Griffin's Story

by Steven Gould

  I thought about it. “Okay—I draw ten pictures of water and you let me draw you in London. Sunday.”

  “You’ll be in London?”

  “I can be.”

  “Draw me how?” she said, her eyes narrowing, and I realized she was thinking about her ex-boyfriend.

  “Fully clothed, in public, but you’ll have to lose the coat. Outside, say, in a park.”

  “We’re staying at the Best Western Swiss Cottage but I have no idea where that is.”

  “Probably near the Swiss Cottage Tube stop—it’s a neighborhood up Camden way. That’s close to Regent’s Park. I’ll check in with you Saturday afternoon.”

  “O-kay. I think we have theater tickets so don’t leave it too late,” she said. She took off one fingerless glove and extended her pinky, hooked it around mine, and shook it up and down firmly. She let go and said, “Now you go boom.”

  “What?”

  “Make a fist.”

  I did and she crashed hers into mine and said, “Boom”

  “You’re insane.”

  She nodded emphatically. “Yes.”

  Phuket has amazing water, stunning shades of blue and green both still and active. I did my first sketches on Ko Bon island, moving around from the leeward side to the more active waves. I worked in Prismatic colored pencils. I rarely used color but I couldn’t stand the thought of trying that transition from deeper water to shallow sand bottom with graphite alone.

  Next, I tried the Thames, but it’s boring in the city—row after row of apartments with water views. I went back to Oxford and dodged tourists until I found a nice spot near Magdalen Bridge where I sketched people punting through the round archways.

  I thought of going back to Oaxaca but it was too painful so I spent some time at Children’s Pool Beach in La Jolla drawing sea lions coming onto the sand or the waves pounding against the other side of the sheltering breakwater.

  It was a gray day, overcast, and the ocean was like that, too. Graphite pencil felt right for this water. Monochrome.

  Just before I left, I went to a public phone and called the San Diego FBI Field Office.

  “I’d like to speak with whoever is handling the March sixteenth murder of the six INS agents.”

  The woman who answered the phone said, “And your name?”

  “Griffin O’Conner. I sent some information last week. By mail.”

  “Ah. One moment, please.”

  I got hold music for about twenty seconds. I was going to hang up when a man came on the line. The background noise was different. “Hello? Griffin O’Conner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, good. I’m Special Agent Proctor. Give me a moment—they patched you through to my cell phone and I don’t want to crash.”

  The background noise lessened. “There, I’m on the shoulder. Where are you?”

  “Surely your office already told you the phone number and location.”

  Proctor was silent for a few seconds and then he chuckled. “Well, yes, they did. I got your letter. Very interesting reading.”

  “Has it produced any results?”

  “Maybe. A lot of questions, for one thing. What makes you think this Kemp character was involved in the murders at Sam Coulton’s ranch?”

  I thought about what to tell and what not to. The truth, I decided, or most of it. The only people the truth would hurt were already dead.

  Or people I wished were dead.

  “Kemp talked to me from there. By phone. He told me to come there or he’d kill Sam and Consuelo. I was afraid, so I called the INS and the sheriff. And yes,” I added stridently, “I lied to the INS about there being a bunch of illegals there, but I thought the more people, the less chance of anyone getting—” I took a deep breath. “I lied.”

  “And this Kemp was there when your parents were killed?”

  “Definitely.”

  “What’s the common thread here, Griffin? What does Kemp want?”

  “Me. I’m the common thread. Kemp wants me—he wants me dead.”

  “Why? He could’ve killed you at your parents’, right?”

  “He tried. I got away. I’ve got the scars.”

  “Again, why? What’s the motive?”

  I shook my head. I still didn’t know—it had to have something to do with the jumping. “I don’t really know why.” A partial truth.

  Proctor continued, “And where do Sam and Consuelo come in? Were they friends of your family? ’Cause I’m not finding any record of that.”

  “No. They found me in the desert after I got away. I was a mess and they took care of me until I was better. Later, I went and stayed with Consuelo’s niece in Mexico, in the state of Oaxaca. Her house was blown up two weeks ago.” I paused. “You knew that, right?”

  Proctor exhaled. “Yeah. That I know. It was too close to the murders, the niece’s home and all that. No bodies found.”

  “They missed. It was close.”

  “Were you there? There weren’t any calls from Mexico that day, to the ranch.”

  “Ah, phone records. Mine would be the call from the pay phone in El Centro.” I told him a half-truth. “Alejandra was almost killed in the explosion.”

  “That’s the niece?”

  “Yes. Alejandra Losada.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In hiding.” I hoped. I frowned. “You haven’t once asked me to come talk to you! You sent people, didn’t you?”

  Proctor paused, then said, “It’s for your protec—”

  I hung up. Out on Coast Boulevard, two black-and-white SDPD cars had stopped behind all the parked cars and four officers were getting out.

  I went down the stairs past the seal observation deck, moving briskly, dodging the tourists, and headed out onto the breakwater. It was windy and cold and there were only a few people braving the sea spray that regularly shot through the railing.

  The police followed slowly. It was a dead end, after all.

