Deadline (20 page)

‘Is there something special you want to know about the cocaine bust, Jerry?' Gerson asked. ‘I mean, it was months ago –'

‘You took Sondra with you. You both got busted. You passed yourself off under an assumed name. To wit, Timothy Dole. You don't look like a Timothy to me. Or even a Timmy. Did you pull the name out of thin air?'

‘Funny that. The name just rolled straight off the tip of my tongue.' Gerson grinned and drew hard on his cigar. He shrugged and said, ‘But don't blame me, Jerry. I didn't drag Sondra against her will. She wanted to come.'

‘What are you saying, Leo? That she asked if she could keep you company on this coke purchase?'

He blew smoke in my face. ‘You know how she is. She gets a kick out of low-life joints. She enjoys a sense of the edge. A cocaine buy in a dark back room turns her on, quickens her pulses … Ooops. Oh, Christ, am I telling you something you
didn't
know? What the hell. Your relationship with your wife has fuck all to do with me, Jerry. Talk to her.'

I had a rush of blood to my head. I gripped the lapels of Gerson's jacket, and drew him forward until his face was close to mine. I could almost taste his cigar. He seemed entirely unmoved by this physical contact. He stared at me from behind his glasses without blinking, and I pictured him negotiating a contract, making a deal with a singer or a musician, his brain an accounting-device, his heart hard as a winter turnip.
Take it or leave it
, he'd say.
I don't give a damn. There's plenty more talent crawling out the woodwork.

‘Jerry, this jacket was handmade in Jermyn Street, London, England, and cost me fifteen hundred bucks.'

‘What are you telling me about Sondra, Leo?' I demanded.

‘I'm only saying there's a wild side to your lady, friend. And that's something I figured you'd know. But obviously you don't, so forgive me if I happened to spill some ash in your fucking soup, jack.'

I shoved him against the edge of the stove. He raised an elbow and forced it into my chest, and held it there. For a moment we stood in this ridiculous pose, my hands on his shoulders, his elbow in my ribcage. Something simmered in a small saucepan. It smelled of burned cherries. I didn't want to believe what he'd said about Sondra: how could I?

I released him and he took a couple of steps away from me.

‘I know my wife,' I said.

‘Jeez, don't get me wrong, sport. I didn't say she doesn't
love
you. She's
crazy
about you. She's got a photograph of you on her fucking desk, Chrissakes. Listen, she's an elegant lady. She brings a certain je ne say kwa to LaBrea Records. All I'm telling you is she likes these brief excursions into el mondo bizarro. It's no big deal, Lomax. It's like priests going to strip clubs or something. It's a break from routine respectability, an innocent little thrill – and, hey, who does it hurt? It doesn't mean she finds domestic bliss dull. She's happy. Only now and again she likes to get a whiff of what it is that lies out there. That's all.'

A wild side to your lady.

But I knew that, up to a point. Didn't I? Why deny it? I saw her as a teenager – surfing, catching a big wave, rising high on the white foam, spray in her hair; I imagined her laughing and her heart racing with the thrill of the ride. I saw her smoking dope on the beach, then screwing a guy she hardly knew under a boardwalk somewhere – a beach bum, maybe, a doper, or a lifeguard. I imagined her heartbeat accelerating, her senses honed to a blade's sharpness, as she spread her suntanned thighs for a stranger, her flesh tangy with brine. Yes, she had had a wild side, sure – but that was years ago; maybe some residual recklessness remained, but it was harmless, just the way Gerson had said.

And yet, I felt her drift away from me a moment, I couldn't bring her face to mind, she was a specter passing through my life. I had the deadening sensation I'd never see her again. Not in this world.

I finished the mineral water and tossed the bottle towards a big plastic trash-can with its lid open. I missed and the bottle skidded unbroken across the floor.

‘You walked away from the bust without a blemish,' I said. ‘You've got connections. Powerful ones.'

He blew smoke rings, perfect ovals. ‘So what? The whole world comes down to who you know, Jerry. Tell me you haven't figured that one out.'

