JM01 - Black Maps

by Peter Spiegelman

  “My name’s March, and I want to talk to you about MWB and Gerard Nassouli,” I said. I didn’t expect he’d go pale and break out in a sweat and get weak in the knees and confess all—though it would’ve been nice. I didn’t think he’d go for his gun and shout, “You’ll never take me alive” and start blazing away, either. I wasn’t expecting anything dramatic, and Trautmann didn’t disappoint me. The smile stayed fixed, and so did the gaze. He didn’t bat an eyelash. He just was quiet for a couple of beats.

  “You’re not a fed.” It wasn’t a question. He looked at me some more. “Not a cop. You private?” I nodded. His smile widened a little. “Maybe while we talk you want me to throw in some tips on running a tail, huh? I mean—no offense, buddy—but you were fucking terrible. You might as well have been riding in the car with me.” I smiled but didn’t say anything. Trautmann held his hands up. “Hey—I’m just busting balls. It’s a bitch to do with just one guy, I know. Who’d you say you’re working for?”

  “I didn’t,” I answered and kept on smiling. Trautmann laughed. We stood there for a while, looking at each other and smiling, a couple of smart guys, wise to the world. Then I told him my story about the writer. He nodded while I told it, like it was the most reasonable thing he’d ever heard.

  “A writer . . . that’s cool. I’m a big reader—love reading the way I love talking. Maybe I read some of this guy’s books. What’s his name?”

  “You’d probably know it, Bernie. He’s a pretty well-known guy. And that’s the thing—until he decides he’s going to take on this project, he doesn’t want his name mentioned. Afraid it might get too many other people interested—kind of muddy the waters.” He nodded again, like this was just getting more and more reasonable.

  “Muddy waters . . . yeah, I hate that shit too. And you want to talk about the bad old days, huh? Well, I’ll tell you . . . you got a first name there, March?”

  “John.”

  “I’ll tell you, Johnny, I spent about a million hours under the hot lights, talking to Uncle about the bad old days—everything about ’em, down to what socks I wore and when—and I’m pretty fucking talked out on that subject. Know what I mean? But, shit, I tell you what—you go down to Federal Plaza, and tell the boys down there they have my okay to tell you everything I said to them. You tell ’em Bernie sent you. They’ll fix you right up.” He laughed deeply. Then he put his hands up again. “Hey—I’m just busting balls again, Johnny. I can’t help myself, I swear. I need like a twelve-step or something. Seriously, you want to talk a little? You got some questions? I’ll see if I can help you out.” It was my turn to nod, like I believed every word. “Come on, let’s go grab some coffee. Or you want something stronger?” he asked.

  “Coffee’s good,” I said.

  “There’s a Starbucks up the street. Hop in; I’ll bring you back here after.”

  I shook my head. “Right here is fine with me. I want to try one of those pretzel things.”

  “Whatever,” Trautmann said, shrugging. He shut his car door and locked it with an electronic key. He walked around the car toward me. I stepped back a few paces and gestured for him to go first through the glass doors, into the mall. He smiled some more and walked ahead of me.

  “Business must suck, huh, if the best you can do is that fucking rent-a-ride,” he said, walking ahead of me and chuckling. “Shit, there I go again. I told you, I can’t help it.” He reached for the doors, and an alarm exploded behind me.

  He was fast—very fast. I was looking for it—waiting for it—and all the same he nearly cleaned my clock. I started when the alarm blared— my eyes flickered involuntarily to the Audi, and my attention wavered for a half second—less. But it was enough for him. Trautmann pivoted into a high, fast, spinning kick, and if I hadn’t been already tensed and waiting it would’ve taken my head clean off.

  I leaned away and tried to block it with my right arm, but his boot tagged me on the shoulder and slid off and grazed my head above the ear. My arm went numb, and I heard the muffled whump before I felt the impact and saw the stars. I rolled with it, then bent and pivoted on my right foot and threw a kick backward at him with my left. I don’t know what I was aiming at or if I was aiming, but I caught him on the hip as he was setting up another kick. It threw him off balance and sent him skidding backward into the doors. I followed fast and covered up with my right arm, which was still mostly useless, and caught him once with my left fist in the kidneys and again with my forearm in the face. It was like hitting a sandbag.

