by Louis Begley
One-thirty. Twelve-thirty in Houston. There was no reason that Abner would have changed his private telephone number. Did I give a fuck whether he or anybody else recorded our chat? I didn’t. I called him on my landline phone. The saccharine southern good-girl voice I knew came on, and, when I said, This is Jack Dana calling Mr. Brown, cooed sweetly, And this is his assistant Eileen, how nice to hear from you, Captain Dana, after all this time, hold please while I check whether Abner is available.
He was!
Why aren’t you dead, asshole? he said pleasantly. What’s on your fucking mind?
Ask the goon you sent to kill me on Torcello why I’m not dead, the idiot with a bow and arrow. He’ll tell you! Oh no, excuse me, he’ll never talk or bother anyone again. And you want to know what’s on my mind? Then listen up! I’m tired of you, Abner. Of you, your hit man who killed Kerry Black, your thug who crippled my housekeeper, and the rest of your murderous clowns. I want you and your goons dead.
You’re tired of me? So what’s that to me, asshole? I’ve been tired of you ever since you barged in on me in Houston last year. How do I make you go away and stay away?
It’s simple: give me the goons who killed Kerry and beat my housekeeper.
You a stand-up comic or something?
Sure! Just keep laughing. How about it? Will you give me those goons? Because I swear that you won’t have a quiet moment until I’ve killed them or they’ve killed me. And if you don’t send them soon, like in the next few days, I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve I know you won’t like. Think it over!
You’re a real asshole, came back the reply. I don’t know what goons you’re talking about. Even if I did, and even if I could give them to you, why would I? What’s in it for me? You think I give a fuck about your bullshit threats? Wise up! Your pansy uncle threatened me, and look what happened to him. The fucking queer had brains but no luck. Ditto the Jewish slut: brains but no luck. You’ve got no brains and no luck, asshole, and you’ve taken more of my time than you deserve.
Click.
That was that. A bracing exchange. I’d miss that guy once I’d killed him or put him in supermax. I was right to resist the temptation to mention Kerry’s file. He knew what I meant by tricks he wouldn’t like. We didn’t need to get into a what-happens-if-I-give-you-these-guys conversation. There was no point. He’d want me to say that if he gave me the goons I’d make him a present of Kerry’s file, and that wasn’t going to happen.
Another telephone call and once more I was in luck. My trainer, Wolf, at the Third Avenue gym came to the phone right after that nice chat with Abner. Hey, great to have you back! We made a date for a big session of Krav Maga starting at six. I thought I’d better fine-tune my skills.
Feng had moved into the apartment and was busy waxing the furniture in the library. What would Captain Dana like for dinner?
Since I’d already given him a credit card to shop for food and whatever else was needed for the house, might as well put it to use and try him out. Here is the deal, I said: Captain Dana would like dinner at nine. Chicken with red peppers, a green salad, Macoun apples, and Stilton. And a red 2009 Côtes du Rhône to be found in the wine closet. And espresso—if you’ve figured out how to use the machine.
I know the machine, sir. Very nice choice of menu, if I may say so.
That was good to hear. Since he’d put me in a good mood, I decided I owed him an explanation. Dinner had to be later than my usual eight-thirty in order to flow into a late appointment I had made downtown.
The workouts at the gym in Dorsoduro had been worth the fortune they’d cost in euros. Wolf told me that, far from losing ground, I’d made progress. From now on we’d concentrate on speed. I also made progress that afternoon on my book. Not only had I written the one thousand three hundred words or so I tried to put down each day I worked—yup, here’s the loophole, I can’t honestly say I work every day—but I did revisions. No wonder that at nine, having showered and put on newly washed blue jeans and a Thomas Pink shirt, I felt entitled to a martini. Feng offered to make it as dry as I wished. In the spirit of adventure I accepted. The drink was beyond reproach, as was the meal. I found myself wishing Heidi were there. Not yet ten. Using my burner, I called her office number. She too answered at once, chipper and seemingly delighted to talk. If the equipment they had to carry could be made lighter and still retain its quality, these young women lawyers would make first-rate Marine Corps Infantry officer material. They had the right stuff. I would write to the commandant and tell him so.
