Tongues of Fire (14 page)

The muscles bunched a little more. “You know they do.”

A shadow moved behind the convex windows. Armbrister opened his mouth to say something, but before he could the telephone rang.

“Hello,” Armbrister said. Krebs always answered the phone by saying, “Krebs.” Armbrister listened. His right hand picked up a red pencil and began drawing on the blotting paper. A sombrero. Two sombreros. A guitar. A cactus with spines. After a while he frowned and said, “Beaujolais? You think that's good enough?” He listened some more, added spines to the cactus. “What did they bring us?” He began another sombrero. “Better make it a Bordeaux,” Armbrister said. “Bye-bye.” He put his lips to the mouthpiece, looked up at Krebs, and stopped himself from kissing it.

Armbrister massaged the corners of his eyes with the tips of his index fingers, and blinked once or twice. Krebs remembered the goldfish in the dirty tank. “I'm going to be writing reports about you for the next month,” Armbrister said.

They watched each other for what seemed like a long time. Finally Krebs spoke: “What are you going to say?” He couldn't help himself.

Armbrister did not reply. He sat back in his swivel chair, keeping his eyes on Krebs.

“What are you going to say, goddamn it?” Krebs stood up, knocked the camera, flashlight, and Swiss Army knife onto the floor, and leaned across the desk. Armbrister's eyes bulged even more than usual, showing their pink rims. He pushed his chair back a foot or two from the desk. “Tell me,” Krebs shouted. Behind him a door opened. He whirled and saw Armbrister's lank-haired secretary standing in the doorway.

“Did you want something, Mr. Armbrister?” she asked. But she wasn't looking at Armbrister, she was looking at Krebs, and she sounded frightened.

“No thank you, Jenny. We're fine,” Armbrister replied. She closed the door. Krebs sat down. Silently Armbrister watched him for a minute or two. “What would you like me to say in the report?” he asked at last.

“Explain how it really was. Overzealousness in the performance of duty.”

“I don't see it that way.”

“I do.” His neck muscles clenched again. “And they will too if they read it in your report.”

Armbrister shook his head. “You don't learn very well, do you, Krebs?”

“I finished ahead of you at MIT.” Krebs began biting the inside of his cheek as soon as he had said it. Armbrister raised his eyebrows in a puzzled way. Then he smiled.

“And you live in the past as well, perhaps.”

“The hell I do.”

Armbrister's facial muscles twitched, and the smile was gone. “The fact that we were classmates doesn't give you the right to be rude to me in this office,” Armbrister said. His tone was threatening, although he did not raise his voice. Krebs saw the little glow of pleasure in his eyes. “Did you ever wonder why they assigned you to this job, Krebs? Why they brought you to New York?”

It was not a rhetorical question. Armbrister sat silently in his chair until Krebs said, “Why?”

“They liked your work. They wanted a closer look at you.” Armbrister smiled. “Of course there was some talk about impulsiveness. Temper. Insubordination. They wanted to see for themselves. They were interested in you, Krebs.”

The past tense stuck in his mind like a fishhook. He was barely aware of the secretary entering the room and handing Armbrister a large manila envelope.

“Thank you, Jenny.” Armbrister tore it open. He took out a black-and-white photograph, the size of a sheet of letter-writing paper. He studied it. “A very nice job,” he said. “The focus and the lighting couldn't be better.” He held it up for Krebs to see: the photograph he had taken of the psychiatrist's report. “Too bad the woman woke up. It was the flashlight that did it, apparently. She's a very light sleeper.”

Armbrister began reading it to himself. “What awful handwriting,” he said, holding it closer. He was in no hurry. Krebs watched his eyes move slowly from left to right, line by line. He saw the rounded edge of a contact lens, sitting on the cornea like an eyelash. Finally he looked up. “This was all there was?” he asked. Krebs nodded. Armbrister grunted and offered it across the desk, not quite far enough across to allow Krebs to take it without leaving his chair. He stood up and took it.

Krebs read:

Rehv Isaac. 35. Is. ref. ex-prof Ar. H&L.

S. survivor fam. Waiter & watchmn—Sheila F. Ref.—Sheila.

Trd. force Heb. less. J. (Q. says Ar.)

Repr. uncommuntve. host. phys—OK. Attr. Jogg therap.?

