A Fistful of Empty

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  “Why not, Leo? I’d think you’d want everybody possible on this. The more people that are looking for this guy, the sooner we can stop this hiding, try to have a life again.”

  “You’re right. I’m just not ready to turn everything over to the police. To rely on them for our safety. They fuck up. They make mistakes.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “No, of course I do. But it’s just a job to them. It’s our lives. I don’t want to put that in anyone else’s hands.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is, Leo?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t treat me like a child, Leo. I know you. You mean to tell me that getting revenge isn’t part of the reason you’re pursuing this?”

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Leo, that’s not an answer to my question. If revenge is on your mind, don’t use me to legitimize it. If I wanted him dead, I’d do it myself. You’re doing this for you.”

  “Can you tell me that you don’t want him dead?”

  “No. Of course not. Do I want him dead? Yes. Every time I close my eyes and smell him on me, or feel him in me. Every time I have a cramp and remember that I’m empty inside. Yes, I want him dead. But would I do it? No. There’s got to be a difference between him and me. I don’t do that to people.”

  “Well, maybe I’m not different.”

  “Leo, that’s not true.”

  “Oh, really? I’ve killed, what, three men already. What’s one more?”

  “Those were different, Leo. I know. I remember them. They were self-defense. You had no choice. That boy in the field. I remember how much that shook you up. The guy in the embassy. You saved that kid’s life. And the guy in Virgin Gorda was trying to kill you. This is different, Leo. You want the violence. You’re making it happen. You want the chance to kill this guy. You don’t think it makes a difference? The man who killed that boy in the Lorton fields was sick about it. I don’t think he’d be so keen to kill someone else. Borders crossed with impunity aren’t borders anymore. You have to go further away each time before you’ll stop yourself.

  “I’m frightened, Leo. How far are you going to go this time? If you kill this man, what about next time? What will it take to trigger that response? You don’t like how someone looks at you? Leo, please stop now, before you cross this border. It’s different. You won’t be the same as you were before.

  “Leo, there are some things that once you do them, you can’t undo them. You’re never the same. I know. I felt that way about the baby. I’m different now. I wanted the baby, Leo. Our baby. I crossed the border. I wanted to be a mother. I was ready. Everything changed for me. I lost the baby but I didn’t change back. I’m still a mother inside.”

  Somehow I’d lost my footing and wound up on my butt, sliding downhill straight toward a ravine. I opened my mouth as a brake but said nothing. I knew I was at some sort of crossroads with Sam. Every move I made, from going to work with Arnie, to staying away from the hospital, to this, had put me farther away from her. Whoever said that the tough times bring you together had eaten one too many smiley buttons. I knew I should agree with her. That was the way back. But was she right? What if she wasn’t? How bad could that be? Was it worth putting more distance between us? I felt like we were on two ice floes, slowly breaking up and drifting apart. Soon it would be too far to jump from one to another and we’d be apart forever.

  I wanted to jump. I really did. Instead, I just said, “Sam, let me think about what you’ve said. No matter what ultimately happens, I still need more information before I go to the police. I want to be able to hand him to them on a platter.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means that I’m going to keep laying low. Keep trying to figure out what’s going on and how to catch this guy. Just like I’ve been doing. I think that’s the safest, best route for me and you.”

  “Okay, Leo. I’ve said my piece. Goodnight.”

  She hung up before I could reply.

  No, I hadn’t jumped. I’d dug my toes in, leaned way out and grabbed the other piece of ice with my fingers, and was holding them together for dear life. What a smart move.

  26

  I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew someone was pounding on the skin of the world. I looked around. No, just the door to my room.

  I slid off the bed, walked over, and cracked the door. The manager was close enough to kiss. I just stared at her. We played dueling eyeballs for a while. She spoke first.

  “Yeah, well, I just came by to tell you that you ain’t paid for today. So I need the money or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  I watched her talk. The words arrived an instant late, like a bad dubbing. She cocked her head, furrowed her brow, and put her hands on her hips.

  “Did you hear me? I want my money, or you gotta go.”

  Everything synchronized. I smiled to reassure her that I was harmless and reached for my wallet. The fifty in her hand made her smile.

  “You want it for two more days, then?”

  I nodded. She tried to look past me to make sure she hadn’t interrupted me making bombs or dismembering anyone. I didn’t block her view.

  “Okay, then. Thanks. Goodnight.”

  I closed the door and checked my watch. Time to go. I picked up the envelope from the desk and left.

  On the way to Sally Boszik’s I made two stops. First the post office and then a Burgerteria where I made a mistake and ordered their latest experimental sandwich. It tasted just like what it was: a pressed and shaped patty of assorted pork parts. Yummy.

  Sally lived in a townhouse off Gallows Road. Fortunately, her block had only one exit. I took up my position at about 5:15 p.m. Sally showed up at a quarter to six.

  She was a little past her prime, but not as far as me. She could still do nice things to a tight skirt and high heels, although she’d thickened a bit in the waist. Sometimes I think aging is a gravitational disorder. Things fall and then they stay there.

  Her hair was streaked and wild. Her face plain and hard. Whatever hopes she once harbored there had been scrubbed off.

