The Zero (25 page)

A few seconds later, Remy could hear a telephone ringing in his earpiece. He held the binoculars to his eyes and saw the woman in the big house skip across a room and pick up the phone on the second ring.

“Helloo,” her voice chirped in his ear.

“I’m looking for Lisa Herote,” he heard Markham say.

“This is she.” He watched her through the binoculars, her lips moving just slightly ahead of the words.

“Hi, this is Mike Brady, with Brady Florists here in town,” Markham continued. “We have an arrangement we’re trying to deliver for you from a…” Papers shuffled. “…Bishir Madain.”

“Oh,” she said, and through the binoculars Remy could see the woman put a hand against her chest, as if she’d just received a compliment. “Bishir? Really?” Her head cocked and she said, “Oh,” again.

“Yeah, sorry to ruin the surprise,” Markham said. “Unfortunately, our computer was down when he called and my kid wrote the information on a piece of paper and then spilled Dr Pepper on it…so we don’t have Mr. Madain’s credit card number or any contact information for him. We can’t deliver without—”

“Oh, I’ll pay for it,” she offered quickly, as if she were used to paying for Bishir.

Clearly, this hadn’t occurred to Markham, who coughed and cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s against our policy. But if you just could give us Mr. Madain’s phone number, we can clear this all up.”

“I don’t have it,” she said. “I haven’t talked to Bishir in months. I have no idea where he is. That’s why it’s such a pleasant surprise that he’d send me flowers.”

“Oh. No idea where he is?”

“No. None. We had a difficult breakup,” she said. “He wasn’t exactly…committed to the relationship.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Markham said over the earpiece. “And you have no idea—”

“No, none. I’m sorry.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I mean…I assume he’s still in San Francisco. Is that where the call came from?”

“San Francisco,” Markham said, perking up. “Yes.”

“That’s where he said he was moving.”

“Okay, well—”

“Do I get my flowers?”

In his earpiece, Remy heard the line go dead and then:

“Fresca Two, this is Fanta One. How was that? Pretty good, huh?”

Remy ignored him.

“Come on, Brian. I did okay, right? Come on. I know you’re down there. I’m staring right at you.”

Remy wedged himself down in the grass again.

“Hey, did you open those Zingers yet? I’m starving up here, man. I ate all my corn nuts already. You were right. I shouldn’t have gotten corn nuts. Can I have a Zinger?”

Finally, Remy said, “They’re all gone.”

“No they’re not,” Markham said. “No way you eat a whole box of Zingers before eight in the morning. It’s physically impossible. Come on, man.”

“Leave me alone,” Remy said again. “This isn’t even real.” He took off the headset and threw it down in the grass.

It was quiet in the field, but for the rustle of deep grass. Remy looked at the prescription bottle again; then ate another bite of Zinger instead. He couldn’t believe how good it was. He grabbed the box to see the ingredients. There was no mention of the things he could taste: cake, cream, and frosting…it was as if those things didn’t really exist, as if what he believed was a piece of frosted yellow cake was really
nothing more than this list of sugars, acids, preservatives, sulfates, and yellow dyes.

“I saw that, you stingy jerk.” Markham’s voice was a tiny whine from the headset lying in the wet grass. “I know you’re—”

LYING NAKED
on the queen-size bed, on top of the covers, Remy looked around the hotel room. It was a big room, with a window overlooking a park. He wasn’t sure where—it didn’t look like anyplace in the city he’d ever been. A grove of willows stood guard outside the window, above a meandering river. Remy’s clothes were piled on a chair and a wine bottle sat on the nightstand, half-full, next to a glass with nothing but the dark red rim around the stem. He sat up and poured himself another glass of wine.

Then he heard the toilet flush. He looked at the bathroom door, which was closed. Behind the door, the water ran.

Remy pulled the cover across his lap. A few minutes later, she came out of the bathroom. It was Nicole, April’s boss.

“Oh, Jesus,” Remy said.

“That’s better,” she said. She was wearing a short, red silk robe, tied at the waist. She was holding a glass of wine, the same color as her painted finger and toenails.

“Whew boy,” she said. “I’m not used to the sex taking that long. With Troy it’s more like getting a flu shot.” She took a slug of wine.

“Oh, God,” Remy said. “I didn’t…did I?”