Don’t you ever stop working, Superwoman? I asked.
Only to have dinner with you.
Too bad. I’ve just had my dinner, courtesy of Feng, the pearl of Hong Kong. Also martinis. Wished more than once you were there.
You should have whistled. I’d have run over.
Look, on a serious note. I’ve had a telephone chat with my best friend in Texas. It might get very hot in the kitchen cooking the Tex-Mex stuff he and I like. I hate to say it, but I know it would be a mistake for you to come out with me on Saturday. Let’s have dinner on Sunday night instead, in the city. OK?
No, it’s not OK, partner. I’m coming. If you don’t call before ten Saturday morning to say you’re picking me up, I’ll drive out in my own car. You’ll get a chance to make up for your bad manners, though, by taking me to a late lunch at the American Hotel.
Click.
Some girl! I wished that taking her along to Le Raton were not so obviously a rotten idea. I was going down there to look and listen, and not to banter with this incorrigible lesbian flirt. What should I wear to a shithole like that? A leather jacket? I didn’t own one. I settled on a double-breasted navy-blue blazer I’d acquired during my scholarship year at Balliol. By now it was bit tight around the shoulders, but otherwise a fine example of shabby chic. I stuck a red silk square in the breast pocket. Perhaps with this touch I could pass for a clueless Brit who thinks his blond looks and posh accent will get him past any door.
—
Jesus Holy God! Captain Dana, sir! What are you doing here, sir?
Even if I hadn’t known the street number of the Rat Hole, as I had mentally renamed Le Raton, I’d have deduced that I’d come to the right place as soon as I saw the queue of superannuated and mostly tanked-up Wall Street and similar types that had formed at the glistening red door of an otherwise unmarked establishment. It was guarded by a bouncer big and solid enough to impose order without raising his voice. It seemed wise to observe the proceedings for a moment before addressing him. But my reserve turned out to be superfluous.
The bouncer advanced in my direction, crying out again, Captain Dana, sir! Don’t you remember me? Corporal Eric King, sir, Weapons Platoon, Charlie Company, sir! One of your own men!
It was my turn to swear.
Holy shit, Eric, I exclaimed, you saved my fucking life! You nailed the guy who shot me. Last time I saw you the docs had me strapped to the stretcher and you were waiting on the chopper. You held my hand!
That I did. You were bleeding so fast we thought we’d lost you.
Well, thanks to you, I got patched up almost as good as new. But not good enough to return to active duty. What about you, Eric?
I got out a year after you were hit. Figured my luck was running out. Also my career in the Corps. You’ll remember that little detail. For now, welcome to the Rat, sir! Would you like to go in?
Yes, eventually, but right now I’d really like to catch up with you. This is so unexpected! What time do you go off duty?
Late, sir, not until the last customer leaves. But we can talk in a back room. I’ll get one of the guys to cover.
He spoke into a walkie-talkie. The red door opened, and another giant appeared, this one black.
Sir, this is Sam, said Eric. Sam, this is Captain Dana, the meanest platoon commander a marine ever had. Sam’s an infantryman, sir. Three deployments to Iraq. Hold the fort, Sam, while the captain and I have a drink in the back.
I shook Sam
’s hand and followed Eric into a large space lit by overhead strobes and filled by a crowd consisting mostly of men, drinks in hand, groping a much smaller number of young or youngish women in various stages of undress or wearing dresses or caftans that permitted easy access for exploring hands. A few couples made up of a man and a woman or two women were writhing on a small circular floor.
This way, sir!
The back room was furnished with a sofa, opposite which hung a huge mirror, and two chairs. After I’d sat down on one of the chairs, Eric asked what I’d like to drink. Bourbon on the rocks, I told him. He excused himself; a moment later he returned with a bottle of Wild Turkey, a small bucket of ice cubes, and two glasses, and poured our drinks.
