Our Man in the Dark (19 page)

“Come on, Claudel.” Otis guides him out by the arm. Claudel mumbles something to me, but it sounds wet and muffled through his rag.

“Tell me why I shouldn't kill her,” Count says to me.

I think for a moment, placing myself in Count's shoes. It's hard to come up with a defense of her life, let alone Lester's. Even though she owes me nothing, part of me wants to see her pay. Still, there's another part that wants to save her.

“That's not the way, Count. That's not the way to teach her a lesson. Let her live. She'll see that life is not much without you. Lester's ruined his boxing career. No fighting for him—watch him suffer. It won't be long until she comes to her senses. She'll think of the world you created for her and she'll feel like a fool for leaving it. Let her live, and she'll come back to you.”

Count tosses back his bourbon so fast and easy that I don't even see him swallow. He slams down the glass and covers it with his palm. He looks at me—into me, past my eyes, and directly at the part of me that, until now, I was convinced remained hidden. “Remind me,” he says, “to never get on your bad side.”

It felt good to send Claudel to the hospital, and I slept well last night. But it's morning, and the thrill has already gone. I've often wished for the courage to stand up to my tormentors and respond with the same level of violence that they use to threaten me. But what have I really done to rid my life of monsters? Mathis and Count have asked me to do terrible things, and I've offered little protest. They know I will comply. Their trust is the biggest indictment of my character.

I head to the office and learn the news. Last night, I cut a man's face open and Martin has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. But Martin's executive staff doesn't seem as jubilant as one might expect. In fact, they don't seem jubilant at all; they look frantic, distant, and downright scared.

Gant walks by without acknowledging me. His eyes are large and troubled, as if he's escaping some unseen atrocity.

I look back at the secretaries up front. They all seem to be fine, getting an early start on the day's gossip. As I head to my office, Abernathy and Young exit the conference room with the same look of fear expressed by Gant.

The door to Gant's office is open. I look in. He stands behind his desk rubbing his temples and brow with one hand.

“Mr. Gant, is there something wrong?” I ask.

He stops the rubbing and looks at me. “No, Estem. Everything's fine. Close the door, please.”

“Sure thing.”

“Wait a second. . . . Estem, come in here and have a seat.”

I do as instructed, closing the door behind me.

“The only reason I'm telling you this,” he says, “is that I don't want to be alone in my horror.”

Immediately, I feel uncomfortable, but I nod, urging him to continue.

“Martin received a letter this morning. The letter was sent anonymously but it spoke in detail of his personal life—transgressions in his personal life.” He looks pained. He sighs and sits in his chair. “The letter said all these details about his personal life will be made public if he doesn't kill himself within thirty days.”

He looks at me to share in his distress, but all I can manage is an expression of even-keeled solemnity. That letter may have been sent anonymously, but one monster can identify the work of another.

A grave mood dominates the office for the rest of the day. My knowledge of the tape, and now the letter, makes the hours pass in a torturously slow manner. My coworkers don't know how close they are to the author of that letter, just one degree of separation. There was a time when such an act of dissemblance would have been satisfying, but now I feel guilty. Maybe there is still hope for me.

I need a cigarette. I don't want to smoke with the rest of the staff and listen to them talk about Martin, so I step out back behind the building.

I pull out a menthol, but I smell smoke before I've even struck a match.

“Don't look so down, John,” Martin says, exhaling smoke and tapping off ash. He has managed to stay positive, even if it is for our benefit and not his own. “You look as if you've just left my funeral. It's not just me,” he says smiling. “All of us are in danger.”

I stare at him blankly.

“They think we all look alike, brother, so we're all in trouble.”

We both laugh.

“You're especially in trouble, since we're the same height. They might confuse us. But don't worry, John. When your end comes, I'll be sure to preach at your funeral.”

The thought of that fills me with both honor and fear. He seems so comfortable talking about death. I don't have that kind of courage. I wouldn't know how that feels. “Thank you,” I say, managing to smile.

“Would you care to hear a preview?”

“Of course.”

He takes a wide stance, adds a solemn weight to his eyes, and lifts his head slightly as if regarding an imaginary congregation. “John Estem was a fine young man,” he says in that exaggerated preacher's drawl, “but he thought that all the women in the city should like him. He had to be sharp every hour of the day. He bought sharp suits and wore them as pajamas, just in case he met a fine woman in his dreams.”

Again, we both laugh. Maybe he laughs a bit harder than I do this time. It has been a while since our conversation that night. He must have felt that he shared too much, because he has been especially indifferent toward me since then. I'm probably partly to blame. I do have an intensity that can be off-putting. He probably sees how I look at him with the strained objectivity of a psychoanalyst: the look of someone who knows too much about you—much more than you'd like—but doesn't want it to show.

“Congrats on the Nobel,” I say, trying to make sure my thoughts maintain a positive tone. “Is pride a sin in this instance?”

“Thank you, but please note that I haven't won anything yet.”

“But still, just the idea of being nominated . . .”

