Three A.M. (12 page)

Finally I led her out onto Saint Anne’s Boulevard. The wide, clear-blown street was nearly deserted. I stopped in the very middle of the road and turned to look at her. I said nothing. Let her do the talking for a bit. Rebecca was nervous, confused. Good. It had been on her terms before. Now it was going to be on mine. Several times she took a breath as if to speak but was silent. She avoided my gaze, crossed her arms and hugged them tightly to her gray-clad chest. Finally, her voice steady but imploring, she asked “What’s going on?”

“I really have no idea. But I want to know. I want to know very much. I want you, right here on this fine street in our fine city, to tell me.”

Strands of her blond hair danced across her face in the blower winds, and she pushed them behind her ears. Looking up at me, her brow knit with concern, she seemed younger than she had before. Gone was the red-dressed vixen. Gone was the smartly dressed client offering fifty thousand dollars. Here was a girl wearing a white T-shirt beneath a cropped jacket and a pair of blue jeans. And me? I’d washed, shaved, and put on my nicest shirt and a brown suede blazer. Which was a bit pathetic, but lack of trust aside, she was disarmingly pretty.

“I don’t know what to say, Tom. I thought you would be … doing the talking this time, I guess.”

“I can start. What’s your last name?” She hesitated a beat, her lips slightly parted. “What’s your last name, Rebecca? Tell me your last name.”

“Smith.”

I snorted. “Right. And what’s Fallon’s last name?”

“It’s Samson.”

“Right—that’s right, Fallon Samson. What kind of cigarettes do you smoke? When you do smoke, I mean.”

She looked away, down to her left, and I immediately continued. “Don’t worry about it. What color are Fallon’s eyes?”

“They’re blue.”

I nodded. “Blue eyes … yeah. And here I am brown and boring. What have you—” I paused and took in a breath, leaned closer. “—what have you gotten me into, Ms. Smith?”

She looked around as if expecting to see something that could help her. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“I spent all morning on the phone. There doesn’t seem to be a Fallon Samson in jail. It’s not easy to get information these days, sure, but it’s something of a specialty of mine, and I came up dry. The police don’t have a record of him. I know because it took me only three minutes to be told nothing—when there’s information to be found, it’s normally a slew of transferred calls and time on hold and questions asked of me before I’m told nothing. Every time I called today, I got no answer immediately. It was very unusual. But then I got to thinking, you see, and you know what I came up with? Do you know?”

She shook her head, her eyes downcast.

“Well, what I started thinking was,
Hey, Rebecca is lying.
Isn’t that interesting? Twice yesterday, Becca Smith, twice I had to leave places in a big hurry. Very different places. It was unnerving. One of them was the offices of the Science and Development Research Department. I was there because of you, in fact. Strange that I’d feel compelled to rush out of such a dull, sober place as that, huh? The other place I felt I had to get out of was different. That simply
must
have been unrelated. But quite a coincidence, yes? Normally I go find people in places and I talk to them about things and then when I’m good and satisfied, I go home and sit on my couch. But when I was in that office yesterday, trying to find out about poor Mr. Samuel Ayers—well, Rebecca Smith, it was very unnerving.”

“You can walk away if you want. I need help and I have the money, but maybe you want to walk away.”

“You always confuse me. I’ve never met someone who brings three different faces to three different meetings. Who is Fallon? You’re going to tell me all about him. Right now, here on St. Anne’s. Tell me.”

She bit down on her lower lip. Eyes shifting, as if she were looking for an escape. She spoke softly. “He’s not a killer. And he’s someone who I’d do anything to protect. He’s a good man and somewhere out there—” Her hand traced a loose arc and then dropped to her side. “—is someone who is a killer and Fallon needs help and so I need help.”

“Rebecca, you just told me nothing.”

Her gray eyes flashed and her cheeks grew faintly red. She stared up at me but kept silent. I spun around, thinking I’d heard footsteps. No one. Nothing. Slowly I turned to face her again.

“What were you reading? What’s on that sheet of paper in your left jacket pocket there?”

“Nothing you need to see.”

“We’re out of the traditional service provider–client relationship, Ms. Smith. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Give me the paper.” Instinctually, she took a small step away from me. I put my hands on her shoulders, careful to be firm but not hurt her, and repeated myself. “Give me the paper.” My voice was hung with icicles.

