Nightwork (13 page)

“What’s that noise?” I asked. I remembered what he had said about phones being tapped in Washington.

“It’s a lion roaring,” he said. “I’m in the zoo with my kids. Want to join us?”

“Some other time, Jerry,” I said. “I’m still in bed.” After the outburst in the car after the poker game, I didn’t relish the idea of watching him play the role of the dutiful father devoting his Sunday morning to his children. I have never been expert at complicity and didn’t relish the thought of being used to deceive infants.

“See you in the office tomorrow,” he said. “Remember to bring your birth certificate.”

“I’ll remember,” I said.

The lion was roaring as I hung up.

I was in the shower when the phone rang again. Streaming and soapy, grabbing a towel to wrap around my middle, I picked up the phone.

“Hello,” the voice said. “I waited as long as I could.” It was Evelyn Coates. Her voice was half an octave lower on the phone. “I have to leave the house. I thought you might have been tempted to call last night, after the game. Or this morning.” Her self-confidence was irritating.

“No,” I said, leaning back, trying to keep the water from dripping onto the bed. “It didn’t occur to me,” I lied. “Anyway, you seemed somewhat preoccupied.”

“What are you doing today?” she asked, ignoring my complaint.

“At the moment I’m taking a shower.” I felt at a disadvantage trying to cope with that low, bantering voice, the water dripping coldly down my back from my wet hair and my eyes beginning to smart because I had gotten some soap in them.

She laughed. “Aren’t you polite?” she said. “Getting out of a shower to answer the phone. You knew it was me, didn’t you?”

“The thought may have crossed my mind.”

“Can I take you to lunch?”

I hesitated, but not for long. After all, I had nothing better to do that afternoon in Washington. “That would be fine,” I said.

“I’ll meet you at Trader Vic’s,” she said. “It’s a Polynesian place in the Hilton. It’s nice and dark, so you won’t see the poker rings under my eyes. One o’clock?”

“One o’clock,” I said. I sneezed. I heard her laugh.

“Go back to your shower and then dry yourself thoroughly, like a good boy. We don’t want you spreading cold germs among the Republicans.”

I sneezed again as I hung up. I fumbled my way back to the bathroom with my eyes smarting from the soap. A dark room would suit me, too, because I knew my eyes would be bloodshot the better part of the afternoon. Somehow, I was beginning to have the feeling that I would have to be at my best, physically and mentally, anytime I had anything to do with Evelyn Coates.

“Grimes,” she said to me as we were finishing lunch in the dimly lit room, watching the Chinese or Malayan or Tahitian waiter pour flaming rum into our coffee, “you give me the impression of being a man with something to hide.”

It came as a complete surprise to me. Until then our conversation had been almost absolutely impersonal—about the food, the drinks (she had had three enormous rum concoctions, with no apparent effect)—about the poker game the night before (she had complimented me on the way I played and I had complimented her)—about the various social strata in Washington and where the people of the night before fitted in, all the small, polite kind of talk with which a courteous and worldly woman might fill an hour to entertain a visitor from afar who had been asked to look her up by some mutual friend. She was dressed charmingly, in a loose tweed suit and a plain blue blouse, high at the throat, and had her dark blonde hair pulled back and tied with a blue ribbon in girlish fashion. I had spoken little, and if I wondered why she had bothered to call me, I hadn’t shown it. She hadn’t mentioned the night we had spent together, and I had made up my mind not to be the first to bring it up.

“Something to hide,” she repeated. My questions to her the night I had met her, I realized, had not been forgotten. Had been filed away in that sharp, suspicious mind for future reference.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. But I avoided her eyes.

“Yes, you do,” she said. She watched the waiter finish with his performance and place the mugs of hot coffee, smelling of rum and orange and cinnamon sticks, in front of us. “I’ve seen you three times now—and this is what I don’t know about you—where you come from, where you’re going, what you’re doing in town, what business you’re in, why you didn’t call me after the other night.” She sipped at her drink, smiling demurely over the rim of the mug. “Every other man I’ve ever seen three times in one week has regaled me with his complete biography—how his father didn’t communicate with him, how important he is, what stocks he’s bought, all the influential people he knows in town, what problems he has with his wife …”

“I’m not married.”