Trm. depr. Susp. masoch. Poss. anal tend., sex dysf.?

Release nec. Tried—unsucc. Try again?

Group?—disruptv.?

Time?

Bill—Isr. Ref. Fund—$175

Sir/Madame

This is to notify you of fee schedule change re refugees, effective as of this date. Due to increased costs and in keeping with accepted practice note new rate of $175 per hour for private consultation. Please observe that this is still twenty percent less than the rate charged regular clients.

Yours truly,

$190?

Krebs kept his eyes on the photograph for a while after he finished reading. He knew Armbrister would be watching him when he raised his head. He was.

“Scandalous, isn't it?” Armbrister said. “The fees they charge. It's an outrage.”

“None of this means he couldn't have cut Abu Fahoum's throat.”

Armbrister did not appear to have heard him. “What do you make of sex dysf.?” he asked.

“None of it means anything one way or another,” Krebs said more loudly. “It doesn't change a thing.”

Armbrister placed the palms of his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “It does for you,” he said softly. They stared at each other. “I'm giving you two weeks off, Krebs. I want you to take a holiday. Go somewhere with your wife. Relax. Think about something else.”

“I don't want a holiday.”

“You're a very stupid man sometimes, Krebs. Don't you understand I'm trying to save your job? Now go away and let me do it.”

Again he felt the fishhook pulling inside him. “Is it that bad?”

“Go.”

Krebs stood up and turned toward the door. “And take your toys with you,” Armbrister said. Krebs picked up the camera, flashlight, and Swiss Army knife and left the room. As he walked through the outer office the secretary glanced up from her typing and gave him a cold look. But Krebs did not notice: He was looking into the future, a future full of Armbristers, junior positions, and dead-end assignments. If it was that bad, he had nothing to lose. He would spend his vacation watching Isaac Rehv.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Midnight, and very cold. Isaac Rehv stood beside a lamppost, not far from the entrance to a bar. Neon signs hung in the window of the bar, advertising different brands of beer. The cold condensed a skin of moisture on the window; in the center it gathered into trembling droplets that sometimes ran erratically toward the bottom; at the edges it was turning to frost. The cold condensed the vapor in his breath as well, twelve silvery puffs a minute, each slightly different from the one before. They rose, changed shape, and vanished. Across the street and half a block away the cold was doing the same thing to someone else's breath: another person standing on a sidewalk in the middle of a winter night.

From time to time people went into the bar, or came out. Some of them were dressed like cowboys, movie cowboys. When the door swung open and shut he heard snatches of songs from within. They were songs about being lonesome, sad, drunk, divorced, and stupid. They all seemed to be in four-four time.

A long silver car drove slowly by. It came to a stop, reversed, and stopped again beside Rehv. Noiselessly a rear window descended, and a voice said, “Dr. Vere?”

“Yes,” Rehv answered.

The door opened and he got in.

There were two men in the car: the driver, a lean black man with a shaved head, who did not turn to look at Rehv, and a well-dressed lighter man in the back who at first did not look at him either. His eyes were on the small television mounted beside a polished wooden liquor cabinet. Tiny flickering figures were playing a silent game of basketball. Then they faded away and were replaced by an anxious-looking woman holding a garbage bag that was about to split. The well-dressed man switched off the television.

“The best game in the world,” he said, turning to Rehv. By the light of the streetlamp Rehv could see his large dark curious eyes, his neatly trimmed glossy mustache, and his smooth immaculate skin, the color of café crème. He wore a dark three-piece suit of some heavy cloth like tweed, and a shirt so white it seemed to have a luster of its own. Rehv was conscious of his shabbiness. He had expected someone like the shivering man in the red shoes.

A potbellied man in a fringed shirt was standing outside, looking at the car. “Move, Leon,” the well-dressed man said. The car shot forward with enough acceleration to push Rehv back into the soft suede seat. After a block or two it slowed and continued at a gentle pace.

The well-dressed man shifted in his seat so he could see Rehv more clearly. “Tell me something about your study, Dr. Vere. You said on the phone you were at NYU.”

“I'm afraid I've arranged this meeting under false pretences,” Rehv said. His words made the tendons in the driver's neck stand out in sharp ridges.

