Dover Beach (13 page)

"I don't understand," I replied. "Isn't this just some old document you're providing me? It isn't like, oh, letting people smuggle in computer parts."

"You're right," Fingold replied. "You don't understand. Look, the British are our allies now, and the government is pretty sensitive about what they did when they were here. The British insist they were just trying to help out, and people around here seem to think they were trying to take New England over while it was too weak to resist. Frankly, the United States government doesn't really care what happened back then. We just don't want old wounds reopened."

"All right. But you don't have to worry. I'm just trying to find a guy's father—I'm not writing an exposé for the
Globe."

Fingold shrugged. "Look, basically it doesn't matter to me what you do with the stuff, as long as it doesn't get traced back to me, and I don't have to take care of the consequences. Okay?"

"My lips are sealed," I said. "Now, can I see what you've got?"

Fingold stared at me, and then opened the top drawer of his desk. He took out several creased sheets of paper. "I think this is what you're looking for," he said. "Your friend says you've got a photographic memory. Says you know everything you read—Shakespeare, whatever—by heart. What if I were to just show these sheets to you and let you memorize them?"

"May I see them?" Fingold slid them across the desk.

Three typewritten sheets, rather smudged, stapled in the upper left corner. No letterhead, just a typed return address. The top sheet was a letter from Mr. J. T. Carstairs of the Ministry of Science in His Majesty's Government. It was addressed to Mr. Frederick Wheeler of the Department of State and was dated seven years ago. I wondered for a brief moment how it had gotten from Atlanta to Boston, to this office, into my hands. But that didn't matter. Here it was, and my heart thumped as I read it.

Dear Mr. Wheeler:

Your recent enquiry has been forwarded to my office. In response, I have enclosed a list of those scientists whom our American Relief Expedition accommodated with air transportation to England. I have been informed by the leaders of the A.R.E. that no scientist was taken against his or her will, and that emigration was offered solely as a means of protecting these valuable men and women, who were at such risk in the postwar environment.

Let me assure you that the scientists were well taken care of while they were in our hands. After landing at Heathrow, they were housed temporarily in dormitories at the University of London while they made arrangements to carry on their work in Great Britain. In no instance was anyone forced to take a particular job as a prerequisite for emigration, and in no instance was anyone who wanted to leave Great Britain forced to stay. We have no specific knowledge of the current whereabouts of these scientists, but it is my understanding that several may in fact have subsequently returned to the United States. If you request, I will look into this matter. It is our sincere hope that we be able to clear up any and all misunderstandings arising from the work of the A.R.E. If you have any further questions concerning this matter, please do not hesitate to bring them to my attention.

Yours most sincerely,

J. T. Carstairs

Interesting letter, but not half as interesting as the list attached to it. I turned the page.

T. J. Anderson

P. F. Bamberger

R. R. Bernstein

X. Boyce

L. A. Carrington

T. Cerpinski

R. M. Cornwall...

...and on. Maybe seventy-five names, double-spaced, two columns, finishing up on the third sheet. I didn't look at the rest of the names.

Once upon a time I shared a bottle of vodka with an old man in a cold basement while some hungry rats looked on. Maybe the man wasn't so old, but he looked as if he had suffered far too much and only wanted to forget. I was very young and got very drunk. I do not know how successful the old man was, but I forgot: for a brief while, my only reality was the spinning, buzzing euphoria inside my brain. Such a wonderful reality.

But it ended soon enough, with a headache and an upset stomach, and I was back there in that basement with the rats and the wretched, dying man. The old, implacable reality had returned, the only reality I had ever known, and I resolved never to have another drink. It was too awful to escape for a while, and then have to go back again.

When I laid the sheets of paper down, I felt as if Fingold had given me a never-ending bottle of vodka. I looked up at him and gestured at the sheets. "Could I borrow these for a while? I promise to bring them right back."

Fingold shook his head. "Absolutely not." He passed me a pad of yellow paper. "Why don't you copy down the information you want?"

"I'm afraid that won't do. I need proof for my client. Hell, I could just make up a list out of my head and show it to him. Why should he believe me? He'll want to see the originals."

Fingold took the sheets from the desk. I stared at them: the pardon snatched from the condemned man. I tried smiling my most winning smile. "Listen," I said. "This is pretty important to me. Isn't there some way—"

He waved me silent and stood up. "Come with me," he said, looking disgusted.

I went with him. We left his office, walked down the corridor, and turned into a small alcove. It contained a waist-high boxlike gray machine.

"The damn thing never works," Fingold said, "but I guess it's worth a try."

He pulled up the lid on the machine and placed the top sheet face-down on a piece of glass inside. He pressed a button. There was a flash of light and the hum of movement inside. After a few seconds the machine disgorged a piece of paper—the thing looked to me like a gray monster sticking out its white tongue at the world. "Son of a gun," Fingold said. He picked up the piece of paper and gave it to me.

Xerox.
I saw the word on the side of the machine—a word from the world I had never experienced. A strange, wonderful word. I managed to restrain myself from yelping with delight. "This will do," I said. "Can you make Xeroxes of the rest?"