“Bravo,” she said. “I am in possession of a fact. Mind you, I’m not digging for information. I’m not all that curious about you. It just occurred to me all of a sudden that you must be hiding something. Please don’t tell me what it is—” She held up her hand as though to stop me from saying anything. “You might turn out to be a lot less interesting than I think you are. There’s only one thing I’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” I could hardly say less.

“Are you staying in Washington?”

“No.”

“According to Jerry Hale you’re going abroad.”

“Eventually,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“Soon. In a week or so.”

“Are you going to Rome?”

“I imagine so.”

“Are you prepared to do me a favor?”

“If I can.”

She looked at me consideringly, tapping a fingernail absently on the wood surface of the table. She seemed to come to some decision. “In the course of my duties,” she said, “I have come across certain private memorandums of considerable interest. I’ve taken the liberty of Xeroxing them. The Xerox is Washington’s secret weapon. No man is safe if there’s one in the office. I happen to have a small sampling of records of delicate negotiations that someday may prove to very useful to me. And to a friend—a very good friend. He used to work with me, and I’d like to protect him. He’s in the embassy in Rome. I want to get some papers to him—some papers very important to me and to him—safely. I don’t trust the mails here. And I certainly don’t trust them in Rome. My friend has told me he thinks his correspondence is being tampered with, both in the embassy and at his home. Don’t look so surprised. If you’d been in this city as long as I have …” She didn’t finish the sentence. “There’s not a soul here I really trust. People talk incessantly, pressures are applied, mail is opened, as I said, phones are bugged …I imagine your good friend Jeremy Hale intimated as much to you.”

“He did. You think you can trust me?”

“I think so.” Her voice was hard, almost threatening. “For one thing, you won’t be in Washington. And if you’re hiding something important of your own, as I believe …Do you deny it?”

“Let it pass,” I said. “For the moment.”

“For the moment.” She nodded, smiling pleasantly at me. “As I said, if you’re hiding something important of your own, why couldn’t you undertake a little secret errand for a friend? Something that wouldn’t take up more than a half hour of your time—and keep quiet about it?” She dug in the big leather handbag that she had on the floor under the table and produced a thick, business-size envelope, sealed with Scotch tape. She slapped it down on the table between us. “It doesn’t take up much space, as you can see.”

“I don’t know when I’m going to be in Rome,” I said. “Maybe not for months.”

“There’s no rush,” she said deliberately. She pushed the envelope a half-inch closer to me across the table with her fingernail. She was a hard woman to say no to. “Any time before May will do.”

There was no name or address on the envelope. She took out a small gold pencil and a notebook. “Here’s the address and telephone number of my friend,” she said. “Call him at home. I’d rather you didn’t deliver this at the embassy. I’m sure you’ll like him. He knows everybody in Rome and you might meet some interesting people through him. I’d appreciate it if you dropped me a line after you’ve seen him to let me know the deed’s been done.”

“I’ll write you,” I said.

“There’s a nice boy.” She pushed the envelope still closer to me. “From all indications,” she said evenly, “you would like to see me from time to time. Am I right?”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“Who knows?” she said. “If I knew where you were and I had a few weeks of holiday, I might just turn up …”

It was pure blackmail and we both knew it. But it was more than that, too. I was going abroad with the intention of losing myself. I had told Hank that I would get in touch with him from time to time, but that was different. He would never know where I was. Looking across the table at this baffling, desirable woman, I realized that I did not want to lose myself completely, cut all ties to America, have no one in my native country who could,
in extremis
, reach me with a message, even if the message were only Happy Birthday or Will you lend me a hundred dollars?

“If you’re tempted to open this—” she touched the envelope—“and read what’s in it, by all means do so. Naturally, I’d rather you didn’t. But I promise you there is nothing there that’ll make the slightest sense to you.”

I picked up the envelope and put it in my inside pocket. I was connected to her, even if it was only by the memory of a single night, and she knew it. Just how deeply she was connected to me was another matter. “I won’t open it.”