  I reached the end, put one hand on the rail, and launched myself over. It was rocks and surf perhaps twelve feet below and I heard someone shout from behind, and then I was trembling in the Hole.

  The Best Western Swiss Cottage was, oddly enough, by the Swiss Cottage Station on the Jubilee line, only a mile northwest of the zoo.

  I caught E.V in the half hour before her group was to go to dinner and a restaging of Candide. I called her from the house phone in the lobby.

  “So, it’s a pinky deal promise, right? Are we on?”

  “Griffin? Ha! I told them we had a date and they said you were just putting me on. Did you keep your end of the deal?”

  “You decide. I left you a packet at the front desk before I rang you up.”

  She gasped. “Are you here? At the hotel?”

  “For a minute. I’m off to have Pakistani food in the West End. Ten o’clock all right?”

  “Yes, but I’ve got to bring a chaperone.” She said it like it was a mortal illness, like I’ve got leukemia.

  “Well, that’s sensible. You can’t expect them to let you go off with random strangers. I mean, what do they tell your parents? ‘Let her go off with a strange boy and she didn’t come back. Terribly sorry.’”

  She laughed. “I could come down—we’re on the third, no, second floor, right? Ground, first, second?”

  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for dinner?”

  “Well, wait for me. They made us all dress up and somebody should see it. It’s very rare for me. My mom bought this dress specifically for the trip.”

  I smiled. “All right, then. I’ll wait down here.”

  The entire group, all fifteen of them, spilled down the stairs and the lifts. E.V was wearing her gigantic black coat but unbuttoned and she spread it wide to show me a black velvet square-necked gown that more or less molded itself to her. I had to listen to a bunch of introductions while trying very hard not to stare at E.V’s body. She was more, uh, mature than I’d realized, under that black coat. She still wore her glasses but h
er short red hair had been moussed into spikes.

  I was polite to the adults and complimented the women, young and old, on their dresses. At the last minute, E.V’s teacher, Madame Breskin, said, “We have a dinner reservation for fifteen but I wouldn’t be surprised at all if they could squeeze you in, too.”

  “That’s very kind,” I said, “but I’m not really dressed for it. Perhaps another time.” I offered my hand to E.V. “Take a look at the sketches. I expect a scathing critique tomorrow. Ten o’clock, in the lobby?”

  She smiled and I could see her about to say something, but then her eyes darted sideways at the girls around her, and she just nodded firmly.

  It was still business hours in San Diego and I decided to give Proctor another try, this time from a bank of pay phones inside Horton Plaza Mall.

  “Please give me Agent Proctor’s mobile phone number,” I said, when the receptionist answered the phone. The woman said, “He’s in the office this morning, may I connect you?”

  “All right.”

  Proctor answered on the third ring.

  “Last time I answered your questions. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Griffin? Are you all right? They swore you must’ve drowned!”

  I ignored that. “Did you find any trace of Kemp?”

  “Maybe.” Proctor paused. “What if you’re working with him?”

  “Give me an effing break. Who gave you him in the first place?”

  “We don’t disclose the details of our investigations.”

  “Good-bye, then.”

  “No, wait!”

  “Give me a reason.”

  “We can protect you.”

  “That scares me more than you can imagine. Give me a real reason. Has my sketch helped?”

  “I told you—”

  I hung up and walked away from the bank of phones, went over to the food court and bought a gyro sandwich, then jumped away from the antechamber outside the restrooms.

  I did laundry, in anticipation, washed extra hard, thick coat of deodorant, and brushed my teeth thoroughly. Twice.

  She called it a date!

  I took some deep breaths and told myself to calm down. It’s not as if you’ll be alone.

  And we started out with the entire group, walking to Regent’s Park, but it turned out that the majority were going to the zoo and only Madame Breskin would be tagging along with us, “if you don’t walk too fast. Two weeks of touring and my feet are swelling.” She tapped a book under her opposite arm. “Sitting is my goal.”

  When we hit the park, the rest of the group went west on the Outer Circle, headed for the zoo. We meandered down through the middle and ended up on the edge of the lake, with early rowers and the ducks, a bench for Madame Breskin, and us on the green, closer to the water.

  The critique was thorough but not scathing, with examples given on the spot, in pencil, using the boating lake and the reflections of the trees.

  She liked my work, though. “Didn’t expect you to work from memory so much. It’s really cool that you’ve been all these places and you remember them so well.”

  What could I say? After an awkward pause I tapped the Oxford drawings. “I was drawing this in the flesh. No memory involved.”

  “Well, I really love these pencils you did of the Bahamas.”

  “Uh, no—that’s Thailand, near Phuket. Guess they are a bit similar, but I’ve never been to the Bahamas. But in Dr. No and Thunderball I guess it’s similar.”

  “Well, are you going to sketch me?”

  “Yes.” I moved around a bit, considering her against the available backgrounds. “Here.” I settled down and took my sketchbook back. “With the gold dome of the mosque in the distance. Why don’t you sit on your coat?”

  The day had started out gray, with wet pavements, and I’d been afraid it would rain, but the sun and the Londoners now flooded the park. She shrugged the coat off her shoulders, revealing a tight green sweater with three-quarter sleeves and a plunging neckline. I felt my cheeks heat up.

