Poisonous Kiss (12 page)

     "Your original self is in flat opposition with this new one. That ego you were born with is filled with empathy, understanding, and—no offense—fear. It won't just go away without resistance. Your original self puts up a fight, and your two selves take turns having the upper hand. That causes the feeling of uncertainty. In some cases there is a stalemate, and neither of them can win for a while. If that happens in a dangerous situation, your system can't take it without giving signals, physical reactions."

     She looked up at last like she expected me to say something. I didn't know what to say.

     "That's what causes your bouts of sickness." She raised her head again. Her hair fell over her face, hiding it from view. I wanted to see her eyes, but I had a feeling that she wanted to shut herself off from me. We both remained silent, the silence grew thick between us. I drank the beer and put the can softly on the table. I hesitated only a moment. Something drove me, I had to leave this room full of memories. I didn't say good-bye, just turned and started toward the door. I slowed my steps in the waiting room, certain that she'd call after me. A mistake. Both selves sighed at the same time as I close the door behind me.

Arany sips from the tepid water in front of him. He appears weak. His attorney—a short, shabbily dressed balding man—looks at him questioningly. He could ask the judge for a recess. Arany shakes his head no, with a slight, almost invisible move. The lawyer looks concerned. He's heard that Arany's sickness is followed by bouts of aggressive behavior. He's asked his client at least a dozen times to plead insanity, but was rebuffed every time. They'll have to use the insanity defense anyway if Arany is overcome by his illness and attacks someone in the courtroom.

     The lawyer would say something to his defendant but Arany is ignoring him. He's leaning forward, staring at Captain Ericsson. The captain wears a crisp uniform, and his graying hair is freshly cut. He sits rigidly, demonstrating an instinctive respect for the court, but he can't control his eyes as he throws a hostile glance at the prosecutor.

     The government's counsel is ready for a duck shoot. Even though Ericsson is an experienced witness, he's never been forced to defend his own character or the character of any of his men. The captain's honest, straightforward, military-style answers are easy for an experienced cross-examiner to pick apart.

     "Can you tell us, Captain, what is the duty of the police force?"

     It's obviously a set-up question, but Ericsson can't be sure where the prosecutor's going.

     "Maintaining order. I would think that's pretty clear."

     "Good, good." The prosecutor begins nodding before Ericsson has finished his answer, and continues to do so as he starts his next question: "Wouldn't you add, captain, that the police are supposed to maintain order using lawful procedures?"

     "Yes. Using lawful procedures."

     Now Ericsson knows what's coming, and he decides he won't let the prosecutor make him angry. OK, the kid killed a man, murdered his lover's husband, and for that he deserves to be sentenced. But that had nothing to do with Arany's work. He did excellent work. Whether he went by the book or not, the kid did what he had to do. And the prosecutor can screw himself with his "lawful procedures" crap.

     "And would you say an officer is using lawful procedures if they break in on a peaceful, sleeping citizen, and use physical force to obtain information—all without identifying himself as a member of the police force? Would you also call it using lawful procedures if he causes serious injuries to another peaceful citizen during this same incident?"

     "Detective Arany was attacked by that peaceful citizen, sir. Everyone has the right to defend himself."

     Arany looks down, to avoid his lawyer's helpless glance and the sight of Celia taking careful notes. He just listens to the prosecutor as the man takes Ericsson apart. It's an easy task. He knows he's committed every kind of infraction. He broke every rule because he was in a jungle, living by its rules. And now, when he returns to civilization, he is reproached. Anger slowly creeps over him. They didn't care this much when Carl died. Now here he was, being painted as a criminal because he fought back, just tried to defend himself. The man's fist nearly smashed his face in, so he hit back. So what?

     He looks down at his hands, lying clenched in his lap. They've stopped shaking. He unclenches his fingers cautiously. It would only take one move to have a gun in his hand.

     Now the prosecutor has raised his voice, and speaks like a preacher giving a sermon:

     "If I understand you correctly Captain, you believe that it's all right for the police to beat private citizens in order to obtain information. You believe the police have the right to use force whenever they think it will help them—simply because they believe that someone is keeping secrets. If I understand you correctly Captain, you're talking about a police state—the kind of system that I want no part of."

     The lawyer can't resist the temptation to turn toward the press gallery and pause a moment for effect.

     Ericsson remains silent.

     "Well Captain, is this what you believe? Yes or no?"

     "There are situations, when—"

     "Yes or no, captain. Just one word."

     Just one move! Arany can't stop thinking about it. He could reach out for the glass, then smack the guard with his elbow. Then he could grab the gun from the other guard as the man turns toward him. God, it would be so easy. He understands he shouldn't—can't—do it. He knows why he has these thoughts, but it's so hard to resist them.

     Ericsson is silent, his face reddens. He reaches into his pocket for a pill, and swallows it without water. Silence. Arany looks at the prosecutor's face and can see his fist hitting it. Just reach for the glass like he wants a drink …

     "Well captain? What can you tell us?"

     "Well, I can tell you sir, that you are an ass."

     The silence detonates, like a still lake hit by a falling boulder. Laughter, shouts, the judge's gavel. Arany's hand stops reaching toward the glass. Ericsson's face relaxes. He's retired, and seriously ill. He has only a few years to live. As far as he's concerned the prosecutor can go to hell.

     "I can tell you sir, that in this city a police officer's life is always in danger. I can tell you, that this nice, safe courtroom, where you see the criminals, is nothing like the street. Out in the street, we try to follow the book, but the bad guys don't have any rules and the cops have to struggle just to stay alive. I can tell you that, not too long ago, one police officer lost this struggle. Not too long ago an officer was killed. And that officer was Arany's partner."