  Trautmann grunted, and tagged me hard in the ribs with a short left. Then he grabbed a massive handful of my sweatshirt and dragged me in close and brought down two big, fast overhand rights. I caught some of them on my left arm, but not enough. His fist was like a sack full of cobblestones, and now my left arm was numb. A few more of those would send me down. I stepped in closer to him and jammed my left thumb at his eye. He saw it coming and turned his head, but he didn’t see my right thumb. It caught him in the soft part of the throat, under his Adam’s apple, and I dug in hard. He gagged and drew back a little, and when he did I slammed my head down on his nose. I heard a liquid crunch.

  “Fuck!” he roared, and I pushed him away and my shirt tore and he stumbled backward, holding a hunk of it. “Motherfucker!” he yelled. He scrabbled upright and had his hand on his gun and stopped when he saw the Glock in mine.

  He stood there, coiled in a half crouch, breathing hard, his hand on the butt of his gun, looking at me. His nose was bleeding and it was pulpy looking and might have been broken. There was an angry purple patch at the base of his throat, and a welt on his cheek. But there was no hatred in his eyes and no anger—no emotion at all—just cold appraisal.

  My heart was pounding, and it was tough to hold the gun steady. Feeling was coming back in my right arm, but I didn’t know how it’d take the recoil if I had to shoot him. Then he dropped his hand and put his palms out and stood up, relaxed and smiling. I took a deep breath and stepped back a couple of paces.

  “I guess we’re not going to have that talk, huh?” I said, after a while. Trautmann snorted.

  “Oh, we’ll talk, Johnny,” he said, chuckling. His voice was raspy. “I’ll do a little homework, and then we’ll have a long talk. See, I know something about you now. I know you’re not just a pussy PI like I thought. I know you’re quick, and you take a punch pretty good. And next time we talk, I’ll know even more. We’ll have a great fucking conversation.” He blew his nose onto the pavement, and a lot of blood came out. He looked at it and shook his head and smiled. “That’s a promise,” he said, and he went through the doors into the mall, laughing to himself.

  I walked back to my Taurus and leaned against it and took some deep breaths. I looked around. The lot was quiet. The traffic on Roslyn Road was sparse and distant. It was a quiet, cold, gray day. It was barely nine-thirty. The adrenaline was starting to ebb, and my arms and legs were shaking. Pain was starting to register. The cut above my right ear was bleeding down the right side of my face. The other side was tender and starting to swell, and the inside of my mouth was cut. I was pretty sure I had a busted rib, and my arms would soon be a purple mess. I got in the car and drank some water and breathed some more. I put my gun on the seat next to me, and then I left Roslyn Meadows, and drove slowly and carefully back into the city.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Ai-yah,” Jane Lu gasped, “what happened to you?” She was getting off the elevator as I was getting on. She was dressed in an orange turtleneck, khaki pants, and a black leather jacket. Her perfect brow was knit with concern, and her mouth was set in a small frown.

  “I’d smile insouciantly, but my face hurts too much. What are you doing home now? I thought you had a real job.” It was Friday afternoon, and I was just back from the St. Vincent’s emergency room, where I’d been poked, prodded, scanned, and pronounced more or less fit. Rest, ibuprofen, call if I started seeing things, lay off running for a couple of weeks. The pills they’d given me hadn
’t fully kicked in, and I was still enveloped in a thin haze of pain.

  “I’m the boss, I just pretend to work,” Jane said, distractedly. She was looking at the bruising along the side of my face and the cut above my ear. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” she repeated.

  “Yes, and I got a clean bill of health,” I answered. “No broken bones, no concussion, didn’t even need any stitches. Just a cracked rib. Not bad, all things considered.”

  “What happened?” she asked, still examining my face. She reached up and, very lightly, touched my left cheek. It was an unconscious gesture on her part and completely unexpected. I felt the delicate contact of her fingertips like an electrical surge, and I flinched in surprise. She withdrew them quickly. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

  “No . . . no, it’s okay.” I shook my head. That hurt.