Cheers! We clinked, and he sat down on the sofa facing me.
This is really so unexpected, I repeated. I thought your hometown was in North Carolina, somewhere near the Appalachian Trail. And yet, here you are!
Damn right, sir, Linville Falls, sir. In the Blue Ridge Mountains. That’s where I learned to track and to shoot.
You sure learned well. Well enough to be the best shot in Company Charlie, perhaps in the battalion. And what brought you here, to the city and to the Rat?
Long and sad story, sir. First, you had me up for company punishment before Colonel White. Broke me from sergeant to corporal and ordered forfeiture of pay. With that in my record and other stuff I was fucked. I knew I’d never make sergeant again. Jesus! And I thought I had it made, E-8 for sure, maybe even E-9 before I retired. That was a sweet dream.
Eric, I interjected as mildly as I could, for Pete’s sake you know what you did. You went fucking mad. I couldn’t let it go, but I made it as easy for you as I could. I saved your ass from the worst, just like you saved my life!
The cover-up—there was no other word for it—was as clear in my memory as though it had happened yesterday. With the help of a round sum of cash, my own, I got the village elders and the husband to stop talking rape and mutilation. That it had been that and far worse I didn’t doubt for a moment. I managed to turn an indescribably brutal rape and beating of the husband, whose ear Eric had sliced off, into disorderly conduct.
You did what you thought you had to do, sir. It broke my life, and it’s over and done with. Funny, don’t you agree? I didn’t think of it when I killed the fucker who shot you. So I put in for discharge and guess what! My wife dumped me just as I was leaving the Corps. Didn’t want to live with a fucking dead-end corporal. Cleaned out our savings and investment accounts, slapped a mortgage on the house, grabbed the money and the kid, and hightailed it with some guy to Texas. Shit, sir, I thought I’d track the bitch down and shoot her and then shoot myself. I’d have done it, too, if I wasn’t drinking too much to get myself going right away. It’s a miracle I didn’t. The chaplain at camp straightened me out. Then a couple of years ago a buddy from Linville called and told me about this kind of work. I decided I’d try it. The pay is just a notch up from crappy, but the tips are good. He and I live together, down in Chinatown. This country has turned into shit. I didn’t know it back then, but I know it now. Through my roommate I’ve met people who have the right ideas on how to clean out this shithouse. And do it good, so it stays clean. Anyway, I need money, and I’ve been working here over a year now. And you, sir, what brings you here? Some of the pussy’s OK, but you, sir…You can do as well or better without paying.
I didn’t come for that, Eric, and please stop calling me sir every other word. We’re civilians now. Try calling me Jack. Do you remember a girl called Kerry Black? I’ve been told she came here a lot. She’s the girl who died of an overdose at a hotel somewhere down the street after an evening she spent here.
Sure, Captain, I remember her. She was known here as just Kerry. We only found out her last name from the newspapers.
She was my girl. We broke up more than a year ago, but I never stopped loving her. I love her now. The story that was put out about the overdose—it just doesn’t add up. I never heard her speak of this place or of going to clubs, and she didn’t do drugs while we were together. I can’t figure it out. I left the U.S. soon after we broke up and got back only a couple of weeks ago. The main reason I returned is to find out what really happened.
Jesus, Captain, do you know what kind of place this is? What goes on here?
I know almost nothing, Eric. I’ve been told it’s a club, an after-hours club, I guess, where there’s some drug use and stuff. I’m not sure I know what I mean by any of it. I haven’t been in an after-hours club since college.