     The prosecutor is fifty years old, but with his lean body he looks younger. A real pro, very cool. He doesn't speak, just waits, showing no emotion, until the room is silent. It takes a couple minutes, but he waits until everyone is looking at him. He begins to speak in a small voice, that everyone has to strain to hear. He doesn't defend himself, or sound hurt.

     "I am sorry, Captain. You don't have to believe me, but I really am sorry. You see, I'm on your side. We represent law and order in this country. You lead on the street, and I follow in the courtroom. But if you think it's all right for either one of us—you or me—to ignore the rules in a private quest for revenge, you lose me. I can't follow you that far, Captain."

     Arany's attorney jumps up to object, he says the questions are irrelevant to the case, but he's waved down by the judge.

     The prosecutor raises his voice.

     "I believe my questions are very relevant. I intend to prove that it was not an accident that Detective Arany used his gun that evening, and I would like to prove that he did not act with provocation. No! I would expect better behavior from an honest, law abiding officer. But I don't think that's how you would describe a detective who conducted his own personal investigation off-duty, and who left injuries in his wake— who took justice into his hands."

     The prosecutor would win this round if he could leave it at that. But there are people who never know when to stop. So he pushes his advantage a step farther.

     "Or would you disagree with my description of Detective Arany's actions, Captain? Are you trying to tell me that everything he did was on your orders?"

     Ericsson doesn't need much time to think about his answer. He remembers the office he occupied for decades, the photos he took home in a brown paper box. He remembers his past, which is already forgotten by everyone but himself, and his future, which barely exists.

     "Yes sir." He answers quietly. "Everything that Arany did in his investigation he did under my orders."

"I knew it was you." Gladys Ferrow stands at the door wearing gym shorts and a red T-shirt that doesn't quite cover her navel. "House" music blares from behind her and slanting sunlight pierces the room through a window.

     She watches him with a curious, mildly suspicious face.

     "I knew it. As soon as I heard some crazy white man broke Arturo's arm and beat his neighbor half to death. Just did it, no reason." She looks up into his face narrowing her eyes to slit. "You're crazy, man!"

     Arany shrugs, his composure blown.

     "Can I come in?"

     Gladys hesitates. She turns her head to look behind her and gives a flattering view of her cleavage.

     "Or another time. I'm sorry, do you have company?"

     "Shit," she snaps. Then she steps to one side. "Come on in."

     She walks in front of him and her big hips sway heavily. She turns the radio down a bit.

     "I never bring anybody here." She sounds annoyed, but Arany can't see her face.

     He looks around.

     "It's nice here."

     There's two armchairs with bright, flower-print slipcovers and a low, glass topped coffee table. A small bookshelf holds romances, horror stories and a bible. The shelves also contain a vase, a painted beer stein and little souvenir statuettes. There's a giant poster showing sunset on an African plain, with elephants jogging away from the photographer. A "music system"—made in the days when the wisdom in stereos was that bigger means better—takes up one corner. The room is tidy and clean. A small rattan seat is in front of one of the armchairs, apparently for use as a leg rest. On top of it is the women's magazine that Gladys had obviously been reading when the bell rang.

     Gladys Ferrow stands in the middle of it all, looking upset, as if she was ashamed of the living room.

     "Don't come to my place next time! What am I supposed to say to the neighbors?" She nervously picks up the magazine from the seat and puts it in a wicker rack near the window. "Sit down. As long as you're here. What do you want to drink?"

     Arany had brought a dozen or so cans of beer in his overnight bag, but that suddenly seems like a sleazy offering to make to this house-proud hooker.

     "Coffee would be fine," he mumbles.

     Gladys disappears in the kitchen, but continues chirping away, her head popping up from time to time in the doorframe.

     "You've really lost your mind, man. Why'd you do it? You can't play games with these people. They'll kill you as soon as look at you, and they don't care if you're a cop. Hell, they have cops protecting them. They've got uniforms on their payroll."

     Arany closes his eyes. He sees that other room, the drab, dirty crash pad. He sees Frost roll off the bed as Gladys Ferrow sits up, naked and unattractive. He sees the hate that was in her eyes, or maybe it was just disgust.

     "They're going to figure out it was you. They've got connections."

     He listens to her voice without hearing the words and remembers the way she scolded him then, in that other room.

     "And if they find out you came to visit me, I'm finished. What a crazy, stubborn bastard you are! Hey, are you sleeping or what? What's the matter, couldn't wait for your coffee?"

     Arany opens his eyes. While his mind was somewhere else, Gladys had changed into a flower patterned summer dress. As she stands there with a tray in her hands, she reminds him of somebody's mother, or even grandmother.

     They drink their coffee from matching cups with fake-looking Chinese designs on them. The coffee is as dark as Gladys and as sweet as she might have been twenty years ago, before life made her bitter.

     She empties her cup with one gulp, then pours another from the pot. The pot doesn't match the rest of her "china set." It's a nice-looking, old piece with a fancy coat of arms painted on it. Hotel Riviera. She apparently lost the original top and she has to hold the replacement top on while she pours. She puts the pot down and her hand still floats above it as she looks into his eyes.

     "Why'd you do it?"

     Arany's eyes break from her gaze. He looks at his coffee, the milky cloud slowly churning through the blackness. He had experienced a similar feeling the first time in Celia's office, when he sat in the big, comfortable armchair. He had felt he had to speak. To confess. To open up and tell her everything. He had fought against that feeling. He fought it then, and he fights it now.

     "I want to catch Frost," he says in low, quiet voice. He sips his coffee.

     "Why?" Celia had asked the same question. Maybe Gladys would make a good psychiatrist. Or maybe Celia thinks like a whore.