Warren Lane

by Andrew Diamond

  She spent hours second-guessing her decision to marry Will. She reevaluated a thousand little memories, seeing each one anew in the light of her resentment and mistrust. The traits she used to admire in him now took on a more sinister cast. His confidence, his generosity, the way he could bring people around to his point of view—these were all now evidence of his manipulative and dissembling nature. She directed all her hatred and anger at him, and the more she tore him down, the more she hurt.

  After anger came grief, the most painful of all emotions. She could not turn it outward, like anger and hatred, nor did it diminish as she grew tired. It was a merciless, relentless pain that forced her to feel more deeply than she could bear, even when she was too exhausted to endure any more. When it came, it possessed her completely. The magnitude and intensity of it filled her with the same sense of helplessness and physical terror she had felt as a child, when she fell from the tree and had the breath knocked out of her and couldn’t move or breathe.

  After grief came numbness and exhaustion, followed again by second-guessing and fear, and the dread of knowing that was she was entering another round of what she had just been through. With no parents or siblings to connect her to her past, and no children to brighten her future, she felt the full weight of her isolation, and she could see no way out of her suffering.

  She blamed herself for the decisions she made in her twenties, when so much of her life was still before her. She blamed herself for not going back to school and for not establishing a career.

  This is my own fault, she told herself as she paced the room in her delirium. And now what? What if Will really is doing something illegal? What if he leaves me with nothing? What skills do I have? Who’s going to give me a job? Oh, why did I stop seeing my friends? Where are they now? And why didn’t you have kids? What are you going to do, Susan? How could you fuck up your life like this? You fucked it all up, and now you’re alone with nowhere to go.

  When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her spirits were lifted momentarily, and she turned instinctively to look for reassurance in the reflection of that woman she had always known to be intelligent, resourceful, warm and deep.

  But the reflection that greeted her was tired, weak and empty. The plea for help in the eyes of the woman on the other side of the glass irked her, and she said aloud, “Don’t ask me for help. I have nothing to give you. Nothing!”

  The pearl was gone now, and only the wound remained. In these hours alone, what she desired most was some kindness, some reassurance, some forgiveness from a spirit more generous than her own for whatever part she had played in making her life what it was.

  She saw her fingers on the phone, but she didn’t recognize them as her own, nor did she know who she was calling. Then the sound of Ready’s voice at the other end of the line lifted her spirit once again, though only for a moment. “Hey, I’m not here,” said the recording. “Leave a message.”

  She heard her own voice, as if from far away, say into the phone, “Warren, I’m lost. I’m lost, and I don’t know what to do. Please call me, will you? Please don’t let me be alone with these thoughts any longer.”

  Chapter 31

  As Susan sat despairing in her hotel, Warren Lane was knocking on the door of an apartment in Monterey Park, just east of Los Angeles. Yun Zhu was surprised to see a white man when he answered. Noticing the chain was not attached on the inside, Lane pushed his way in and shut the door behind him.

  Yun looked at Lane’s suit and asked with a mixture of fear and confusion, “You are police?”

  “No, I’m not police,” Lane said, mocking Yun’s grammar. “Why don’t you show some hospitality and make me a cup of tea?”

  “You want tea?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  While Yun filled a teakettle, Lane looked around the apartment. It was a small studio with a futon, a table, and three chairs. A few books and magazines were strewn on the floor, some in English, some in Chinese. On the bare floor beside the futon were a blanket and pillow. The air smelled of stale cigarettes, fish, and fermented beans. The whole apartment had a smothering, claustrophobic atmosphere.

  Yun kept his eyes on Lane.

  “How many people live here?” Lane asked.

  “You police?” Yun asked.

  “I told you I’m not the police,” Lane said.

  “You dress like gentleman.”

  “How many people live here?” Lane asked again.

  “Three,” said Yun.

  “Your family?”

  “No,” said Yun. “Family in China. Two other men. Their family also in China.”

  “Where are they?” Lane asked.

  “Work. They work night. I work day.”

  “At Will Moore’s furniture place?” Lane asked.

  Yun smiled. “Yes. Mr. Moore send you?”

  “No,” said Lane.

  Yun’s smile faded into an anxious look.

  Lane pulled his phone from his pocket and pointed it at Yun. “Smile,” he said. Yun was startled by the flash.

  “Why you take my picture?” Yun asked.

  “Mr. Zhu,” Lane began.

  “Mr. Yun,” Yun corrected. “Yun is family name. Zhu is given name.”

  “Shut up,” said Lane. He tapped at the phone a few times before putting it down. “Mr. Yun, do you know who Eduardo Rodriguez is?”

  Yun thought for a moment, his eyes still nervously watching Lane. “No,” he said. “I don’t know him.”

  “Eduardo Rodriguez is the legitimate owner of the Social Security number you’ve been using.”

  All the air went out of Yun. He took his eyes off Lane for the first time as he lifted the kettle with a trembling hand and filled the ceramic teapot.

  “He is angry?” Yun asked.

  “No, he’s dead.”

  Yun’s anxiety and confusion increased. “You police?” he asked again.