  “So, what happened?” she asked again.

  “Workplace injury,” I said

  “Nice workplace. Do you need anything? From the drugstore, or the market?”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.” She nodded but continued to frown.

  “Well, if you do . . .” She reached into her tiny black purse and pulled out a business card and a pen and wrote quickly. “My office number is the same as Lauren’s; my home number is on the back. Give a call.” She handed me the card, and then she was gone. I got on the elevator and pushed 4. I looked at Jane’s card on the way up. Her writing was precise and angular, like the writing on a blueprint. Her fragrance lingered faintly.

  I hadn’t seen Jane since Thanksgiving, when we’d shared the ride home. She’d sat wrapped in a big, black coat in the back of the cab, and I’d watched the play of light and shadow over her face as we rolled through the quiet streets. She hadn’t said much, but when she did speak, her soft voice had sounded close, as if her lips were at my ear. Heat seemed to emanate from her, like a kind of perfume.

  Jane’s cell phone had chirped just as the cab slowed in front of our building, and it had startled us both. She’d answered, and listened in silence for a few moments. When she did speak, it was in Chinese. I didn’t understand a word of it, but I saw tightness in her face and heard frustration and annoyance in her voice. She’d switched to English at the end.

  “Look, I’m busy right now. And I don’t know why we keep having this conversation—especially now that the day is over. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She’d snapped the phone shut. I’d seen her to her door, and there’d been a brief, confusing silence before we’d said good night.

  I put her card on the kitchen counter, took off my jacket, and winced as muscles slid over my cracked rib. The pain was annoying, but, in truth, I’d gotten off easy. A couple of inches this way or that, a half step here, a half second there, and I would have gotten my ass severely kicked. I’d been lucky, and I knew it. But I wasn’t up to deep contemplation of fate just then. What I needed was a soak, some food, and a lot of sleep.

  I ran a bath and stripped off my clothes. My arms and shoulders were already looking like an LA sunset, and my side, around the busted rib, was a purple egg of pain. They’d look worse before they looked better. I eased myself into the tub, and sank down till just my head was above the water. I didn’t come out until I was wrinkled and rubbery and my pain was at a respectable distance.

  I pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt and flicked on some lights against the fading day. A couple of calls had gone to voice mail while I was in the tub, and I retrieved the messages. One was from Mike’s secretary, Fran. I’d left Mike a rambling message before I’d gone to St. Vincent’s. Fran had called to tell me he was in court all day, but that he wanted me to meet him for lunch tomorrow, at his place.

  The other message was from Clare. Her voice was nearly lost in the traffic sound. “Hi. I’ll be down in your neck of the woods later on. Hope you’re around.” Great.

  I made myself a couple of tuna sandwiches and brought them to the table, along with a quart of milk and what was left of a box of Oreos. I was just finishing the Oreos when the intercom squawked. Shit.

  “Jesus—did you walk into a bus or something?” Clare stood in the doorway and looked me up and down with some shock. “Look at your arms—and your head.” Her voice was scratchy, as it always was, like she’d just woken up and gargled with Scotch. She took off her long coat and sat on the sofa with her feet together and her coat across her knees. Her pale hair was loose and parted in the middle. It framed her narrow face and made her look more gaunt than usual—her gray eyes larger, and her cheekbones more pronounced. She had on a black sweater with a scooped neck, black jeans, and black brogues. She had diamonds at her ears and on her finger, and her big, steel watch on her wrist. She looked at me some more and winced.

  “That is ugly. Does it hurt?”

  “Only when I breathe.” I lowered myself into a chair across from her. It was a deep one, and getting out would not be fun.

  “It’s nothing serious, right? You’ll be okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. She shook her head slightly, then she looked away, out the windows. She fiddled with her watch, turning it around on her slim wrist. Her shoulders were stiff. She looked like she was waiting outside the principal’s office.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” she said, still looking out the windows.

  “Couple of weeks,” I said. Clare took a deep breath.