Her face twisting into a look of panic, she muttered something under her breath, then whispered aloud, “Fine … Tom, fine. I’ll show you the paper. I’ll tell you about Fallon. I’ll tell you what I know about Sam Ayers.”

I let go of her immediately and stepped back. She reached into her pocket, and I heard the crushed paper crinkle as she drew it out. She hesitated, and extended the balled-up sheet to me.

“Shit,” she muttered as she dropped it.

It bounced and rolled a bit in the blower wind, and I quickly leaned over to grab it. As my fingers closed on the paper, I heard Becca whisper, “I’m sorry,” and then her knee was rushing toward my face and then it was all stars and pain and a red black night before my eyes.

I heard her turn and run at full speed up the street. I was on my knees and shook my head, jamming the heels of my hands into my eyes and trying to get my sight back. Unsteadily, I rose and could just see her through my swimming vision as she turned and darted off into a foggy alley. I began to chase her but stumbled with each step. Slowly I jogged toward the street where she had disappeared, but by the time I got there, I knew it was useless to follow. She was gone.

My head throbbed as I staggered back to the place where we had stood moments before. I scoured the area. The paper was gone.

With no idea what to do next, I decided on some aspirin and maybe a few hours of sleep. I’d figure out what to do about Rebecca Smith once the headache she’d so thoughtfully given me faded. I coughed as I turned off the clear-blown St. Anne’s Boulevard onto a gray side street and said aloud to myself, “Come on, Tom—there’s no way in hell that’s her name.”

*   *   *

The fog was dense, and it was getting colder as I got back into my neighborhood. The walk, usually not more than fifteen minutes from the part of town by my office, had taken me the better part of an hour. The more my blood pumped, the more my head throbbed, especially just behind my right eye, where her knee had connected with my temple. I had to stop a few times to let my heart rate fall.

I did my best to think of nothing.
Fucking bitch
slipped into my mind a few times, though. At one point, I passed two young men in a pocket of lighter mist, and both had recoiled upon seeing my face. I must have had a pretty good-looking shiner already.

I stopped a little way down from my door to light a cigarette. I figured my hobbled pace would leave me just about the right amount of time for a smoke. I struck several matches, but their flames kept going out. Finding a doorway, I stepped into it and struck another match, finally getting the cigarette burning. I started walking but thought better of it and stopped, leaning against the moldy bricks of the building. Probably apartments exactly like mine. Hundreds of rooms like boxes, where people like me stored themselves. Hundreds of people carrying on with their lives, lives that had very little to carry on toward.

I began to walk again, each step still sending a dull wave of pain through my head. It must have been five o’clock or maybe even six. The fog was changing into a deeper gray by the minute, though the orbs were still dark. Ahead, I saw the pale glow of the shitshop’s sign through the swirling mist. I sighed. Home. It stirred no sense of relief in me. No promise of warmth and comfort. Just rooms in which to spend hours.

I drew nearer to the shop window. The sign was now fully visible, its pale yellow light casting a faint pall on the sidewalk. Sure enough, the old woman was there with her face to the glass. But then something happened that sent shivers down my spine. She spotted me, and for the first time I’d ever seen, emotion flickered across her round face. Her eyes went wide and her mouth agape. She leaned back from the bars and looked around frantically, and then her face gradually resumed its calm.

She leaned back between the bars, her eyes again narrowed and lips pressed together. She stared right into my eyes. Then she lifted her head very slightly and turned it left, her eyes looking in the same direction. As if at my apartment. She turned back to me and almost imperceptibly shook her head once from left to right, and then was still.

I was stunned. Frozen. I dropped my cigarette and looked up through the fog at the windows of my home. I could barely make them out. Unconsciously, I turned around and took one faltering step. I looked back at the old woman. Her face stayed placid, but her eyes widened ever so slightly and she nodded. I was still for a moment, numb, and then I nodded back and started walking away. I took a few slow steps, and when I looked back at the window, she was gone. Just me and the haze and the pale yellow light receding as I walked ever faster away.