“I was sure I could depend on you, Grimes,” she said.

“Use my first name, please,” I said, “the next time we meet.”

“I’ll do that,” she said. She looked at her watch. “If you’re finished with your coffee,” she said, “I’ll pay and we’ll leave. I have a date in Virginia.”

“Oh,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. “I thought we might spend the afternoon together.”

“Not this time, I’m afraid,” she said. “If you’re lonely, I believe my roommate, Brenda, isn’t doing anything this afternoon. She said she thought you were very nice. You might give her a call.”

“I might,” I said. I was glad the room was dimly lit. I was sure I was blushing. But I was stung by the callousness of her offer. “Do your lovers always go with the apartment?” I asked.

She looked at me evenly, undisturbed. “I think I told you once before that you are not my lover,” she said. Then she called to the waiter for the check.

I didn’t phone Evelyn’s roommate. By some perverse reasoning that I didn’t really try to understand, I decided that I would not give Evelyn Coates
that
satisfaction. I spent the afternoon walking around Washington. Now that I knew, at least fragmentarily, what went on behind those soaring columns, off the long corridors, in those massive copies of Grecian temples, I was not as impressed as I otherwise would have been. Rome, I thought, just before the arrival of the Goths. It occurred to me that I probably was never going to vote again, but I was not saddened by the idea. But for the first time in three years I felt unbearably lonely.

As I entered the lobby of my hotel in the dusk, I made up my mind to leave Washington the next day. The sooner I arranged to get out of the country the better. As I packed my bags I remembered George Wales’ ski club. What was its name? The Christie Ski Club. No worrying about baggage allowance, no worrying about the Swiss customs, all the free booze you could drink. I had no intention of arriving economically drunk when I set foot on European soil, but with the freight I would be carrying, being waved through Swiss customs with a smile had obvious attractions. Besides, if anybody was watching for the clerk who had fled the Hotel St. Augustine with a hundred thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills, I reasoned, the last place they’d think to look would be the counter where some three hundred and fifty hilarious suburbanites were embarking for a holiday in the snow from which they would all return en masse in three weeks to the United States.

I was just about to close my second bag when the phone rang. I didn’t want to speak to anybody and I let it ring. But it rang on persistently and finally I picked it up.

“I know you’re there …” It was Evelyn Coates’s voice. “I’m in the lobby and I asked at the desk if you were in.”

“How was Virginia?” I said flatly.

“I’ll tell you when I see you. May I come up?” She sounded hesitant, uncertain.

“I suppose so,” I said.

She chuckled, a little sadly, I thought. “Don’t punish me,” she said. And hung up.

I buttoned the collar of my shirt, pushed the tie into place, and put on my jacket, ready for all formalities.

“Ghastly,” she said, when she came through the door and looked around her at my room. “Chromium America.”

I helped her off with her coat, because she stood there with her arms out as though expecting it. “I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life here,” I said.

“I see,” she said, glancing at the packed bag on the bed. “Are you on your way?”

“I thought I was.”

“Past tense.”

“Uh-huh.” We were standing stiffly, confronting one another.

“And now?”

“I’m not in all that much of a hurry.” I did nothing to make her comfortable. “I thought you said you were busy today. …In Virginia.”

“I was,” she said. “But during the course of the afternoon, it occurred to me I wasn’t fond of Virginia. It occurred to me that there was one person I desperately wanted to see and that he was in Washington. So here I am.” She smiled experimentally. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Come on,” I said.

“Are you going to ask me to sit down?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Of course. Please.”

She sat down, with neat, womanly grace, her ankles primly crossed. She must have been walking in the cold in Virginia because the color was heightened along her cheekbones.

“What else occurred to you?” I asked, still standing, but at a good distance from her.

“A few other things,” she said. She was wearing brown driving gloves, and she pulled them off and dropped them in her lap. Her long fingers, nimble with cards, deft with men, shone in the light of the lamp on the desk beside her. “I decided I didn’t like the way I talked to you at lunch.”