Drawing Dead (41 page)

I sat up. Felt my head. Looked at my hand. No blood, anyway. But my ear was at least double-size already.

I stumbled back to the glass doors.

I invited myself in.

I found the bedroom. Eloise was still on the bed. Her arms were still over her head. I saw why. She was handcuffed, both hands, the handcuff chain looped over the brass rail at the head of the bed.

She had on some black silk thing. It was half torn from her. I got to see more of her than was appropriate in the circumstances.

Eloise, I said, trying to cover her with the bedsheet, are you all right?

She turned her head to me. Her eyes were red. Her mouth hung open. She rattled the cuffs.

You have any tools here? I asked.

The shed, she said blankly, indicating the backyard with her eyes.

I went back out. Butch was there. I pulled him around the side of the trailer.

The fuck you been? I whispered. I almost got killed.

No you didn’t, he said. I was watching.

The fuck you were.

I fucking was.

Why didn’t you help me?

Happened too fast. Then you went into the trailer. Figured you and the sister wanted a heart-to-heart. So I waited.

You waited.

Yeah. Called in the plate.

And?

Nothing. Rental. We can track it down. But something tells me the guy who rented it doesn’t exist.

I wouldn’t bet against it.

But I’ll run it down anyway.

That’s your job.

Yeah.

Protecting my ass doesn’t seem to be in your job description.

Fuck you.

Fuck you, too. Wait out here. I got to talk to her some more.

I’ll be right here. Covering your ass. Unless I’m back in the car. Getting cool.

I found a pair of pruning shears in the garden shed. Best I could do. They looked pretty strong.

When I got back, she was hunched over, as much as possible given her restraints, sobbing and shaking. I stroked her hair for a few moments.

It’s all right, I said. I’ll get you out of those in a second.

She nodded.

It took a couple cracks at it, but I broke the cuffs’ chain. She still had the shackles on her wrists, but she was freed from the bed frame.

The cops can get those off, I said.

She turned her face to me, streaked with black, and bruised in more than one place.

No cops, she hissed.

Eloise. You got to report this. That guy’s maybe on his way to … attack someone else.

No, she said, back to her flat voice. No. No.

Listen, I know this is traumatic. But you can’t let this guy just get away.

You don’t understand, she said.

What don’t I understand?

I can take care of it.

I admire your self-assurance, I said. But this is not something you can handle alone.

I’m not alone.

Well, I’m flattered. But I’m not a cop. I can’t chase this guy down.

Not you, she said with a hint of contempt.

Oh. You mean Vladimir? Is he here? Looks like he took care of you real well.

She stared at me, silent. Her eyes were hard.

Sorry, I said. That was inappropriate. Let’s get you some clothes.

I can get my own clothes, she said, pulling the shreds of black silk around her chest. Please leave.

Jesus, girl, I can’t leave you here alone, like this. He could be coming back. If you won’t let me call the cops, you at least have to let me stay. A while, at least.

Whatever, she said. Wait in the living room.

I went to the living room. Slumped on the divan. Took one of her Benson & Hedges. Lit it up.

She took a long time.

I thought about what I’d seen. I hadn’t gotten much of a look at the guy. Stocky. Maybe five foot nine, ten at the most. Strong. When he’d opened his mouth, I’d noticed his teeth: snaggly on the bottom. One missing on top.

That was about it.

I was kicking myself for waiting so long. What a pussy. She’d been beaten up pretty bad. Bruises on her neck, her ribs, her thighs. There was blood on her mouth. Shit. I could have prevented all that. Or some of it, anyway.

On the other hand, I thought. Lucky the fucker didn’t gutshoot me. Or use that knife. It’d looked pretty nasty.

Three smokes later, just when I was about to get worried about her all over again, she appeared.

She was wearing a floor-length embroidered thing. Looked like some kind of eighteenth-century Russian thing, or something. Maybe it was Nepalese. It provided full coverage. She was wearing a very large pair of sunglasses. She’d cleaned up her face, covered the marks with some kind of makeup. If you hadn’t known she’d just been brutally assaulted, in the dim of the trailer you might not even notice.

