by Mark Russell
He stroked his stubbly chin and studied a plastic model of the clipper ship Cutty Sark. The ship stood beside the white enamel clock that had taken his wife's fancy in Marseilles. He'd meticulously constructed the 30:1 scale model from a good many parts over a good many hours. He looked impassively at the accumulated dust on the model's deck, stern, bow, sails and rigging. Powdery residue attesting the ship's suspension, its longstanding place at the back of his desk. He swallowed a mouthful of scotch and brooded over AUDNET 501, his private computer directory violated by Goldman's incalculable romp.
Goldman. Goldman. Goldman.
The name repeated inside him like a sharp bite of indigestion.
He lashed out.
The clock bore the brunt of his strike, and it toppled the model ship over the desk's edge. Both ship and clock struck the wall's varnished wainscoting before coming to rest on the room's patterned grey carpet. Turner leapt from his seat and kicked at the downed ship. 'Goldman!' he cried out. The ship's plastic hull collapsed under his driving boot. 'The sonofabitch will pay. Pay! Pay! Pay!' Forceful kicks followed each savage enunciation of the verb. The model ship was reduced to unsightly pieces of plastic. His rubber-soled hiking boots found new game in the faux French clock. After several heavy blows, the clock's enamel body fractured apart. The chronometer's inner workings offered token resistance but too broke apart. Cogs, flywheels and loop end springs littered the carpet, while outside a yellowy pair of headlights lit the flagstone drive of the general's Bethesda home.
He jumped and brought both feet down on the violated clock, his rage insufficiently spent for him to take stock of the situation, even as he heard his wife inserting her key in the front door. With a head full of war, he spun round and punched the wall. The oak panel splintered and his bony fist throbbed with pain. He cursed aloud and swore he would kill Goldman. Kill the sonofabitch with his bare hands ...
TWENTY-FOUR
Saturday, 25th October 1980.
Goldman jolted awake from a nightmare. A murderous mob had dragged him to the ground like a pack of wild dogs. He looked about the poorly lit bedroom in panic. A girl with grayish skin, matted hair and claw-like nails had climbed on his shoulders and savaged his throat, all the while her ghastly companions had clamoured for a piece of the action ...
Goldman rubbed his eyes and a host of malefic faces retreated from him as if cursing his last-minute escape. To his relief Michelle's bedroom superseded the phantasmal world from which he'd fled. The bed underneath him gained uniform dimension. Facts of depth and colour consolidated into an orderly array as he stretched his waking limbs. Michelle in the turnings of her sleep had pulled the bed covers to her side, exposing his lower limbs to the apartment's crisp air.
He pulled up the covers and Michelle snuggled against him. In spite of his waking quandary, he felt his loins respond. He nudged the golden cowlick between her legs. She stirred and warmed to his calling, but didn't wake. He admired her angelic face on the pillow. Had he really slept with this remarkable woman? Her nostrils flared and emitted faint snorts as she engaged an inner theatre of the mind. Her dancing eyes indicative of early morning R.E.M.
In spite of himself he possessed strong feelings for her. Had some uninvited emissary of the heart crept in on the flame of last night's passion, making it difficult for him to retreat to any former position? Was it a tepid version of love? That all-time ransacker of reason.
Of course he didn't know, nor did he care to, for his waking mind had much else to consider. A day of uncertainty stretched before him. Desperation forced him to review the previous night. He and Michelle snuggled together on the couch, their budding intimacy enhanced by several Irish coffees. Michelle had been surprisingly frank about her life, which sounded like a downhill slide in recent years. Goldman in turn tried to be honest about his own state of affairs, but from an overriding sense of self-preservation had told a watered-down version of his plight.
He told her about the stolen tape from Silverwood Centre, explaining how he and his dinner guests had discovered a listening device in his apartment (he didn't mention that one of the guests was his lover; nor that a physical fight had unearthed the listening device). The bottom line of his downtrodden tale? General Turner would hunt down Goldman to get back the tape implicating the general in an unlawful killing.
