Crack-Up (11 page)

It’d been kind of difficult explaining to my Chinese hosts why I’d begun laughing so hard.
 
This I recollected with a new laugh as a barn door-size bartender approached to take my order.

“Scotch on the rocks,” I said.
 
“Twist of lemon.”

Then I drank.
 
In fact, I drank and drank.

“Okay, okay,” I said to the bartender some hours later.
 
“Maybe you’re right, maybe I’ve had . . . enough.”
 
The bartender was serious about cutting me off this time, anyway.
 
He had my bar tab in his hand.
 
I signed the Pope’s name to it.

He crossed it out, crossed himself, and insisted that I sign my own name and indicate my own room number.
 
I complied.

He left me.
 
I sucked on ice I’d swallowed from the bottom of my glass.
 
My tongue felt too big.
 
Felt like a damn beaver tail.
 
I thought if I kept sucking on the ice it would shrink back to normal size.

I knew it was getting late, but I wasn’t really tired.
 
Which was strange.
 
The medication I took made me extremely drowsy when I drank too much.
 
At least it usually did.
 
And, boy had I had too too much.
 
I checked my watch.

How the hell did it get to be almost
midnight
?
 
It’s almost
midnight
and I still didn’t know what to do about
. . .
me
.

There was only one other customer left in the bar, and he’d been sneaking peeks at me, sneaking peeks every other minute or so.
 
Either that
, I thought,
or it’s just my imagination
.

The man got up to leave.
 
He came by my stool on his way out, peeking at me again.
 
Then staring.

Absolutely staring!

I stared back.
 
The man was middle-aged, in his mid to late fifties.
 
He wore a dark gray flannel suit.
 
He was short—about five foot five or six—with a husky build and a large Roman nose.
 
A real honker.
 
Which was red now.

I heard a tapping noise, and when I’d located the source, thought to myself,
Well, la-dee-dah, he’s got himself a fancy walking cane
. . .
Oh, oh, oh, that’s because he limps
.

The man halted right in front of me, took a quick glance at the bartender, who was drying shot glasses over by the sink, then stared at me again.
 
Stared me right in the face.
 
Leaned in a little.
 
A little too much.
 
Violating my personal space.

“Save yourself,” he whispered.
 
“Kill John Helms.”

I could only whisper back.
 
“What did you say?”

“Kill John Helms,” he repeated.
 
Then he was off, his cane poking the wooden floor again, and I couldn’t believe I’d just heard that.
 
But this time I knew I had.
 
No tricks of the ear this time.
 
I knew—I absolutely knew!—what I’d heard.

I bolted off my stool.
 
I tapped the man on the shoulder from behind.
 
The man stopped.
 
I didn’t wait for him to turn, I spun him around until we were standing face to face.
 
I held the man by the lapels of his suit jacket.
 
Pulled him close.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Please, sir!” said the man.
 
“Let me go!”

“I heard what you said, mister.
 
I heard you loud and clear.
 
You told me to kill John Helms.”

“I did no such thing!
 
You’re drunk!”

“You’re lying!”

I reached around behind him, grabbing an ass cheek in each hand, searching for the man’s wallet.
 
It wasn’t back there.
 
I dipped a hand inside the man’s suit jacket.
 
Found it.
 
Snatched it.
 
Opened it.

“What do you think you’re doing!” said the man.
 
“Bartender!
 
Oh, Bartender!
 
Help me!”

I read aloud from a
Maryland
driver’s license.
 
“ ‘Bernard Alan Simpson.’ ”
 
The man’s attempts to retrieve the wallet I fended off with my forearm.
 
“
‘15 Warfield Road
,
Columbia
,
Maryland
.’ ”
 
I handed back the wallet.
 
“Never heard of you.
 
What are you doing down here in
Alexandria
,
Virginia
at this late hour, Bernard Alan Simpson?
 
It’s a good hour’s drive home.
 
Who sent you here to screw with my mind?”

Bernard was frightened, I realized, just as a hand clamped down on my right shoulder.
 
Hard.
 
Then it was my turn to be spun around.
 
I found myself staring at the bartender’s neck: a tree trunk with a black bow tie at its base.

“Alright, buddy, come along with me.”
 
The bartender gripped me roughly, just above the elbow, and jerked me toward the hotel’s elevator.
 
“Time to sleep this off, up in your room.”

“If only I could,” I said.
 
“If only I could.”

Chapter 10

“John Helms does not want me dead,” I said aloud, though alone in my hotel room.
 