*   *   *

I kicked the outer door to Heller’s building open, walked inside, and roughly shut it behind me. “Be here, man! Be here,” I muttered over and over as I jogged up the steps to his apartment. I raised a fist to hammer at the door but instead knocked more lightly, three times, with my knuckles. I waited. Footsteps.

“What—who’s there?”

“It’s Tom. Tom Vale.”

I heard him begin to fidget with the locks, and then the door swung open. I stepped in. He didn’t look so bad. Blue jeans and a ratty brown sweater and no shoes or socks, but he looked better than last time. And I couldn’t quite tell, but I thought the look on his face showed happiness to see me.

“Jesus, man. What the fuck happened to you?”

“What?”

He pointed to my face.

“Oh … yeah. It’s kind of a long story. But it involves a girl’s knee right at the end of it. I haven’t even looked in a mirror yet, actually.”

“You sure you want to?”

I nodded.

“Help yourself.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I’ll pour some booze, and you can shake me down for cash. Which I don’t have, by the way.”

I had stepped into the bathroom. “Debt’s off, kid. Fuck it,” I called over my shoulder as I flipped on the light switch. Harsh halogen light washed my skin a pale greenish white. The single bulb hummed above me. My eye looked like absolute shit. Black, gray, and blue around the socket and already inflated with blood and whatever other humors had seeped in. The right side of my face down to below my cheekbone was purple, blue, and red. I moved my jaw from side to side, and it ached. I did it more. Couldn’t help it for a second.

Then I realized Heller was standing in the doorway. He held two glasses in his hands. Real glasses, not a mug or plastic cup or anything. He looked relieved, confused, and contrite all at once.

“The debt’s off?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah. I don’t want to take your money, Heller. Keep it. Buy tapes and lots of liquor, and I’ll stop by and drink it without feeling too guilty.”

He smiled a bit and nodded, stepping back from the doorway and walking into his living room. I pulled a soiled rag from off a nail in the wall and soaked it in cool water. Pain ripped through my skull each time I dabbed at my eye or cheek, but I had to clean any lesions. Partially satisfied, I resoaked the rag and pressed it to my face, walking out of the bathroom. Heller was on his knees by the tape player, sorting through some tapes. He looked up, and then down at a glass on the table. He pushed it toward me. Ice cubes clicked in the amber liquid.

“What’s this?” I asked as I picked it up and held it to my nose.

“Bourbon,” he said, returning to his stack of cassettes. I inhaled deeply. Been a while since I had bourbon—the first sip was a warm, welcome change from the usual. I sat down on the couch.

“So who’s this girl that clocked you?”

“It’s a fucking mess, kid. I honestly don’t want to say anything about her. For your sake. I don’t know, maybe I’m all wrong about things, maybe I’m in way over my head. Could be nothing. I don’t know, but frankly—” I took a long sip and trailed off. He looked up. “—I didn’t feel safe going into my own home this afternoon, Heller. I came here. Where the hell else have I got to go in this fucking city? I won’t stay long. I just need to wait it out a bit.”

“No problem. I’d just be sitting here listening to music and drinking anyway. Maybe from a mug.”

I gave a small laugh. He began to put a tape in the player. “Are you in the mood to listen?” he asked, pausing with the cassette raised in his hand.

“Sure. Why not.”

He pressed the tape in and hit play. The warm crackle of an overplayed album filled the room.

“What are we listening to?”

“Beethoven. The Ninth.”

Then the music started. Christ, I recognized it. “I know this music,” I whispered. He looked up at me, smiled, and raised his glass slightly. He took a sip and looked back down. The song drifted from the single speaker across the years, through the mist and sickness, and I closed my eyes. They were already filling with tears. Welling from my one good eye and trickling painfully from the damaged other, teardrops streaked down my face and I let them.

My father used to play this record. I remembered every rising swell, every melancholy fall, the sweeping strings and thundering bass. Pure wonder crackling through; Heller must have listened to this tape a thousand times.

It went on. Oh Jesus Christ was it ever beautiful.

The first movement ended and in the crackling pause, I opened my eyes and looked at Heller. He was staring right at me. He didn’t look away when our eyes met. He didn’t blink. Then the next song started and finally he looked off, toward his window. “I’ll bet you know this one too. All of it, I bet.”