I didn't like him, and I didn't trust him, but I had a sudden urge to tell him everything, regardless of these feelings – how Sondra had been seized; she was being held somewhere and our time was running out. It was as if I wanted to tap into his powers, the clout he had in this town, whatever magic he might possess.
Help me, Leo, help me find her.
The temperature of my desperation was rising.

‘Nardini was the one who greased your way,' I said. ‘He must have cost you.'

‘Did your wife tell you Nardini was involved?'

I ignored his question. Besides, I didn't want to hear myself say:
My wife didn't tell me anything.
‘How did Nardini get drawn into it, Gerson? What's the connection between you and him, and where does Sondra fit?'

‘Look, Jerry, I got guests. Another time, huh?'

‘What makes a high-flier like Nardini get involved in an insignificant drug bust involving you and my wife? Simple question.'

‘OK. The answer's just as simple, Jerry, and if you're looking for complexity, you're about to be disappointed. The guy's my goddam
attorney.
I got a problem, I call him, he takes care of it. I asked him to get Sondra out of the bind as well. I wasn't going to leave her hanging out to dry, was I?'

Maybe. Maybe it was just that straightforward. But I had the feeling I was missing something, or I was having a lie foisted on me. I couldn't read Gerson's expression. I couldn't tell if he was hiding something.
Guy's my goddam attorney … I call him
– what was
wrong
with that? What the hell was I looking for here? I had an answer from Gerson, and it was logical. Sondra liked the excitement of a dope deal in a sleazy club, she liked the
thrill
of stepping away from her everyday world. Nardini was only doing what attorneys did for their clients. OK. Fine. That was it.

I ran the palm of a hand across my face. My skin smelled of the steering-wheel of the car. I was grubby. The city had engrained itself in my flesh. And now I'd made a complete fool of myself, coming to Gerson's home and behaving like a lout. I thought of the moment when I'd pinned him to the stove and I was embarrassed. I was buckling. The pressure was an avalanche.

I said, ‘I'm sorry, Leo. Crashing in on you this way …
Jesus.
' I shook my head slowly in disbelief.

‘I don't know what's troubling you, Jerry. But you're too stressed. You're out there, way out there. Maybe you should write yourself a prescription, something to alter your mood.'

I shook my head. ‘Yeah. Maybe I should.'

‘Physician heal thyself,' he said.

‘Did Sondra …' I stopped mid-question.

Gerson looked at me. ‘Yeah?'

I didn't want to ask the question. But I needed to know the answer, even if it meant revealing a gap in my knowledge, that there was an aspect of my wife's life I really didn't know about. ‘Did she ever … did you ever see her use cocaine?'

Gerson's cigar had gone out. He plucked it from his lips, producing the sound of a rubber gasket popping. ‘If she ever used it, Jerry, I never saw it. She liked the drama of the buy, sure. But if you want to know whether she ever snorted coke herself, it's a question you need to ask her. Clear the air, Jerry, if something's bothering you.'

He walked with me to the kitchen door, opened it, stepped behind me into the big entranceway where the chandeliers hung. I felt Gerson's palm on my back. He was steering me gently across the floor. He wanted me out of his house. He wanted to have his party in peace. I was an interruption, the uninvited loony he was ushering to the front door.

‘I bet you've been working too hard,' he said.

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘Maybe.'

He patted me on the back a couple of times in a solicitous way.

A door opened on the far side of the foyer and the maid I'd seen earlier appeared. I glimpsed the room beyond, the partygoers with their drinks, a collection of men and attractive young women in fashionable casual threads. Somebody stroked a piano. A few well-fed faces turned in my direction.

Gerson kept guiding me to the door, as if he had a guest in the house he didn't want me to see, somebody I knew, somebody whose presence might have surprised me. I sensed that at one level this was manic thinking, another aspect of my erosion. Just the same, I couldn't free myself of the feeling that he was pressuring me out of his house a little too hastily, so I changed direction.

I moved towards the party room. The door was beginning to close, and the maid with the tray was walking back in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Jerry,' Gerson said. ‘It's a private party. You weren't invited.'