  I pushed “Til Tuesday” into the tape player. Maybe when this was all over, Aimee Mann and I could compare notes. She did some amazing things with heartbreak.

  Once Sally was inside the house, I gave her ten minutes to scan her mail, shuck her shoes, and make a drink. I dialed the number from the data disk and let it ring. Ten times and no reply. I waited fifteen minutes and tried again. Nothing.

  I did that for two hours. All I had to show for it was a growing admiration for Sally Boszik’s nerves and stamina. If it had been me, I’d have bolted a long time ago. Gone to a movie. Hid out in a mall until closing. No, she was still puttering around in there. Not even a nervous peek out the window.

  Around eight, I decided to increase the pressure. Anxiety is the bastard offspring of unpredictability, so I started to vary the intervals between calls. Then the number of rings. Nothing. She hadn’t even bothered to unplug the phone.

  At ten-fifteen I set a C&P record for the most consecutive rings without reply not involving a birth announcement or a governor’s pardon. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty. Thirty-five. For … She picked it up. Silence. I waited for her to speak. She hung up. I rang back. One ring and she had it. This time, I spoke right away.

  “I’ve been very patient with you, but you’re going to have to …”

  “You have a wrong number. Don’t dial it again.” Click.

  I dialed back. Nothing. No ring. No connection. I dialed Sally Boszik’s listed number. One ring, and she picked it up.

  “Hello.”

  I said nothing.

  “Hello. Anyone there? Goodbye, then.”

  I hung up. Mission accomplished. Connect Sally Boszik to the intruder’s phone line. Worked like a charm. Except for one thing. The voices weren’t the same.

  27

  Excitement fought exhaustion for possession of my rem
ains and lost. I woke up clinging to the tattered remnants of a dream. I was an olive tree, twisted and gnarled, clinging to a hillside above an empty ruined city. I was ugly, but I was very old, and I was still there. The lofty cedars were all gone.

  I stripped off the clothes I had slept in and took a stinging shower. Still dripping, I sat on the bed and called Ellen Moffatt at BMR. After we exchanged hellos, I asked her if she’d help me one more time.

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “It’s the same thing as before. I’m sure you’ve noticed that nobody has come around asking questions about the security rotation.”

  “True. So what do you want to know?”

  “There’s a phone number that I want checked. It’s authorized to use your computer system. I want to know who got it authorized and how. It’s assigned to Sally Boszik, but she doesn’t know anything about it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Simple enough. I can go down and check the initial request log. It’s part of my job anyway.”

  “So, it would have been part of Terry’s, too?”

  “Sure. We log in the requests for new authorizations and every once in a while we purge the list.”

  “How often?”

  “Whenever somebody remembers to do it. This isn’t the Federal Reserve Board or the Pentagon. Security here is in name only.”

  “How long will it take to find out?”

  “As long as it takes to walk down and find the authorization request.”

  “Great. Here’s the number to check. Call me back at this number.” I gave her the number and my beeper number, hung up, and went to finish drying off.

  I was almost finished dressing when she called back. I checked the beeper and dialed the number.

  “Ellen?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “The request for the number came from Dr. Sylvia Francis. Sally was her secretary. She asked for it because Sally was going to be doing some work for her from her home, and this new number was unpublished. The notes say Sally had been getting some obscene calls so she’d changed her number. That do it?”

  “When did she file this request?”

  “About four months ago.”

  “One last thing. What does Sylvia Francis look like?”

  “She’s short, five feet two maybe. A little on the heavy side. Blond hair, page-boy style. Wears glasses. She should have been a nun, if you ask me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She never smiles. She always looks disappointed. Life never turns out the way she wants it to.”

  “Why a nun, then?”

  “I don’t know. I guess if this life isn’t good enough for you, you should try the next one. How can God disappoint you? He’s perfect, right?”

  “For some people even that isn’t good enough.”

  “Well, Sylvia Francis is one of them, then. If she ever wins the Nobel Prize, as she thinks she should, she’ll bitch about how it doesn’t go with what she’s wearing.”

  “Well, thanks again. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Thank you for not blowing the whistle on us.”

  I hung up and called my stockbroker.

  “Mr. Davis’s office, how may I help you?”

  “Warwick Davis, please. Leo Haggerty calling.”

  “Hold, please. I’ll see if he’s available.”

  His secretary switched lines and Wick said hello. His voice was as soft as a cat’s step.

  “Hello, Wick. I need some information.”

  “Regarding?”

  “A possible investment. Palmetto Research Company. They’re an R&D firm over here in Tysons. Pharmaceuticals, biogenetics. That sort of stuff.”

  “Isn’t that rather speculative for you, Leo?”

  “What the hell. I need to loosen up a bit. I just got a nice bonus from the boss. I figure I can play with a little bit of it.”

  “Do you know what they’re trading as?”

  “Nope. Don’t know anything about them.”

  “Why the interest, then?” Warwick registered the unusual like a seismograph. He was convinced that fortunes were made and lost in the space between the tremor and the quake.

  “Rumor has it they’re on the verge of a major medical breakthrough.”