Rightly or wrongly, Goldman hadn't told Michelle hired guns had burst into his apartment (he'd stuck with the Red Setter story concerning the blood on his clothes; he didn't want to thwart entirely his chances with her). Besides now he was on the road he couldn't picture Turner organizing similar gun play. If anything the chemist's end would be a formal arrest. The result of an off-chance brush with the law.
He thought Michelle had taken it all rather well (as much as she could fathom his troubled account). In any case, she was far short of being a model citizen herself. Apparently she hadn't worked for years, preferring to live off a boyfriend who was by and large a drug dealer. So she'd probably learned from her own uncustomary lifestyle that being on the wrong side of the law didn't necessarily make one a dubious character to be avoided at any cost. All up, she wasn't overly scared by Goldman's confession. Still, she'd urged him to go to the police, confident there was enough evidence to put this General Turner behind bars.
But Goldman wasn't keen to do that, at least not yet. For one thing his copy of Tape 64 had been illegally obtained, and going public would only put him in General Turner's sights. No, the fugitive chemist preferred to lay low for awhile. He would take his time and think out every move before trying to right the wrong that had been done to him.
In the back of his mind, he couldn't shake the feeling Michelle was using him to break away from her love-gone-bad relationship with Terence Cruise. She'd stressed how she wanted to model again, and how the recent offer from Alexis Models for an upcoming shoot in Milan would be just the ticket to re-launch her career. She was young and ambitious and would probably welcome the dare and challenge of being on the road with a white-collar fugitive such as himself. Very likely it would prove an advantageous relationship for them both. Michelle seemed as desperate as Goldman to begin a new life; though he sensed she would be the one to end anything between them. Of course any long-term relationship depended on him leaving the country with her. Still, it was early days. Possibly he'd read too much into their one night together, but he didn't think so. Anyway, after today he would have a better idea of where he stood with her, or so he hoped.
He thought about his mother; and in turn about Belize, Manuela and Rod. An uneasiness washed over him like a dark wave drawing him away from all that was familiar. He would contact his mother and Belize soon. But not now. Not today. God willing he would pull through this tumultuous period and return to a semblance of his former life ...
He slid out from under the bed covers. A terrycloth robe was draped across the back of a Windsor chair. The fresh-looking garment probably belonged to Terence Cruise or to Michelle's gallivanting father. He put on the white robe, tied it at the waist, and walked into the living room. He couldn't get Michelle out of his mind, her sculpted body, her melodic voice, her alluring musk, the pleasurable taste of her soft lips. All in all he was over the moon from having slept with her. As such he fancied his woes had been relegated to a remote dimension.
The day, however, had hardly begun.
Pilar Artarmon pushed in the cigarette lighter of her XJS Jaguar as she drove along the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. She glanced at the dashboard clock: 9:05 am. She was making good time. She and Stephen had left home at virtually the same time. He was bound for St. Mary's College to make hacker-proof the private school's recently tampered database. Grade scores had been changed. Cs metamorphosed into As.
I don't know, she thought, lighting her first cigarette of the day. Computers, computers. He spends all week at work and still he ... She recalled Stephen's indifferent breakfast mood. Why wasn't he chirpier considering their fiery lovemaking the previous night. He'd certainly had his way w
ith her, but it seemed last night had count for naught.
She dragged on her cigarette and felt guilty knowing a bud of life had sprouted inside her belly. She wondered why she hadn't told Stephen. Both of them had left home in a grey mood with little predilection for in-depth discussion. Again it didn’t seem the time to tell him. The delight of her condition had come and gone, or so it seemed.
Why tell Stephen at all? Thoughts of termination swirled in a backwater of her mind. But she brushed the thoughts aside, angry with herself for having entertained them. She filled her lungs with menthol-flavoured smoke. Terence Cruise had looked haggard, no longer the pretty boy at all, when she ran into him outside the New York hotel where her parents were staying. She'd hardly recognized him behind his wraparound sunglasses, but he'd recognized her and had buzzed excitedly from their chance meeting on the busy sidewalk. He'd reached into his briefcase and handed her a copy of the magazine he worked for, its glossy pages showcasing a young generation unabashed by newly acquired wealth.
