Forever (17 page)

Vinette shook her head desperately. Tried to
hurry, yanking the end of the rubber with her teeth. Tightening the
tourniquet, cutting off the circulation.

On the back of her hand, the veins popped
out in bold relief.

Sweat and tears rolled down her face,
dripping onto her arm. This was the single hardest thing she'd ever
had to do. Harder, even, than going off the shit cold turkey.
Because after she'd been weaned off it, she'd vowed to Jesus she'd
never touch it again.

But I don't have any choice right now, she
told herself. If Jesus looks down and sees that gun pointed at my
head, He'll understand. I know He will. I don't have any choice
-

'Now pick up the needle!'

Vinette swallowed. Reached out as if for a
snake and picked up the prepared syringe with shaking fingers. The
long thin needle quivered, catching the light and glinting, the
plastic tube and plunger filled with - better she didn't ask; she
didn't even want to know.

Suddenly she became aware of squawks coming
from across the room. She turned towards the sound. The telephone
receiver was still off the hook! In her terror, she'd forgotten all
about it. If only she could -

'Now, forget that phone and get real nice
and high, know what I mean?'

Vinette's insides were thumping, and she
forced herself to clench and unclench her left fist. Making the
veins pop out even further.

'Now inject yourself.'

'P-please!' Vinette half turned her head and
looked up, her eyes pleading. 'I-I don't take drugs!'

The Ghost smirked. 'That ain't the way your
arms look.'

'That's from long ago! I've quitV

More squawks were coming from the telephone
receiver.

'Do it.' The Ghost's voice was quiet.

Vinette hesitated, saw implacable eyes,
merciless and without a shred of pity. Biting her lip, she looked
back down at her hand and slowly turned the needle towards herself.
And thought, Maybe . . . just maybe ... I could use it as a weapon?
She slid a sideways look at The Ghost.

'Don't even think about it, li'l mama!'

It was then that Vinette resigned herself
and shut her eyes in silent prayer. When she opened them again, a
kind of quiet strength shone through. Bowing her head, she said
calmly, 'Forgive me. Lord.' Then she pictured her dear sweet
Jowanda.

'I love you, Jowanda honey,' she whispered,
feeling her heart begin to swell inside her. And sitting straight
and tall, with a proud kind of dignity, she neatly slid the needle
into a vein and swiftly pushed the plunger.

The effect was instantaneous. Vinette
thinking she'd never felt so good . . . She sighed in contentment,
feeling suddenly sleepy . . . too sleepy to withdraw the needle.
She let it stick in her hand as her breathing slowed. Then she
slowly keeled sideways and tumbled off the chair.

She lay sprawled on the carpet. Eyes open.
Mouth shut. Lips turning blue.

The needle had snapped when she'd fallen,
and half of it was still embedded in her hand.

'Sweet dreams, li'l mama.' The Ghost
squatted down, feeling Vinette's neck for a pulse.

She was already dead. The speedball had done
its work.

From across the room, urgent squawks were
still coming from the telephone.

Rising, The Ghost went over and picked up
the receiver. Didn't make a sound. Just listened to Stephanie's
desperate shouts. Then smiled and hung up. Fished the red rose out
of the vase on the cart, put it in Vinette's hand, and closed the
pliable brown fingers around it.

Thinking, Yeah, it's checkout time.

At the Osborne, Stephanie was left holding a
dead phone.

New York City

The following day, Stephanie had a cab drop
her at Horatio Street. She got out with the draped cage in which
she could hear Waldo climbing restlessly, indignantly ruffling his
feathers to protest at being bounced and jolted.

Once inside her seventh-floor apartment,
Stephanie snap- locked the front door, carried the cage down the
hall to the loft-like living room, and set it on a table by the
spiral stairs. She whisked the cover off it. 'Here we are, Waldo!'
she announced. 'Home sweet home!'

Waldo cocked his head sideways and stared up
at her with one eye. 'Waldo!' the bird shrieked suddenly, starting
to walk sideways back and forth on the wooden bar in excitement.
'Waldo! Waldo wants a crack-er\ I love you, Steph!'

'Ah, the potential authentic lemon dish
returns,' a familiar voice offered from somewhere above. 'Served,
perhaps, with a splendiferous array of lotus stems, straw mushrooms
and special fish sauce?'