“Man gives awards, John. God gives rewards. The eyes of the world were on us before, but from now on they will be wearing their spectacles.” He pauses as if taking a moment to contemplate what he has said.

Even while trying to give him the deference he deserves, I can't keep from thinking of that tape and how we are so much alike. We are reckless in similar ways, and we are both headed for a dangerous end.

“How is that lady friend of yours?” he asks. “What was her name?”

He's been thinking of her.

“Candice. She's fine.”

“How serious are the two of you? Are there any plans?”

I consider lying to him, but I don't see the point and I don't have the desire.

“We're not serious at all. We're just old friends.”

“I see.” He must sense something from me that troubles him, because he quickly becomes somber. “You have a nice evening, John,” he says without a smile.

“You do the same, Martin.”

He stamps out his cigarette and heads back into the office.

I'm not ready to go inside, so I light up again.

It's night, and my routine is broken. Until sunrise, it's just my robe and whiskey. Normally, I would be at Count's, admiring Candice or spending money on her stand-ins, but Lester has her locked away, and the agents have me paranoid that I may be performing in front of an unwanted audience.

It's as if I'd heard myself on that tape. Like Martin, I foolishly believed that my shameful indulgences were out of reach, unseen, that their lifespan was extremely short, that they died in the shadows almost as soon as I had given them life. But these agents have the power of resurrection and omniscience. They are moving closer and closer to becoming deities. Martin is a man of God, but he is just a man.

As I take a sip of my drink, I hear a car horn outside. I tighten the belt of my robe and peer out of the window. It's Lester, standing in front of a shiny yellow taxicab.

I open the door. “What is it, Lester? Please don't tell me you've taken a cab here and don't have the money to pay him.”

“No, Mr. Estem. Not at all. This here is my cab. Got me a job driving it. Sorry to pop up on you like this. Candy told me where you live.”

I let out a sigh that smells of scotch.

“I just want to tell you in person that I'mma pay you back every penny. That's why I got this here job. Also, I want to apologize, man to man, for what happened with Candy and all. Me and her is real close. She tells me everything, and she told me how love-struck you was for her. I know how it is to love a woman who don't love you back. She told me how you don't have any friends and how few people got respect for you. But I'm here to tell you that you got me as a friend now. And I respect you. Anything you need, you just holler. Me and you is friends now. Okay?”

I don't believe him. This is a man who laid many traps in the ring, tricking his opponents with false intentions. Maybe I'm being overly suspicious, but not without reason. I've seen this look and heard these words before. The smile and false declarations of friendship: I know what lies behind them. It's strange, but I sense intimidation behind his kindness.

I look at his small driver's cap with a head like granite underneath. Muscles bulging through his shirt, he has the shoulders of a statue. The sight of this man saddens me: a physical specimen gone to waste. An athlete with promise, but through the bad luck of unfortunate associations, his potential has been squandered. I force a smile when I think of his earnest effort to take care of Candy. Maybe this is the kind of man she needs—someone who would sacrifice and embarrass himself for her. He is not an aggressive negotiator. He does not threaten you with violence, but he wins you over with his honest simplicity. Is this what being a muscle-bound child brings you? I should want him out of the picture, but his guilt about stealing Candy is endearing . . . although I must admit I feel compelled to use him to my advantage.

It has been a few days since I've seen the agents and they played their tape of Martin. I have not contacted them. When my phone rings, I don't even answer it.

I haven't been to Count's either. Just work and dry nights. I don't want to see Claudel's scarred face. Part of me is ashamed of my savage actions; the other is afraid I might gloat.

There's a knock at my door. My heartbeat surges. I have changed for the worst. Curiosity doesn't enter my mind, because I already know it's the promise of danger that has come calling. Without hesitation, I go to receive it.

Claudel stares at me. Silent. His forehead and cheeks feature three long wounds that look like pairs of pink lips stitched together.

I look at him, readying myself for whatever he has to offer.

“Cut me up pretty bad, huh,” he says.

“Looks that way,” I say.

His eyes narrow and his fingers curl into fists.

I am not afraid.

“Count wants to see you,” Claudel says. “He's waitin' in the car.”

I close the door on Claudel, and then put on some pants and shoes. Count's car is across the street from my apartment. He sits in the backseat. When I approach the car, Count opens the door. “Get in,” he says.

I do as instructed.

He motions for Claudel to wait outside, then gives me a knowing smile. “Don't worry about Claudel. A face like that is good for business. Felt like you needed to hide in your hole, right?”

“I just needed some time to myself,” I answer.

“Yeah, things ain't never really the same after the first time you bring a man close to his death. But just like most of the hard things in life, you learn to accept it.”

I pray that day never comes.

“I want you to know something. Even though your behavior has been real shitty lately, I forgive you.”

“You want me to apologize again?”

“Did I say that? Just shut up and listen. Even though your little fuckups have been costin' me money, I've decided to cut you some slack. Candy and Lester? I'll give you a pass on that too. You've really pissed me off, but I realize I've been thinkin' small. Now I'm startin' to see the bigger picture. Do you know what that bigger picture is?”