That’s what I figured. Look, Captain, let me lay it out for you. Johnnie, that’s the owner, has a pretty good thing going. He thinks it’s strictly legal, and the fact is we’ve had no trouble with the police, not since I was hired. The idea is that the Rat is just a place where private parties happen. You come by invitation only—unless not enough regulars show up, and Sam or I look you over and decide to let you in. The regulars are rich guys on Johnnie’s list. I don’t know how many names he’s got. A thousand? Maybe fewer. He sends an email or a text saying there’s a party tonight or tomorrow night or whatever. They can RSVP, but that’s not required. When they turn up, we know them or they flash the email or the message on their phone and we let them in. The other schmucks wait. That’s the assholes standing out in the street now. As I said, maybe they get in. All the guys who go in, the regulars and the schmucks, pay a party fee—three hundred dollars cash or by credit card. The charge shows up as “Bistro Paradise.” That way they can tell their wife or accountant it’s a restaurant. They also pay for drinks—nothing wrong with that at a private party with an open cash bar—for themselves and a girl if they want to treat her, and a fee for the use of a private room. Rooms like this one. Five hundred for twenty minutes. See?
I guess I do, so far.
All right. Now the girls. That’s what this place is about. Most are high-class hookers on Johnnie’s girl list. He emails or texts to let them know the party’s on and sends a follow-up if more girls are needed. The others are just girls. All kinds—secretaries, waitresses, college students, actresses, whatever. Amateurs. Any woman shows up alone we let in unless she’s a dog. They come for the money and kicks. All the girls, hookers and amateurs, pay an entrance fee too, fifty dollars. But a girl gets twenty percent of the room fee if the guy takes her into a room, and she keeps what he gives her for whatever they do once they’re there. This is key. That way Johnnie stays out of legal trouble—he’s not pimping. No one’s forced to do anything, but I can tell you the girls do plenty. I hear the stories from both sides. Even some stuff I’d never heard of before. The amateurs, if they work out, I mean if guys buy them drinks and take them into a room, can ask Johnnie to put them on his girl list. I hate to tell you this, Captain: Kerry was a star. She was here like most Fridays, ever since I started here. Sometimes during the week too. A really good-looking kid!
All the air had gone out of my lungs. I swallowed the bourbon at the bottom of my glass and let Eric refill it. I had the unpleasant feeling he enjoyed telling me the story.
You say she’d go into those rooms.
Yes, Captain. Sir, begging your pardon, you got to understand that’s the point of coming here. And she was some dancer! Almost always danced alone. Dressed beautifully, slinky black or red jumpsuits that zipped down the front, and high heels. It wasn’t like those half-naked floozies. Real class.
Did she have people here she’d go into a room with most of the time she came?
I couldn’t tell you that, Captain. I’m mostly outside, and when I come in it’s often because Johnnie needs me to straighten some guy out. The guy who’d know is Pablo, the head bartender. Short guy, almost bald. Or Miguel, the other bartender. They watch what’s going on. Or perhaps Johnnie. Only it’s no use talking to him. He won’t talk about his customers or his business.
Eric, I said, I think you can imagine how I feel. Did she leave the club with guys? You know what I mean, take them home, or go somewhere with them?<
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That I do know. No, Captain, she’d arrive in one of those black car-service sedans, and there would be another sedan or maybe the same one when she went home. Always alone, always in one of those cars. Except the night she overdosed. She came out the door, gave me a twenty as usual, and kissed me—we’d gotten to be friendly but not that way—and walked down the block in the direction of that hotel. Forgive me, Captain, but she was none too steady on her feet.
Eric, is there any way I could talk to the bartenders, Pablo or Miguel?
One minute. I’ll find out.
When he came back he said, You’re in luck. Pablo’s going to take a fifteen-minute break and join us here. I told Johnnie this is a Marine Corps reunion, and he said we’re welcome to stay in the room. He’d be honored to meet you before we leave.
I held out my glass mutely. Eric nodded and poured me a shot.
It’s all right, he said, I know how you feel, like when I found out about my wife.
Thanks, I replied. It’s rough.
The truth is that a loud voice inside me was saying, Stop talking to this fucking sadist, you fool, banish Kerry from your mind, send her file to the fucking U.S. attorney, ask Moses Cohen to look after Jeanette, and get out of the country. Don’t leave a forwarding address. But I knew I couldn’t do it. A wave of pity and regret stronger than the disgust I felt was overwhelming me. She was a sick, broken, suffering girl, going through a hell I couldn’t begin to imagine. If only she had let me remain at her side…