“He’s been my client for—How many years now?—five years.
 
For more than five years now, he’s trusted me with his own life.
 
Literally.
 
We’ve golfed together, sailed together, dined together.
 
We exchange Christmas cards.
 
He’s not my enemy, and I’m not his.
 
There can be no denying that.”

Or could there be
?
 
It was as if a second voice living inside me and normally silent had spoken up.
 
Or could there be
?

“Okay,” I said, pacing my room, “Let’s say John Helms
is
trying to kill me.
 
Let’s just say that.
 
As a thought experiment.
 
Anything’s possible, right?
 
Right.
 
And if he truly does want to kill me—murder me, ice me, end me, erase me—then I guess it could happen anywhere, at anytime . . . Why, it could happen at this very moment, right here in my hotel room, at—What does my watch say?—four in the morning.
 
That’s a good time to assassinate someone, actually.
 
Target would be asleep.”

Only I wasn’t asleep.
 
There were too many thoughts racing circles in my head for that.
 
I noticed all the little empty liquor bottles I’d strewn all over the carpet.
 
Bailey’s Irish Cream, Frangelica, Tia Maria, Kahlua, Grand Marnier.
 
They formed some kind of a pattern, the way they were scattered, but I wasn’t sure what the pattern was supposed to be, maybe a constellation from some far off galaxy . . .

“Maybe I can’t sleep for a reason,” I reasoned.
 
“A good reason.
 
Maybe there’s a damn good reason for everything that’s been happening to me.
 
There usually is, after all . . .

“And maybe the strangers who keep giving me warnings about John Helms don’t know they are—they’re being controlled somehow, by some force.
 
The same force keeping me awake.
 
Maybe someone is tinkering with people’s brains . . .

“Yeah, could be.
 
Microwave technology’s a possibility.
 
Big advancements lately.
 
Pentagon’s working on that, I’m fairly sure.
 
But who would use microwaves to protect me?
 
The Pentagon?
 
And why doesn’t the Pentagon—or whoever it is—just turn the machine on John Helms and make him not want to kill me?”

Back and forth I paced on the carpet, now and then kicking the tiny liquor bottles inadvertently.
 
“Maybe the microwaves don’t work on John Helms.
 
Because he isn’t human.
 
Have you ever thought of that, Argus?
 
Maybe John’s some kind of bio-mechanical android.
 
From the future . . .

“That would explain how John got so rich.
 
He could’ve landed his spaceship one day, found a nickel on the street the next, and made his first million overnight, knowing the future and all.
 
To start with, he could flip that coin and predict heads or tails correctly every time.
 
Scam people real good with that one . . .

“What am I thinking?” I said.
 
“Android?
 
From the future?
 
That’s ridiculous!
 
Ridiculous!
 
Get real, Argus, get real . . .”

I went into the bathroom, wet a hand towel with cold water, and washed my face with it.
 
I felt like I was burning up.

“Middle of the night’s a good time to kill someone, alright.
 
That’s not ridiculous!
 
No, sir!
 
Hard to argue with that!”

I tossed my wet towel on the floor, left the bathroom, and resumed my pacing at near frenetic speed.
 
“And who’s to say I’m not being kept awake for a reason?
 
I’m never up like this.
 
I’m usually out cold before Letterman sits down.
 
Better keep an eye on the door.
 
Windows too.
 
Anyone can climb a ladder . . .”

I halted near the foot of the bed and turned my trunk in different directions, searching for a makeshift weapon.
 
But I couldn’t seem to find anything.

“What did they teach you at
West Point
, Argus?
 
You remember.
 
Best weapon in the world is the element of surprise!”

But how, I wondered, could I surprise them?
 
Them
.
 
By
them
I meant whoever and however many John Helms sent to kill me.

I’d surprise
them
, alright.
 
First thing I’d do, I’d fix it so I could hear
them
coming.
 
I’d soak the carpet outside my door in the hallway.
 
Hell, I’d soak the hallway end to end, so I could hear their footsteps squishing a mile off.

“Better start the tub running,” I said to myself and dashed back inside the bathroom.

* * *

The hotel manager slid an itemized bill in front of me and said, “We had to estimate the damage to the carpet and hallway floor.
 
It’s a conservative estimate.
 
We’ll contact you with the final, adjusted figure as soon as possible.”

I raised the bill to my eyes and scanned it quickly.
 
The total charge for my overnight stay was: seven thousand four hundred thirty-nine dollars and forty-three cents.