"Say a prayer."

I did. He did. I folded the Xeroxes and put them in my pocket. "Thank you very much," I said to Fingold.

"Don't mention it," he replied. "I mean that. Just tell your friend I did my part."

"I'll be happy to."

I held out my hand. Fingold shook it—somewhat reluctantly, I thought—and then headed back to his office.

I walked down to the lobby and cheerfully bought back my gun from the soldier. Then I hurried off to the Ritz, thinking of other wonderful words from the old days, words that till now had been as foreign to my experience as hieroglyphics:
Coke, Jacuzzi, parking meter, Big Mac.

Words that might now be more than a congeries of letters on a page, a faded photograph in a moldy magazine. Words that Dr. Winfield might now bring to life for me through some magic I dared not imagine.

I had come through for him. Would he come through for me?

Chapter 13

Dr. Winfield was shitfaced.

He looked as if he hadn't left his room since the last time I had been there. He was barefoot and unshaven, and the white shirt he wore was wrinkled and stained. He had graduated from wine to whiskey: a half-empty bottle stood on the night table by his bed. He did not inspire confidence.

"Mr. Sands, your deadline has arrived," he said mock-dramatically when he opened the door. "Want a drink?"

"No, thanks."

He staggered to the bed and sprawled face-down on it. I was afraid he had passed out. "You want to see what I've got?" I asked.

He said something unintelligible to the bedspread. I waited, and eventually he half turned over and waved. I put the sheets into his hand and sat down. He managed to turn himself completely over, groaned, squinted at the pages for a few moments, and then tossed them aside.

The gesture did not inspire optimism. I waited for a further response, but Winfield merely closed his eyes and folded his hands corpselike on his chest. "Um, Dr. Winfield?" I murmured.

He opened a bloodshot eye. "Yeah?"

"Just making sure you're still alive." Damned if I was going to beg for his reaction.

"Still alive," he muttered. He opened both eyes and gestured at the sheets. "Interesting, huh?"

"I thought so."

"Have a hard time getting the information?"

"Not especially," I had to admit.

"No one tried to kill you?"

"Not that I noticed."

"Still, it's real. He's over there. Doing something amazing."

It wasn't clear to me that we had any proof he was doing something amazing, but then, it was becoming apparent that Winfield didn't need any proof. Like me, he had a dream—a dream of his clone, his creator—and the dream was all that mattered.

"So what do we do now?" I asked.

"Find him, of course."

"The evidence is sufficient? You want to go to England?"

Winfield reached over and poured himself a drink. "Who cares about the evidence?" he said. "I was gonna go anyway. Don't wanna go back to Florida. Work day and night—for what? Keep people alive so they can feel more pain, and then they die anyway. They all die. Shit." He gulped down the whiskey.

He didn't care about the evidence. Swell. "Are you taking me?" I asked.

"You want to come?"

"Yes."

"Then sure. Come on along. I could use the company."

"Okay."

Winfield poured himself another drink. Now what? Everything was going as I had dreamed it would, so why didn't it seem real?

"When do we leave?" I asked.

Winfield gestured dismissively. "Anytime."

"Do you have the money for our tickets?"

He looked at me as if I were an annoying fly, and he was trying to decide whether to answer me or swat me. Finally he stumbled to his feet and went over to the closet. He rooted around inside it for a few moments, and then came out holding a large peanut butter jar filled with white powder. He set it down next to the whiskey bottle on the night table and flopped back onto the bed. "Our tickets," he said.

"What is it?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

"It's the best hospital-approved morphine a doctor can steal. Know anyone in the market?"

I stared at it. Then I stared at Winfield. This wasn't in my dream. But private eyes don't get to choose their clients; and people who want to go to England had better not be very choosy about the source of their funds. So what should I do?

I closed my eyes. There was no choice. Patients in Florida were screaming in pain, but I had had my share of pain too. "Yeah," I said. "I guess I know someone who's in the market. Can I use your phone?"

Bobby was sure to be impressed.

* * *

Bobby was impressed enough to send Mickey in the van for us right away. Winfield was not inclined to go, but I suppose he realized he couldn't stay in that hotel room forever—and he wasn't going to let me take off by myself with his peanut butter jar. He cradled it in his lap as we made our way through the snow to South Boston.

The two of us confused Brutus as we climbed the stairs to Bobby's office: he wanted to wag his tail at Winfield, he wanted to maul me. The best he could do was to growl indecisively as we went by. That was all right with me.

Bobby greeted Winfield effusively. "So nice of you to come, sir. I'm sure we'll have no trouble with our little transaction. Tell me, what do you think of our fair city?"

Winfield made a face. "The weather sucks."

"Oh, well, it's not like it used to be, but it's still quite, er, invigorating, wouldn't you say, Mr. Sands?"

"Um—"

"That's right. Incidentally, Mr. Sands here is quite possibly the best private investigator in the city."

"Prob'ly the only one," Winfield muttered.

"Well, you know, I hadn't thought of that. Now let's take a look at this white stuff here, shall we?"