“Oh, I already know that,” the well-dressed man said. “There is no Dr. Vere at NYU.”

Rehv felt suddenly very silly and slightly annoyed to have to explain his credentials to a pimp. “I'm prepared to pay for your time,” he said, reaching inside his windbreaker. The driver braked violently, throwing Rehv against the back of the front seat. Almost before the car had stopped completely, he sprang around and tightened a forearm of twisted steel cables around Rehv's neck, pinning him to the headrest. Rehv struggled against the pressure, but that only made it worse, like a dog fighting a choke chain. He stopped struggling. Casually the well-dressed man leaned toward him and ran his hand quickly over his trunk and limbs. A diamond caught what light there was and gave it back in little pulses as the hand moved. Fingers closed on the envelope in his shirt pocket.

“Okay, Leon, he's clean,” the well-dressed man said.

“You sure, Mr. Cohee?”

“Okay, Leon,” the well-dressed man said again, in a tone that indicated he did not like to be asked if he was sure. The steel cables relaxed, turned to flesh and sinew, and withdrew.

Rehv wanted to rub his neck, but he didn't. “Was that really necessary?” he said, and heard the rasping in his voice. He turned his head to look at the man with the steel arm, but he had resumed his place behind the wheel and all Rehv could see was a high prominent cheekbone and a valley of shadow below.

“When Leon's driving I always fasten my seat belt,” Mr. Cohee said, patting the buckle. “Leon has very quick reflexes.” He opened the unsealed envelope and took out the one-hundred-dollar bill that was inside. “Why thank you,” he said. “This will buy half a tank of gas.” In the front seat Leon laughed, a high little laugh that seemed to come from his nose. “Don't laugh,” Mr. Cohee said. Leon stopped laughing. “It's not funny. Gas is going to a dollar thirty next week. Maybe more. That wasn't supposed to happen.” He shook his well-groomed head at Rehv. “Inflation is killing me.”

“How do you know what will happen to the price of gas?” Rehv asked.

Mr. Cohee smiled. He had square white teeth with a narrow dark gap between the cuspids. Leon laughed his tinny laugh. Mr. Cohee didn't stop him. Leon laughed for quite a long time. After a while Mr. Cohee said, “Better pull over to the side, Leon.” The big car was sitting in the middle of Madison Avenue. “We don't want to get a ticket.” This set Leon off again, fueling his laugh like lighter fluid on hot coals. He barely had enough strength to put the car in gear and double-park.

Mr. Cohee pulled back a white cuff and looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes are almost up, Dr. Vere. What is it you want for your hundred dollars?”

“A woman.” This was too much for Leon.

“That's enough, Leon,” Mr. Cohee said. The laugh subsided. Mr. Cohee's curious dark eyes studied Rehv's face. “You've gone to a lot of unnecessary trouble, Dr. Vere.”

“You don't understand,” Rehv said. “I'm looking for a very special woman. You'll get much more than a hundred dollars if you help me find her.”

“Who is she?”

There was a pause while Rehv thought. “I'll know her when I see her,” he said.

The tendons at the back of Leon's neck twitched very slightly, like sensitive antennae. “Are you playing some kind of game with me?” Mr. Cohee asked quietly.

“I'm very serious,” Rehv said just as quietly. Behind them a car honked. Leon glanced in the rearview mirror. The car honked again. Leon watched it. It backed up and drove around them, honking as it went by.

“Go on, Dr. Vere,” Mr. Cohee said.

Rehv looked right into the curious brown eyes. “The woman I want is intelligent. Very intelligent. So smart she always seems to know just what you're thinking. I mean you personally, Mr. Cohee.” He half expected to hear Leon's laugh, but no sound came from the front seat. “She's strong, physically strong. And tall. Five feet ten or more. With skin the same color as yours.”

“Anything else?”

Rehv considered. “No defects, of course,” he said. “Diabetes, bad heart, shortsightedness. Or mental illness.”

“Is that all?”

“All I can put into words.”

Mr. Cohee gazed at him for a moment in silence. “What do you want, Dr. Vere? A fuck or a wife?” The first notes of Leon's laugh squeaked in his sinuses. “Shut up, Leon,” Mr. Cohee said, cutting the sound off before it could properly begin.

“Something in between,” Rehv said.

“It's going to cost money.”