Now, behind the wheel of her speeding coupe, memory of the magazine caused her to reflect on her formative years in Manila. Private dinner parties with her parents at the Marcos's. Crystal chandeliers. Sequined gowns. Poolside parties and garden discos. Waiters and bodyguards. Hurried lines of cocaine in marble-tiled bathrooms. Ferdinand and Imelda, each with a microphone, merrily singing for guests as the early hours wore on ...
Pilar had realized her dream of marrying a handsome American who was good to her, who didn't beat her as some of her home-side friends' husbands did to their wives. But something was missing. The allurements of her adoptive country had all but burst like shimmery bubbles. Familiarity had killed the dream. Stephen was a reasonable man and husband, but no longer did much for her by way of sex and playful cohabitation. Was she not telling him of her pregnancy because a part of her didn't want to have a child to him? Was that same part desperately biding time until a man more strong-armed and cognizant of her needs showed? Of late she felt too credible and stereotyped. She sensed that a child, garrulous or otherwise, would only cement her growing perception of domestic imprisonment. Conversely, motherhood could well prove the answer to her underlying discontent ... She was confused, and so dragged harder on her cigarette. In any case, she believed a nicely paced drive, a relaxing break from it all, would do her no harm.
She tightened her grip on the wheel and sped past a sputtering Subaru wagon. Stephen's such a worrier, she thought. If it's not Scott Goldman, it's something else. The sooner he gets away from that creepy army plant the better. She favoured his upcoming assignment of installing a Unix operating system at the University of Maryland. She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and scrunched her face as a lingering trail of smoke stung her eyes.
She hoped what she was buying was good stuff. Strong. Uncut.
Would you be doing this if you intended to keep the child? challenged the same voice in the back of her mind. Again she brushed the protestation aside. Apparently Cruise had to go over the Potomac to score. Please lord, let the deal go down without a hitch. She wasn't in the mood for any kind of trouble.
Carmen Michaels Costa parked several cars back from Terence Cruise's apartment building. She killed the ignition and gripped the steering wheel, a Jackson 5 song playing on the radio. Her face was gaunt and ashen as she flexed her bronze fingers. God, she needed a manicure. The exotic model promised herself a pedicure, a face pack, a steam bath, the works – once she got what she came for. She slumped forward on the wheel and rested her head between her hands. She came close to sobbing, but didn't cry, and sat back up awash with newfound energy, and the knowledge Cruise had what she wanted.
She'd survived a long, sleepless night watching television and downing numerous cans of her favourite cola. The incessant sugary bubbles had helped stave off the infernal grip of her need, or so it had seemed.
She'd once read in a National Geographic that coca leaves from Bolivia and Peru were regularly shipped to a chemical factory in New Jersey where cocaine was extracted for bona fide medical use. She was excited to learn that a residue from this extraction process was a central flavouring agent in the Coca-Cola formula.
Armed with this singular knowledge, she'd gone to her local convenience store in the middle of the night and bought a dozen cans of Diet Coke. By the time rosy light and chirruping birds signalled another day, she'd already finished the soft drink and was showering for her all-important drive to the Capitol.
She tapped the leather-clad wheel and turned down the radio, a young Michael Jackson singing it was easy as 123. She glanced at her watch: 8:48 am. Was it an improper time to call? She hardly knew, or cared. She had a wad of cash in her bag that would probably appease Cruise should he not take kindly to an early-morning visit. She was keen to tell him about Michelle shacking up with a stranger from the side of the road. Class act, eh Terence? The supermodel still wanted to pay out on her dumb little friend. 'chelly deserved it after all.
Carmen climbed out of her BMW and locked it. In a swirling red Halston dress, she headed for Cruise's apartment.
Goldman completed a hundred sit-ups and got back on his feet. He'd changed the terrycloth robe for his undershorts. His denim jeans a crumpled heap on the sofa beside him. His other clothes were still strewn about the master bedroom (evidence of passionate disrobing the night before). The living room's drapes were drawn shut and the curvy neon sculpture, which had burned all night, cast a reddish light on his face and the well-defined contours of his bare torso.