  “I see. Well, hold on a second. Let me see where they’re trading.”

  I descended into the eighth ring of Muzak and served my time with the synthesizer version of that investment house anthem, “Born in the USA.”

  “I’m sorry, Leo. I don’t find them being traded on any of the markets. Are you sure they’re a public company?”

  “I’m not sure of anything, Wick. Can you find out something about them for me? I think this is going to be a hot area for investing, and if they’re on the forefront, I’d like a piece of the action.”

  “I’ll look into it. It might take some time to track them down. They may have a prospectus out but haven’t been approved for public trading yet.”

  “Thanks. Any idea how long it’ll take?”

  “I should have something for you before the close of day.”

  “Great. I’ll be out of the office today, so let me give you my beeper number. Let me know as soon as you have anything and I’ll call you right back.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  I called Information and got addresses and phone numbers for Palmetto Research Corporation and Sylvia Francis.

  I called the office and Kelly told me that the service had been calling since 9:00 a.m. I called back and asked for my messages.

  “Just one, Mr. Haggerty. A Reverend Brown. He calls every hour on the hour. Has since midnight. He’s quite upset that you haven’t called in. He hasn’t left a message. Just wants to know if you’ve called in.”

  “Sorry. When he calls in, tell him I checked in, Tell him I’m okay and that Wardell should untie the Pfeiffers. They could drown. He’ll know what it means.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I put down the phone and said, “Shit.” It was a stupid thing to forget. I needed to feel that I was getting this mess under control and there was no way I could cite this as evidence.

  When I called Kelly back, she told me that Arnie’s ashes were in my office. They didn’t know where else to put them.

  “Thanks, Kelly. Just leave them there. And tell Frank not to touch them. He gets nervous when he can’t straighten something up. If you don’t watch him, he’ll throw them out.”

  “I’ll watch him.”

  “Any other messages?”

  “That lieutenant called again. He still wants to talk to you.”

  “I’ll call him again. How’re things going?”

  “Okay, I guess. Everybody’s real tense around here.”

  “That’s just ’cause Frank’s such an anal retentive.”

  “No. That’s part of it. But you’ve been out almost a week. Everyone knows you’re in trouble. They know about Arnie Kendall and Sam. I think they’re worried about you.”

  “Well, tell them it’s getting sorted out. I should be back in the next few days.”

  “They wanted me to tell you that if you need anything, to call them on their beepers, any time, day or night.”

  “Thanks, Kelly. Tell them that if I need anything, I’ll call. Honest.”

  “All right. Be careful, then.”

  I left the motel and had lunch at Anita’s over in Vienna. New Mexicans pride themselves on having the hottest peppers in North America. I doubted that once and wound up pouring beer all over my dinner in a little Taos taqueria while I tried to put out my face. I respectfully avoided any dishes Anita marked with flames and settled for a chimichanga and a beer.

  In the car I called Lieutenant Arbaugh and left a message and the office number. Another round of telephone tag, pursued in good faith or its appearance, and frustrated by our respective good fortune to be busy, busy men.

  In the next twenty-four hours I needed to
tie Sylvia Francis incontrovertibly to the break-in and damage to BMR’s data. With that, I could squeeze the name of her associate out of her and wrap this up. If that didn’t happen, he and I would meet and settle it our own way, whatever that meant. One way or the other, it would soon be over.

  My beeper went off. It was Wick Davis. While his secretary went to get him, I drummed the steering wheel.

  “Leo, your request turned out to be quite interesting. Had to do a little detective work on this one.”

  “And you found?”

  “A little history first. Palmetto Research Corporation is an 8A company.”

  I resisted the impulse to go “Hunh” and let him proceed.

  “That means it’s minority-owned. The owner is a black woman named Fanny Shoate. Now as an 8A company she gets special treatment on bids for government work. These special conditions hold for a limited period of time. The idea is that these minority companies will become competitive, and as they are phased out of governmental bids they will win contracts on their own.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then they’ve had the free lunch, so to speak, and then they go out of business. It’s a laudable plan and for some entrepreneurs it’s a godsend. They get their chance to make good, and they leave the program able to compete with other companies on an equal footing. However, like all laudable plans, this one can be corrupted. You can put up a figurehead minority owner, plunder the government contracts for years, siphon off enormous amounts of cash, go belly up, and retire rich. There’s no penalty if you don’t succeed. All you need is a good accountant to dazzle the procurement investigators. It’s just like drugs only without the bullets.”

  “Is that what Palmetto is?”

  “It’s not clear what Palmetto is. It’s a pharmaceutical research and development firm and they’re near the end of their 8A status.

  “A few months ago they issued a prospectus to investors. Looks like they intended to trade as a public company. Now, at that time they had to disclose their assets and so on. All of their contracts were government ones and were nearly completed. They did claim to be starting a new AIDS project and were trying to generate the operating capital by selling shares of stock. Here’s where it gets interesting, and by the way, Leo, next time you want me to do some legwork for you, just ask. Don’t feed me this eager-investor nonsense. It insults my intelligence and robs me of some fun. I love a good mystery, too, you know.”