  “God dammit, I’m not the police, you fucking retard.”

  “Why you come here?”

  “I want you to answer some questions,” Lane said.

  “Sit,” said Yun as he carried two cups to the table. Lane took a seat. Yun filled both cups and sat across from Lane.

  “You work for Will Moore,” Lane asked. “Is that right?”

  “Yes,” said Yun. “Mr. Moore is good man. Very fair man. You do good work, he is fair.”

  “That’s sweet,” Lane said with mock affection. “What do you do for Mr. Moore?”

  “I clean showroom. I clean warehouse. I unload furniture. It’s delicate job. You must be careful unpacking antiques.”

  “Ever drop anything?” Lane asked.

  This question startled Yun. “No,” he said. “Very careful. Always very careful.”

  “Sometimes you work nights,” Lane said.

  “I work days. My roommates work nights at restaurant. We have only two bed.”

  “But sometimes you work nights, correct?”

  “Sometimes,” Yun said. “Mr. Moore pays overtime. I work extra hours.”

  “Sometimes…” said Lane. He paused for a long time and stared at Yun, watching the other man’s discomfort grow. “Sometimes you go in at 10:00 p.m. and you work past midnight.”

  Again, the wind went out of Yun, as if he were struck by a blow. He forced a smile, but the little wrinkles that appeared above his eyebrows betrayed his anxiety. “Sometimes there is extra cleanup,” he said.

  “It seems to happen about once every three months,” Lane said.

  Yun picked up a cigarette and a lighter from the table. “When there is overtime, I take it. I save. One day I bring my wife here. My son…” Yun smiled. “My son is six. One day I save enough to bring them here.”

  Lane pulled the cigarette from Yun’s mouth before he could light it. “Don’t smoke in here,” Lane said. “S
how some fucking courtesy.”

  Lane threw the cigarette on the table and stared at Yun as he explained in a matter-of-fact tone, “You work late at night about once every three months when a truck arrives with a new container from Long Beach. And there’s no one else there. It’s just you.”

  Yun smiled and nodded. “I work overtime. I bring my family here. America is wonderful country.”

  “Good God, you’re irritating,” Lane said with more than a hint of exasperation. “Why are you unloading containers all by yourself in the middle of the night?”

  “Mr. Moore is good man,” Yun said, still smiling and nodding. “Give me plenty of work.”

  Lane took a deep breath to calm himself. He picked up a photo of a young boy from the table. “Is this your son?” he asked.

  Yun seized the opportunity to steer the conversation to a more pleasant topic. “Yes. Smart boy. He already understand computer. Good in math too. Someday he come here. He will be computer programmer. He will live in house, not apartment. Will have respect, not be scared.”

  Lane picked up the cigarette lighter and lit the corner of the photo. He held it by the opposite corner, turning it so the boy’s face was toward Yun. As he altered the angle of the photo to increase the flame, he kept his eyes on Yun, whose expression changed from shock to hurt and anger. He wanted to hit Lane, or stab him. But he feared the man.

  “You are not worthy of your suit,” Yun said bitterly. “You are not gentleman.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Lane. “And you’re starting to piss me off. Let me show you something.” Lane dropped the photo into the ashtray. He opened the email app on his phone and pulled up a draft. He turned the screen toward Yun and said, “You can read, right?”

  “I can read.”

  “Look.”

  Yun scanned the email, which was addressed to an officer at Immigration and Customs Enforcement. It included Yun’s name, his home address, his work address, his stolen Social Security number, and the photo Lane had taken a few minutes before.

  “Do you want your wife to come here?” Lane asked. “Do you want to see your son?”

  “Yes,” Yun said. “It is all I work for.”

  “Then I need you to answer some questions. What is in those shipments you unpack?”

  Yun hesitated for a long time, looking troubled.

  “What’s the matter?” Lane asked.

  “Mr. Moore is good man.”

  “Then you’ll have nothing bad to report. Tell me what’s in the shipments. Drugs?”

  “Not drugs,” Yun said. “Medicine.”

  “Medicine?”

  “Yes. To help people.”

  “Moore imports furniture. If he’s bringing in medicine, it’s not to help people. What kind of medicine?”

  “I don’t know,” Yun said. “Little bottles. The kind you use with needle. Looks like water inside.”

  “Are they labeled?”

  Again, Yun hesitated, and then silently nodded.

  “I know you can read. What do the labels say?”

  Yun took a breath and turned his eyes up toward the ceiling. “Avastin. Herceptin. Tarceva.”

  “Do you know what those are?” Lane asked.

  Yun looked down at the table. “No.”

  “Those are cancer medicines. If they were legit, they wouldn’t be coming from China in a container full of furniture. They would be refrigerated in transit. Are your containers refrigerated?”

  Yun shook his head.

  “Where does the medicine go after you unpack it?”

  “To another truck.”

  “Whose truck?”

  “I don’t know,” Yun said, shaking his head again. “I don’t know.”

  Lane stood and extended his hand. “Mr. Zhu. Mr. Yun, whatever your name is, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Yun stood and shook his hand with a look of woe. Then he asked, “Why do you want to know this if you are not police?”