Stephanie tilted her head back and looked
up. 'Pham! What are you doing here?' she asked in surprise. 'You're
supposed to be studying! I thought your citizenship exam was
tomorrow.'

Pham sprightly tripped down the narrow
spiral steps from the second floor of the triplex.

There was an air of dignified affront. 'I am
doing what I usually do this day of the week. Try to make your home
habitable and clean squeaky. Aieee, the dust!' Pham ran an index
finger along the railing and eyed his finger narrowly. 'Too much
dust makes the house gods unhappy.' He shook his head
ominously.

'You know you don't have to do it today,'
Stephanie told him. 'Go home and study.'

'I am studying.' Pham slipped a stack of 3 x
5" index cards out of his pocket and held them out to her. 'I study
while I clean. Here. Ask me question,' he said proudly. 'Any
question.'

She took the cards and shuffled them. 'All
right,' she said, choosing one. 'Who was the twenty-eighth
president of the United States?'

He didn't hesitate. 'Woody Wilson.'

For the first time in a week, she burst out
laughing.

He blushed bright red. 'Pham wrong?' he
asked in mortification.

'No, no, no,' she assured him quickly.
'Woody is a diminutive of Woodrow.'

'Then what so funny?'

'It's hard to explain.'

'Miss Stephanie?'

'Yes, Pham?'

'It good to hear you laugh.'

She smiled. 'And it's good to laugh.'
Suddenly she looked concerned. 'By the way, what time is it? I
overslept, and was in such a hurry to get down here I left my watch
uptown.'

Pham looked at his, which he wore on the
underside of his wrist. 'One minute until the hour of twelve
noon.'

'Noon!' Stephanie exclaimed. 'I'm running
late!' Her lunch meeting with Alan Pepperberg was . . . well, not
at noon, exactly, but noon/5/1. Still, if she didn't hurry, she'd
keep him waiting. 'I've got to run, Pham!' she said quickly.
'Listen, could you do me a giant favour? Fill Waldo's container
with water?'

Pham eyed the cage suspiciously. 'You know
that bird not like me. Like to peck off my fingers every time I get
close to it!'

'Please?' Stephanie wheedled. 'I've really
got to run.'

'Okay. I give it dish of water,' Pham said
reluctantly.

'You're an angel.' Swiftly Stephanie kissed
Pham on the cheek. 'Well, I'd better dash. See you later. And
study!

'If I not here when you get back, I be up at
your grandfather's!' Pham called after her. 'I can fetch your
watch, bring it here?'

Stephanie was already halfway down the
hallway. 'Don't make a special trip on account of me,' she called
over her shoulder. 'I think I'll go up there myself later on to
start sorting through things. Bye!' she added with a wave, and
hurried out.

Breezing into the Corner Bistro ten minutes
later, Stephanie stopped just inside the door and looked around the
dim interior. All the tables along the windows of the narrow front
room were occupied by couples, trios, and foursomes. At none of
them sat a lone man. Speculatively, she eyed the backs of the heads
of the men hunched over the bar. Could one of them be Alan
Pepperberg? she wondered.

The bartender noticed her and gestured her
over. 'Someone's waiting for you in back, Steph,' he rasped,
pointing. 'Last booth on the left.'

She smiled. 'Thanks, Jer.'

Stephanie nodded approvingly to herself as
she strode towards the back. Apparently, Alan Pepperberg believed
discretion to be the better part of valour. Either he had arrived
very, very early, or else had managed to use some sort of guile to
get the single most private table in the joint.

She found him sitting in the tall
black-painted plywood booth facing away from everybody else, his
view restricted to a dirty little window looking out onto Jane
Street. A half-finished caramel-coloured drink was on the table in
front of him.

'Mr Pepperberg?' she said softly as she
approached from behind.

Startled, he looked up. Then, resting his
hands, one of which held a cigarette, flat on the tabletop, he rose
to an awkward, half-standing, half-sitting position.

Stephanie appraised him in one experienced
journalist's glance. He was much younger than she'd expected -
early twenties at the most. Thin, with a slightly manic look, very
energetic darting blue eyes, big Adam's apple, and a snow-white
Billy Idol peroxide crew cut. He wore six gold ear studs and a
three-inch silver sword dangling from his left ear. A Katharine
Hamnett fashion version of a classic black motorcycle jacket
dripping with studs and chains. Strategically torn and washed-out
Levi's. And a pair of Doc Martens shit-kicker boots with electric-
blue laces and an inch of blue wool socks turned down over the
tops. But he was clean and punky; not at all seedy. And clearly not
at all what she'd anticipated. He had a creative bent, of that she
was absolutely certain - just as she was certain his punk look was
a carefully cultivated style. Had to be. His jacket alone retailed
for $3,000. She knew. She'd admired it at Charivari.