You have to leave, she said calmly.

Do we have to have this argument again? I asked. I absolutely refuse to leave you alone. At least let me call Louise. She can get some help over here.

No, she said sharply. You will not tell Louise about this.

I wondered what the punishment would be, if I transgressed.

I won’t be alone anyway, she said, turning her back to me.

Oh. Well, let me at least stay until he gets here.

That’s not a good idea, she said, her monotone returned, reinforced with steel.

Damn. This was a woman who meant what she said.

Her hair fell in elegant trails down the dress, gown, whatever it was.

Get out, she said between her teeth.

I got the message. I invited myself out. I retraced my steps, the steps the Hooded Man had taken. I scoured the ground. Nothing of interest, that I could see. But then, I was no forensics expert.

Butch was back at the Shelby. He didn’t look happy. I saw why. The passenger-side window was shattered.

I got in the car. The glove box had been rifled.

Lucky it was a rental.

I filled Butch in. We talked about hanging around. See if there really was somebody coming. Had to be Vladimir, right?

Unless, I said.

Unless.

Unless that
was
Vladmir.

Rick.

Butch.

Sometimes you’re a bit slow.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Enlighten me.

Vladmir wouldn’t need to sneak around the back. Wear a mask.

We ll—

Rent a car.

Unless—

And didn’t that Toni bloke tell you he was tall?

Oh, yeah, right.

My back hurt like hell. My feet felt numb. And I knew Eloise was watching, to make sure we left. I could feel it. I wouldn’t put it past her to be calling Vlad right now, telling him it was me that did it to her. Have him come over and impale me.

Fuck it, I said. Let’s get the hell out of here.

No argument from me, said Butch. He pulled the Shelby around.

Shards of safety glass fell on my head from the broken window.

Shit, I said. I don’t think I got the optional insurance coverage.

I
WOKE UP
. Or something like that. My eyes were open. I could feel pain. Real pain in real time. This meant, I concluded, that I was not only awake, but alive. Though I felt ambiguous about both. I considered closing those eyes back up rolling over, going back to the swirling dream from which I had awoken. Something about failure. I’d been a test pilot. Crashed the plane. Somehow survived the impact. They weren’t happy with me. Whoever they were.

Going back to dreamland was not an option, though. Too much pain. Too many questions. The best I could do was drag myself through a hot shower, grab a glass of scotch and a few painkillers, watch some vapid television and wait for the head pain to subside.

After the shower, after I’d poured the scotch, scarfed the meds, lain
back with the remote for a while, found some weird foreign film, I mused. Musing can help head pain.

I can’t believe how far I’ve come, I contemplated. Was it so long ago that I was reading every volume in the Hardy Boys series? And yet here I am, watching a Japanese film about a man and his pet eel. Without subtitles.

The eel was talking to the guy.

I mused about Eloise. Something was off. How could someone get shackled, trashed, humiliated, beaten up, and then refuse any help? Jesus, she could have got killed. Had to be that Vlad was coming. That she figured he could find the guy. Break his kneecaps.

But how was he supposed to figure out who the guy was, still less find him? I just didn’t get it. It was as weird as the guy talking to the eel. But that was a movie. At least, I thought it was. It had a way of drawing you in. Even if you didn’t understand Japanese. There was something about the relationship of the man and his eel that was … mesmerizing. Much like my reaction to Eloise, I began to think. I’d had a view of more of her than I’d been entitled to. And I was probably out of line to think about it, but it was awfully hard to repress. Long and slim. Smooth as milk. If you ignored the bruises. Breasts … well, breasts to conjure with. And tough. I loved a tough woman. And a tough woman with a body like that, well. How could I not at least think about it? Muse awhile.

It was better than musing about Dead Brendan. Or my humiliating night in the basement at the House of Perversion. Well, the morning had been humiliating. I could only guess, in the absence of any but the vaguest recollection, at just how humiliating the night before had been.

I shoved the past into the past. I made the mistake of looking at my cell phone. Two calls from Louise. Damn. My plans were ruined. I’d have to do something.