  “Last time . . . Jesus . . . you really caught me off guard.” I nodded a little, but didn’t say anything. I had a sense of where this was going, and I didn’t want to get in the way. Clare stumbled on. “I thought we were more or less on the same page, you know, and then . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “Anyway, you got me thinking about our . . . about this whole situation. That maybe it’s not the healthiest thing in the world for me—or for you, either. You know what I mean?” She paused for a moment. Her eyes flicked back over my face and arms, and then to the windows again. “My timing’s for shit, isn’t it?” she said.

  We were quiet for a while. It was nearly dark now, and the pinkish city glow was rising from the streets. Clare hadn’t surprised me. Without knowing why, or thinking about it much, I’d breached the etiquette of adultery. And probably scared her into who knew what kind of paranoid imaginings. Fatal Attraction . . . boiled bunnies, maybe. If anything, I was surprised she’d come to say it in person. But I wasn’t sure exactly how to respond. Expressing profound relief might be honest, but probably not polite. I decided less was more.

  “I understand, Clare.” I nodded. “And I think you’re probably right.” She relaxed visibly and smiled. It was easier for her to look at me now.

  “I’m glad,” she said with relief. Then she pursed her lips. “Don’t get me wrong, it was flattering and all. But I don’t think it had very much to do with me, you know?” I nodded. We were quiet again. Then Clare looked at her watch and sighed and stood up.

  “I have this thing in the Village. I should get going,” she said. “No, don’t get up.” She gave me a peck on the cheek. It didn’t hurt much. “Take care of yourself, John. Maybe I’ll see you around.” She slipped on her coat. She was at the door when she stopped and turned, looking thoughtful again. “You know, you should maybe think about Prozac or something, Johnny. Seriously. I mean, you’re a lot of fun in the sack but . . . you’re not a lot of fun—you know? You should be a happier person.” And then she left. It was the most intimate conversation we’d ever had.

  I sat there, thinking about the drugs that might make me a happier person, until my eyes were closing and my chin was dropping on my chest.

  It was late the next morning when I heaved myself out of bed and hobbled into the kitchen. I drank most of a quart of orange juice and leafed through the paper until I couldn’t take it anymore. Then I hobbled into the shower and stayed there for a while. My bruises had darkened overnight, and the pain had localized around them and become more intense. The sho
wer helped, but only a little. I shaved carefully, and then dressed slowly in jeans and a black corduroy shirt. It was nearly eleven when I pulled my jacket on and headed for the door. And then I stopped.

  Pissing people off is part of the job, and so is all the jawing about payback. I’d heard it plenty of times before Trautmann’s little speech. Usually, it was just talk. Usually. No matter how familiar, though, the feeling that someone might be out there nursing a grudge and making a plan was nasty all the same. Mostly, it’s a background unease, like a low-grade hangover, or too much coffee, a prickly mix of skittish, wary, and angry. But a car backfiring, or glass breaking, or something moving too quick and too close, can bring it to the edge of your teeth, and set your heart pounding.

  I was pretty certain that Trautmann was a psycho; but I was equally sure that he was not an idiot. I hoped that the not-idiot part would win out over the psycho part, and that Trautmann would lay low. But I couldn’t count on it. I clipped the Glock in its holster behind my back and went out.

  It was another cold, gray day, and the clouds looked heavy. I stood on the steps of my building and scanned the block. I saw nothing that made me nervous, but if Trautmann did things right, there wouldn’t be anything to see. Better safe than sorry, I figured.

  I wandered aimlessly for a few blocks, always against the flow of traffic, and still saw nothing. I headed for the subway station at Fourteenth Street and Seventh Avenue, where I caught a 3 train up to 42nd Street. I got on the shuttle at 42nd and rode it across to Grand Central. I walked upstairs, through the restored majesty of the train station, through crowds and noise that were nearly rush-hour strength, and down the long corridor to the north exit. At 48th and Park I hit daylight again. By then I was reasonably sure that only about a zillion Christmas shoppers accompanied me, and they were no more hostile than usual. I walked the rest of the way to Mike’s place.