She held out her hand. 'Hi. I'm Stephanie
Merlin.'

'I know,' he said. Carefully, he put his
cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, evidence that he'd been
saving the booth for quite some time. His grip was surprisingly
firm. 'I recognise you from TV,' he added, a touch sheepishly.

She smiled to put him at ease. 'I hope I
didn't keep you waiting too long, Mr Pepperberg?'

'Alan. Call me Alan.'

'Alan, then. And I'm Stephanie. Okay?'

He nodded. 'Okay.'

She swung her shoulder bag onto the bench
opposite his, slid in after it, and placed her elbows on the
table-top. It had decades' worth of names, dates, initials, and
hearts carved into its scarred surface.

The moment she was seated, he sat back down
and picked up his half-smoked cigarette. He drew on it nervously.
'You don't mind?' he asked, turning his head to blow the smoke away
from the table.

She shook her head. 'No. Go right
ahead.'

Alan smiled gratefully. Took another nervous
drag and toyed with his glass, making the ice cubes tinkle.

'I'm glad you agreed to meet,' he said,
looking down into his drink. 'Especially considering how I called,
out of the blue.' He looked up and smiled uneasily. 'I was afraid
you were going to dismiss me as a nutcase. But then, opera fanatics
usually are weird. Or at least, a breed apart.'

Stephanie's expression was one of
bewilderment. 'You're an opera fan?'

He grinned disarmingly. 'I know, I know. One
look at me and you think, "There goes one terminal case of punk
rock!" '

'Which just goes to show you can't always
judge a book by its cover,' Stephanie said with a soft laugh. She
laced her fingers together and rested her chin on the backs of her
hands. 'I take it you have a thing for opera, then?' she
prompted.

'Mainly, I'm a collector. And what I collect
are opera recordings.' He glanced over at her. 'Just like other
people collect art, or Hummel figurines, or spoons?'

Stephanie nodded encouragingly.

'I guess I must have collected, oh, over
fifteen thousand old records by now . . . forty-fives,
seventy-eights, thirty-threes . . . about another four thousand
reel-to-reels . . . probably close on six thousand cassettes. Lost
count of the exact number of compact discs, though.'

Stephanie stared at him. 'My God! Where do
you live? Tower Records?'

He grinned. 'Well, in a loft, but it is
beginning to look like a record store. Anyway, last month?' His
voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. 'I managed to get hold
of the master reel of a recording of Callas singing live in Mexico
City! Imagine!' His eyes gleamed like a religious fanatic's. 'The
recording was unauthorised. You know. Someone had a recorder and a
microphone hidden somewhere in the audience? All in all, it's
pretty dreadful as far as sound quality goes.' He smiled. 'But I
had to have it. Had to!' He clenched a fist for emphasis. 'Shelled
out ten grand for it, too.'

Stephanie was shocked. 'Ten thousand? You
mean dollarsT

He waved his hand dismissively. 'It was
nothing. Not for one of the crown jewels in my collection. Why, it
would have been a bargain at ten times that price! Do you have any
idea how rare something like this is?'

'Well, one thing's for sure,' Stephanie
observed dryly, 'you obviously aren't a starving artist.'

'N-no . . . ' He looked a little
uncomfortable. 'My . . . uh . . . grandfather. He left me a small
trust fund, you see ... '

'I see,' she said, emphasising the 'I'. And
suddenly a light bulb lit up inside her head. 'The Pepperberg
Guaranty Trust Pepperbergs!' she exclaimed. 'You're one of them,
aren't you?'

He winced. 'Guilty.' Then he smiled
shamefacedly. 'I'm the black sheep who refused to go into
banking.'

Small wonder he could shell out ten thousand
dollars on a poor- quality recording! The Pepperbergs were right up
there with the Annenbergs and the Rockefellers and the Mellons.

'Tell me something, Stephanie,' he said,
abruptly changing the subject. 'Have you heard of Boris
Guberoff.'