If I didn’t call her back, it’d only nag at me. Sharpen the pain.

I called her. Not without fortifying myself first with a second scotch. It went down well. The heartburn was tolerable. The effect on my mood was immediate, and highly desirable.

I felt almost smooth.

Ms. Chandler, I said. Returning your call.

I haven’t heard from you for some time, she said.

Yes. I didn’t want to disturb you until I had some news. Shall we meet, for lunch, say?

That would be fine, she said, the coldness in her voice only slightly dissipated.

Your place or mine? I said, and immediately regretted it.

There was a pause. I knew what it meant.

It meant I was a drunken fool given to radically inappropriate behavior at all hours of the day.

Hey, I said to myself, tell me something I didn’t know already.

I’ll meet you at the Daniel Boulud restaurant at the Wynn, she said. One o’clock. The reservation will be in my name.

Sure, I said.

I had no idea what restaurant she was referring to. But I wasn’t about to tell her that. I’d figure it out.

Fine, she said.

See you then, I said with excessive enthusiasm.

She hung up.

I put down the phone.

I considered calling her back. Telling her I wasn’t up to this. That my brother-in-law had just died. That I wasn’t handling it well. I’d leave out the part about the Russian mob. No sense in burdening her with unnecessary detail.

I didn’t do it, of course. A job is a job. You do your job. You do it well. Or as well as you can. That’s it. That’s all. Nothing more to it.

My father taught me that. Or he would have, had he lived long enough.

At the desk, I asked a gent with a uniform and a pencil mustache about this restaurant at the Wynn.

Oh, you’ll enjoy that, sir, he said. One of the finest in the world.

Really?

Everybody says so.

I’d rather be at the Wolf’s Lair, I said.

He gave me a puzzled look.

Forget it, I said. Inside joke.

Certainly, sir, he said with a cheery smile.

O
N THE WAY TO THE
W
YNN
, I
CALLED
B
UTCH
. No news on the Brendan front.

At least nothing they’ll tell me about, he said.

Shit, man, I thought you had some clout down here.

I never said that.

That doesn’t mean I couldn’t think it.

Anyway, they’re just saying they haven’t finished the toxicological tests, all that. Nothing to report. I don’t think they’re shitting me.

Fuck, I said.

Yeah, he replied. I know.

Why don’t you go over there? Bang on some walls. Kick some cans.

I’ll do that, man. Nothing else, it’ll keep me busy. Oh, I do have one thing.

Give it to me.

This one’ll get us a long way.

All right, just give it up.

That powder? From the FedEx envelope?

Yeah.

Clay.

What?

Clay. It was clay. Pure clay. Not a drug molecule in sight.

What the fuck?

Yeah.

Why would somebody be FedExing a bunch of clay to somebody?

It’s an excellent question, Rick. Maybe you should ask your client that. Or her sister.

I’m meeting her now. The client.

Ah. Good luck.

I appreciate that.

You’ll need it.

I won’t. My natural charm is all I need.

That and some major surgery.

Say what?

I don’t know. Liposuction. Nose job. Face-lift. Dick extension. The works.

You’re a funny man.

They say that.

L
OUISE WAS DRESSED IN A SLICK BLACK THING
that did everything for her charms and nothing for my self-control. The latter having already been reduced from its usual proportion, minimal, to nonexistent by events, which of course included the imbibation of gallons of spirits and dozens of painkillers.

So I was feeling very spiritual, so to speak, by the time Ms. Chandler arrived.

I took her hand. Made an elaborate display of kissing it.

Mr. Redman, she said, I would appreciate it if in future you refrained, before our meetings, from getting quite this inebriated.

Does it really show? I asked, knocking over the chair I was attempting gallantly to pull out for her.

I guess that didn’t need a response. It didn’t get one.

I retrieved the chair from its prone position. I waved Ms. Chandler into its springy bamboo seat. I deftly pushed it in as she sat.

My timing was perfect. Hah! I’d show her and her ‘quite this inebriated.’

The informalities concluded, I told her of the latest adventures at the trailer park. The stakeout. The break-in. The aftermath.