“Oh, I think you did.” She smiled, and then cocked her head. “Oh, no. Are we having second thoughts, hon? I was afraid of that.”

“No. I can’t do this,” Remy said.

“Well, probably not for a few hours, no.”

“Look, I’m sorry but this was wrong…I shouldn’t be here.”

Nicole stood staring at him, and finally took a sip of wine. “Look, if
it’s any consolation, no one wants to have done it right
after
they’ve done it.” She shrugged. “Except maybe teenagers.” She winked. “And women of a certain age.” She set her wine down on the nightstand. “I’ll tell you what…I’m going to go now…I’m not really into the whole…regret part.”

She returned to the bathroom and began getting dressed. Remy caught flashes of her in the mirror, as she wrestled her way back into a pair of unlikely string underwear, and thrust her legs into a pair of black pants. She came out buttoning a pink suit jacket.

Remy was trying to figure out how to explain himself. “Listen, I’m not myself these days. I shouldn’t have…I’m not…entirely in control.”

“Right,” she said, and swilled her wine. “Isn’t that…kind of the point?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt April. So…if I try to…sleep with you again…I would really appreciate it if you just ignored me.”

She flinched. “Sure. Will do.” Then she smiled wistfully, slid her feet back into a pair of high heels, and looked back at him, her face red. “You fly me here, feel me up like goddamned airport security, and then, the minute the gun goes off, fall back in love with your girlfriend. I’ll tell you what—it’ll be a huge relief when everything down there finally dries up. Then maybe I
can
ignore assholes like you.”

Remy put his head in his hands.

She’d regained herself. “You can go back to being a good boyfriend now. I’ll see myself out.” She slipped out into the hall and the door eased closed behind her. After a minute, Remy got to his feet. He fumbled in his pants for the pills his psychiatrist had given him, wondering how long they took to kick in. He opened the bottle and took two more pills. Then he put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the hotel room doorknob, slid the deadbolt shut, and his head fell against the door.

REMY DRIFTED
down the jetway. He fell in behind a couple in matching cargo shorts and backpacks and a woman with a huge baby balanced on her hip, and they all spilled out into the clean terminal, which was mostly empty, a couple dozen travelers waiting at gates, furtive behind newspapers or hunched over cell phones and cups of coffee, as two soldiers moved like shepherds among them, M-16s aimed at the ground. Remy made eye contact with one of the soldiers, who looked him up and down, glanced once more at his eyes, and finally moved on.

Remy stood beneath the sign announcing forks for ground transportation, baggage claim, and ticketing. He chose a direction at random, walked down the stairs and out the door, and was relieved to see Guterak, leaning against his car, talking to a traffic cop. The sun was setting, the sky behind him a smear of humiliation.

“You have a good time?” Paul asked, as the cop moved on.

“I don’t know.”

“You come back from vacation and you don’t know if you had a good time? What’s the matter with you? You got luggage?”

Remy looked back at the airport. “I don’t think so.”

“Doesn’t look like you got any sun to speak of,” Paul said. “Probably wore sunscreen. That’s the hardest thing for me now—putting on sunscreen. Or fastening my fuggin’ seat belt. All these things that used to seem like common sense…now…I mean…come on? I gotta slather on SP-fuggin’-80? I gotta stop for red fuggin’ lights? I gotta put on oven mitts to take out a hot pan? I mean, come on…oven mitts?” He showed Remy burns on the sides of his thumbs.

They climbed into Paul’s unmarked. He swerved into the crowd of waiting taxis and gypsy cabs and curbside loaders and began angling away from the airport.

“So how you doing?” Paul asked.

“Not so good,” Remy said.

“Back bothering you?”

“My back? No. My back is—”

“Did I tell you the agent sold my story?” Paul asked.

“No,” Remy said. “That’s great.”

“I suppose. I’m not gonna get rich anytime soon, but it’s still a good deal,” Guterak said. “They optioned my story, but it could really pay off if we actually go into production.”

“So…a movie?” Remy asked.

“Well, no…not exactly,” Paul said. He put on his blinker and looked over his shoulder, drifting across lanes. “This company makes all sorts of products. DVDs. Cigarettes. Food. Cereal.” He glanced over.

“Cereal?”

“Yeah. That’s what they want me for. This new cereal called…” Paul hesitated, then just spit it out. “First Responder.”

“First Responder?”