The door was almost shut by the time I reached it. I put my hand flat against it. Gerson came up behind me. I had a sudden sense of displacement, as if I weren't in Leo Gerson's house at all, but elsewhere – trapped in a piece of theater, where all the guests were extras muttering nonsense. And then another sensation eclipsed this disorientation, as if I'd seen an unexpected signal on the radar screen in my head.

I pushed the door open with one hand, the other I placed against the side of my face where, for some reason, my skin had begun to tingle.

I thought:
It's Sondra I sense. She's here. She's in this room.

She's at this party.

It made no sense.

I crossed the threshold anyway, because sense didn't figure in my scheme of things, and I found myself looking around the guests with an expression of bewilderment on my face. I must have resembled a man in the grips of extreme dementia.

A woman was playing a grand piano in the corner.

‘Chances Are' was the tune.
Though I wear a silly grin.

The wallpaper was flamboyant red and gold and the pattern vibrated. The guests were drinking champagne.

Gerson said, ‘Come on, Jerry. I'll show you out.'

I scanned the faces. No Sondra. I'd been wrong.

But instead there was Jane Steel, looking at me from a corner of the room. Her expression was one of embarrassment, as if I'd caught her in a moment of theft or an act of treachery. She had a glass in one hand. The man who stood beside her, in an expensive dark-blue brushed-suede jacket, was Joe Allardyce. He gave me the kind of smile that said,
I wish I was a million miles from here.

Just for a moment I didn't want to move, I didn't want to say anything that might cause a scene and disturb the peace of Gerson's party. But then I thought of Sondra and what the hell did the niceties of this gathering matter? I was beyond polite. I stepped across the room to Jane, who raised her glass to her mouth but didn't drink.

‘This
is
a surprise,' I said. ‘Come here often, Jane? Is this the kind of crew you hang out with? Are they all gun freaks like yourself?'

‘Jerry, I can explain –'

‘What's to explain? You move in certain circles I'd never have guessed, plus you play with pistols – you're just a bundle of little surprises, Jane. Got any more for me? And here's Joe, too. Well, this is intimate. This is nice. The three of us. Jane and Joe and Jerry. Like a clapped-out vaudeville act.'

Jane said, ‘Joe invited me.'

Joe said, ‘That's right. Is there a problem, doc? Is there some code that a patient doesn't ask his shrink's secretary out for a harmless evening?'

‘I thought you were never asked to parties, Joe,' I said. ‘I thought you were blackballed. The world is against you, et cetera.'

‘I still got a couple friends left, Jerry.'

‘I'm sure you have. Good friends. Great friends.'

Gerson stood at my side, a hand on my elbow. ‘Keep the voice down, Jerry.'

‘Am I talking too loud?' I said. Of course I was. I knew it. I was spinning out of control again. Any moment now, I'd punch somebody in the face. Or I'd break something.

‘Jerry, please.' Gerson looked forlorn.

Joe Allardyce said, ‘I asked your secretary if she wanted to keep me company. It's no big deal. We're not seriously dating, doc. There's nothing going on behind your back.'

‘It doesn't feel that way,' I said. ‘I think there's all kinds of shit going on behind my fucking back.' I reached for Jane's wrist, caught it. A slick of champagne spilled over her fingers. The piano continued to play. ‘How Long Has This Been Going On'. Great choice of tune, maestro.

‘Jerry, don't prejudge the situation,' she said. ‘I don't want you to misunderstand.'

‘What might I misunderstand?'

‘Joe and me being here together, don't get the wrong impression.'

‘What impression am I meant to get, Jane?'

She drew me to one side; Jane Steel, British and discreet, hated the idea of a scene.
Let's talk quietly in a corner of the room: let's be hushed about this.
‘You don't look well, Jerry. You look pale.'

‘I feel pale, Jane.'

She said, ‘It started this morning, whatever it is. Didn't it? You got that phone call –'

‘You're trying to tell me you don't know what's going on?'

‘All I know is you're in some kind of trouble. You don't want to discuss it, fine. I understand that. That's your prerogative.'

‘Prerogative,' I said. ‘Lovely word. Very fair of you, Jane. Very
balanced.
I have your permission to mind my own business.'

‘This is foolish, Jerry,' she said. She forced a smile. ‘And so unlike you. People are looking.'