soldier let me pass, I walked quickly up to the third floor.

Charles Fingold had a secretary—a good-looking redhead. A private eye should flirt with a good-looking secretary, but things were too serious for that. She told me to have a seat, and I obeyed. I waited while she went into her boss's office to tell him I was here.

The Feds treated themselves well, I noticed. The building was nicely heated and in good repair. Plenty of electricity too: the fluorescent lights all worked, the secretary's computer hummed agreeably. All the buildings were like this in England, I imagined.

The secretary came out of the office and motioned for me to enter. She smiled alluringly as I walked past. I managed a gulp.

"Shut the door," Fingold said.

I obeyed.

"Sit down."

I sat.

"If anyone asks, you were here for a job interview. We're looking for a few good locals. Understood?"

"Understood."

Fingold had a Southern accent, not unlike Winfield's. He was about fifty and military-looking, with short, iron-gray hair and gray eyes to match, a stiff white shirt, and a trim physique. But there was also something about him that looked—well, bribable. His jaw was a little slack and his eyes were a little dull, as if they had seen too much to care a great deal. The eyes looked at me warily. "I owe your friend a favor," he said, "but this isn't the kind of favor I feel comfortable performing."