He caught his breath and did a spirited set of fifty push-ups. He jumped back upright and massaged his upper arms, his heart thudding in his chest like a compact steam engine. Something under the corner of the couch caught his attention. He bent down and pulled out a Polaroid photo covered with a patina of dust. The plastic frame depicted a silver-haired man in bed with two Asian women. The women’s heads and arms rested against the older man's chest in a gesture of sexual intimacy.
Goldman remembered what Michelle had said about her father's penchant for prostitutes. Most likely it was Congressman Eastman in the revealing frame. Most likely a companion to the girls had taken the photograph. A menage a quatre? Did such numbers speak of the congressman's stamina or corruption? Goldman chuckled and tapped the photo against his palm, reflecting how everything was for sale bar the unscheduled resonance that can flow from someone's heart toward another person. A high school English class came to mind. A portly female teacher with a beehive hairdo waxing eloquent about “the elusive sentiment bards down the ages have sought to encapsulate in sonnets and rhymes”.
'I thought you'd run out on me.' Michelle moved sleepily toward him, naked but for sky blue panties. She pressed against him, her breasts against his ribcage, her warm thigh against his.
'Me? Run out on you?' Goldman hid the Polaroid print behind his back and looked into her upturned face. 'Hardly a chance of that.'
She was languid, hair displaced, face uncreased, beautiful even having just woken. She looked up at him, her butter-soft body melded to his frame. 'So why all the exercise?' she asked flirtatiously.
'Well ...' He brushed aside her silky fringe. 'I've got a lot ahead of me.' He winked with the cheeky confidence she wasn't about to rush into another man's arms anytime soon. 'And I need the stamina.'
'I like it, I like it.' She grinned and reached forward, squeezing his behind in an open display of affection. 'What's this?' Her fingers touched the plastic frame behind his back. Her curiosity further roused by his pulling back. 'Scott?'
'Stop it.' His face reddened.
'Don't hold out on me.' She became perky and playful, ready to spring forward at a moment's notice.
He stepped back and could only admire her near-naked form. Michelle lunged forward and reached behind his back. They soon grappled like children probing the laws of spontaneity, a tangle of limbs and breathy exclamations.
A key slid into the front door lock.
Goldman turned toward the sound.
The door opened.
A man silhouetted in the doorway.
'Oh for Christ's sake,' Michelle said.
Terence Cruise. He tensed from the sight of his woman in naked embrace of a stranger. The worst of it, the echo of the wonderful energy between them until his arrival. Cruise pushed the door shut, his unexpected entrance as welcome as that of any intruder. He looked squarely at Michelle, then at Goldman. 'So you're the low-life Carmen warned me about. Enjoying her, are you?'
Cruise was in his late twenties, with steely blue eyes and spiked, blonde hair. He wore a navy blue tracksuit and his wiry frame spoke of innate strength. He pointed at Michelle, his voice tinged with an East London brogue, 'You're disgusting.'
'Get out,' Michelle snapped, her right arm covering her breasts. 'This is my apartment. Give me that key.' She held out her free hand.
'I've come to get what really is mine.' His eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'It's still here, isn't it?' He marched off towards the master bedroom.
'God, I hate him.' Michelle looked down at the carpet and balled her hands into fists. 'I really do ...' Even so, she quickly followed the object of her professed hatred.
Cruise's response surprised Goldman. From what he'd heard about the capricious photographer, he'd half-expected physical conflict, but it seemed Cruise had more concern for his drug than for his woman. Goldman put the Polaroid print face-down on the coffee table and grabbed his jeans from off the couch. Forcing his feet through his jeans' bunched bottoms, he heard explosive voices drift closer until Cruise and Michelle were in the room again.
'I'm not accountable to you,' Michelle said.
'It was on good faith that I left it here.'
'It was from paranoia that you hid it here. And yes, I did help myself to some of it. Call it storage tax. Nothing's free these days, asshole.'
Goldman cursed and gritted his teeth as he disentangled pubic hairs from his jeans' zipper. He looked up. Cruise held a brown paper package under his arm and stood over Michelle. She’d donned a dark blue kimono with an embroidered Chinese dragon on it. Her arms crested her breasts defensively.