  “I’m going to have a talk with Mr. Moore,” said Lane.

  “You are going to deport me?” Yun asked.

  “No,” said Lane. “I don’t really care about you. I just wanted the information.”

  As he left, Lane said, “Good luck with your wife and son. The boy sounds bright. If he really knows computers and math, he’ll do well here.”

  “Thank you,” said Yun. “The day I see them on this shore, my heart burst with joy.”

  Yun closed the door behind him. On his way down the hall, Lane pulled the up the email and pressed Send.

  Chapter 32

  The following morning, Ready tossed fitfully in the late morning sun that streamed onto the bed as Ella lay beside him, peaceful and still. In his dream, he saw Susan falling into bottomless darkness, getting smaller and smaller in the distance as he called to her.

  He awoke with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach as he remembered that his phone had been off since the previous afternoon. He pulled his phone from the charger and turned it on to find half a dozen missed calls from Susan.

  He pulled on his clothes, bent to kiss Ella, and then without saying a word left her sleeping and drove directly to the hotel. He listened to Susan’s messages on the way. The tone of her voice in the calls progressed from anguish and despair to exhaustion and numbness. He tried to call her, but she didn’t answer.

  “I’m coming,” he said. “I’m coming, Susan. Hang in there.”

  She didn’t come to the door of her hotel room when he knocked. When he tried her number again, he could hear her phone ringing inside the room. In his growing panic, he convinced a manager to open the door for him, but the room was empty.

  In the elevator, he decided to check her house, and if she wasn’t there, he would drive the streets around the hotel.

  In the lobby, he ran into Omar. “You lookin’ for your lady friend?”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “She walked out about twenty minutes ago,” Omar said. “She looked sick.”

  “Which way did she go?”

  “That way,” Omar pointed.

  Ready jumped into his car and drove slowly down the street, examining every person on the sidewalk. He passed the pharmacy just in time to see Susan walking out, looking pale and weak. He rushed from the car and took her arm to steady her.

  “Oh, thank God!” she said.

  “Do you need to go to the hospital?” he asked. “You don’t look good.”

  “Just get me away from here,” she said wearily. “I don’t care where we go. And please don’t leave me alone.”

  He helped her into the car and held her hand as they drove. At the first stoplight, he studied her drained face and the blank exhaustion in her eyes. He removed the bottle from the bag she had carried out of the pharmacy. Sleeping pills.

  “You weren’t going to kill yourself, were you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just wanted to sleep. Maybe for a long time. Maybe forever. I don’t know.”

  The right lane was closed ahead, blocked by police cars and an ambulance. As they passed, they saw a paramedic standing idly with his clipboard and radio while a policeman pulled a sheet over the body of a woman in the crosswalk.

  “Oh, God.” Susan exclaimed as she turned away. “I didn’t need to see that. I’m just a step behind her, Warren. Just one step behind.”

  “Shhh. Just hold my hand. Just hold on to me, OK?”

  He drove her to a red-roofed Mission-style house secluded beneath a rich canopy of palms.

  * * *

  Inside the house, Susan sat on the end of the guest room bed looking tired and forlorn. She watched Ready return from the bathroom, where she could hear the water running.

  “This place is nice,” she said. “I wouldn’t have guessed it after seeing the beat-up little car
you drive.”

  “It’s not my house,” Ready said. “I’m just taking care of it.”

  “Are you going to take a bath?” Susan asked.

  “No,” said Ready. “You are.” He took her hand and helped her up from the bed.

  Susan began to tremble as the feelings of dread and anxiety from the previous night returned.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “It’s that dread. It’s coming back. Oh, Warren, what am I going to do?”

  “Take a deep breath,” Ready said.

  “I don’t mean now,” she said wearily. “With my life. What am I going to do at forty, with no husband and no family and no friends? The lawyers keep hinting that Will’s in trouble and is going to lose all his money. What if he leaves me with nothing? How will I support myself?”

  “Susan, you’re smartest person I know. I’m sure you can do something.”

  “Who’s going to give me a job, Warren? I haven’t worked in twelve years. I have no skills. I don’t even know what people do in offices these days. Who would marry me? Who will love me? Who will be my friend? I have no friends.” She sat back down on the bed and started to cry.

  “Why are you torturing yourself about tomorrow?” asked Ready. “You have enough to deal with just to get through today.”

  “Because I need to know. I need a reason to wake up in the morning. I can’t open my eyes on another day like today. I just can’t. I have to know there’s something out there for me. Some reason for being.”

  “There is no knowing, Susan. There’s only faith. You just proceed as if the world will be OK. You live your life like you’ll still be here tomorrow. Make plans like you’ll get a chance to fulfill them. Those are acts of faith, because no one really knows whether they’ll be here tomorrow. No one really knows anything.”

  Susan shook her head. “I can’t live like that, Warren. I have to know. I have to know that something will be there for me.”

  As he had at their first meeting in the coffee shop, Ready listened with surprise to the words her desperation drew from his mouth.