“Yeah,” Guterak said. “They needed one smoker and one cop for ads and PR and shit. They were gonna go with actors, but they decided they wanted true stories and real guys on the boxes. The smoker’s a guy named Brad. I like him. He’s a solid guy. He’s on the flakes and I’m on the one with marshmallows. My agent says I was real lucky to get the marshmallows.”

“Yeah, I could see that.”

“Yeah.” Paul shrugged, a moment of unusual circumspection.

Remy looked over at his old partner and friend. He thought about confiding in Paul that he’d cheated on April, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit it to himself. Paul’s hair covered the peak of his head like spring snow, cut high above the ears and melting on his forehead. He turned the steering wheel gently with one hand and the car listed that way, and Remy felt as if he were on the ocean again.
He grabbed the armrest and held onto it, trying to fix himself in the moment.

Remy closed his eyes and the streaks did a slow waltz for him, bits gently circling one another in the dark, like a choreographed fight. He opened his eyes and looked out the windows at the flattened landscape slowly dragging alongside the turnpike—brush-lined riverbanks and ledges of condos, freight cars stacked and lined like old shoeboxes, river-flat refineries, and, across the gray slick of water, the brick, steel and glass anthill of the city. April was there, in one of those buildings. And that’s when Remy had an idea.

He fell back against the headrest. “Paul. Can you do something for me?”

“Anything, buddy. You know that. I’d do anything for you. I mean…within reason. You know, obviously I wouldn’t eat garbage off a sidewalk, or sleep with a man…well, I mean, if it meant your life or something…you know, depending on how much shit. And I guess what the dude looked like.”

“I need you to follow me.”

“Follow you.”

“Right.”

“Follow you?”

“Yes.”

Guterak scratched his head. “You mean…like keep track of what you’re talking about? That kind of follow?”

“No. I want you to physically tail me. Follow me around and see where I go. What I do. Keep track of it. Don’t let me see you.”

“You don’t want to see me.”

“Yeah. I don’t want to know you’re doing it. And then write down everything I do and tell me about it afterward. Make up a report.”

“Who do I give the report to?”

“Me.”

“And why am I doing this?”

“So I can figure out what I’m doing.”

“Uh-huh. You want me to follow you so you can figure out what you’re doing.”

“Yeah. I need to see if I’m hallucinating or if I’m really involved in something…something bad.”

“Oh,” Paul said. “Okay then.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Of course I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll use my black helicopter. I’ll shove one of them fuggin’ GPS transmitters in your ass, put a wire in your teeth. Get one of them Air Force drones to track you. Or…remember that movie where they shrunk those guys and put ’em in the president’s body? I’ll do that.” Guterak shook his head and laughed as he steered the car through traffic. “You fuggin’ kill me, man.” He looked over at Remy and shook his head. “You know, you get funnier every day.”

“WAIT. WAIT.”
A stout woman wearing jeans and a bulging fanny pack came into April’s living room. “Look, that was great, but we didn’t quite get it. Do you think you could repeat that exchange?” Remy was sitting on the couch with April, across from a young man sitting on a chair in front of them, leaning across his knees as if he were breaking something to them. The young man had olive skin and thick eyebrows that ended just inches from his bushy hairline. But it was in this boy’s eyes that Remy saw April and especially March and old Mr. Selios, eyes that made him realize right away that he was staring at Gus—April’s brother Augustus Selios.

Behind Gus, a man with a television camera on his shoulder and a utility belt around his waist was scurrying to change positions as the woman with the fanny pack moved the power cords and a bundle of audio equipment. The lights in the room were blinding.

“We need to get this again in a two-shot,” said the fanny-pack
woman cheerily. She and the cameraman both wore windbreakers reading
From the Ashes
. “That was amazing, Gus. Really powerful.”

Gus smiled in spite of himself and then worked to clear his face.

“Okay,” said the producer in the fanny pack. “When I say go, I want you two to repeat what you just said. Just like you did it before. Natural.”

“Sure, Tina,” said Gus. Remy searched Gus’s face for connections to April, but they seemed to have less in common the longer you looked at their faces. Behind him the cameraman moved into position in the dining room.

“Mike pack,” said the cameraman, and Tina the producer adjusted the microphone pack strapped to the back of Gus’s belt so that it wouldn’t be visible in the shot. “I wish we could use a boom.”