  And told myself not to stare. Well, not particularly.

  “Comfortable?”

  She folded her legs and leaned to the side, propped up by one elbow. “I’m set.”

  Madame Breskin checked on us once, saw that the work was still in progress, and went off to fetch hot chocolate from the concessionaires. The clouds were coming back again when E.V said, “Now I’m getting cold. Since you’re not drinking it, can I have some of your hot chocolate?”

  I looked down, surprised. I hadn’t touched it. I handed it to her. “I’m sorry, it’s stone cold.” I closed the sketchbook and started to stand, to help her rise, but my leg was asleep from the hip down and I fell over. As the blood started back in, I nearly screamed.

  She appeared over me, alarmed. “You okay?”

  “Leg’s asleep,” I said through clenched teeth. “Why don’t you toddle off and suggest luncheon to votre professeur, bien?”

  By the time she returned with Madame Breskin, I was on my feet, limping around in a circle.

  The three of us went to a little Indian place in Marylebone, though I had to promise Madame Breskin that we’d return to the hotel via taxi. In a booth, she and E.V. made me show them the drawing. I winced inwardly and pushed it over, watching their heads bend together as they looked.

  “Oh,” said E.V. One hand reached to the neckline of her sweater and tugged it up higher. “You … flatterer.”

  “My,” said Madame Breskin. “I thought you were taking your time but you accomplished a great deal more than I expected.”

  Almost convulsively, E.V said, “Look what he’s done, though. I never looked like that. This girl is … sensual.” She covered her mouth and darted her eyes sideways at her teacher.

  Madame Breskin tilted her head. “Yes, I suppose. We all are, at times. If anything he’s been more objective than idealistic. Sometimes we don’t see what others … voir d’un coup d’œil.”

  “Madame?” said E.V., preoccupied, still staring at the drawing.

  Madame Breskin was regarding me and I translated, “See at a glance.”

  E.V. looked confused but the waiter came just then and I was relieved and E.V. was clearly relieved and Madame Breskin was clearly amused.

  Later, in the lobby of the hotel, E.V asked quietly, “I’d like a copy, if you could Xerox it.”

  “You can have it, when I’m done. I’ve just started on the background. I’m not satisfied at all with the light on the mosque and the ducks, and the water—that goes without saying.”

  She panicked. “We’re leaving in the morning! You won’t have time.”

  “I meant, when you get back. To Trenton.” I folded back the cover of the sketchbook and pointed at the blank cardboard. “Your address and phone number.” I put a drawing pencil in her hand. “Please?”

  “Oh. Mail.” She wrote the lines neatly, elegantly. “Of course.”

  I shrugged.

  She said, “And your address?”

  “Post is … difficult where I live and I’m not on the phone. But I’ll be in touch.”

  Madame Breskin was giving us some space. She sat in an elegant lion-footed chair by the lifts and pretended to look at her book.

  I tucked the sketchbook under my arm and held out my hand. “Bon voyage, Mademoiselle Kelson.”

  She took my hand and said, “A handshake? Screw that.” She pulled and I stepped closer. The sweater was as soft as I’d drawn it, but the lips were, if anything, softer.

  “Oh!” she said. “You can smile.”

  I had to pick up the sketchbook, after, and the doorman steered me gently out onto the wet pavement past the door frame after I’d collided with it once.

  It was raining, cold and nasty, but I didn’t really care.

  ELEVEN

  Going for the Kidney

  I was really tempted to show up at the airport the next day and surprise her but I didn’t know whether they were leaving from Gatwick or Heathrow or even what airline. I must
admit the phrase “leave them wanting more” went through my head but I would’ve gone in an instant if I just knew where and when.

  I was the one wanting more.

  I spent two more hours in Regent’s Park, finishing up the background. I did very little to her figure—just some blending and darkening of her outline so she stood out from the background. The lace edge of a bra had shown as her neckline draped, due to gravity, and I’d drawn it faithfully, but now it drew me, my eyes returning to it, to her eyes, to her lips.

  I took the drawing to a Kinko’s and used their largest-format machine to produce a doubled-sized copy on art stock. Then I went to a specialty art shop to have the original matted and framed. “Your work?” said the clerk, handling it carefully by the edges. “You haven’t signed it. You want me to spray it with fixative?”

  Self-consciously, I signed it, first name only. Below I put “Regent’s Park” and the date we’d sat there. Then he took it in the back and gave it a spritz with a can of Lascaux.

  “You want it boxed, too?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “For shipping or hand carry?”

  “Hand carry—I’m going to deliver it.”

  The trouble was, I didn’t really recall the East Coast. We’d been there when I was very young, but I just didn’t remember. I bought an Amtrak train ticket for the Southwest Chief, leaving Los Angeles in three days and arriving in Chicago forty-two hours later. “We’ve got some rooms available,” the clerk said.

  I nodded. “Sure—that sounds good.”

  She looked at me, the young teen of indeterminate age, and said, “It is expensive. I mean, the ticket is almost eight hundred dollars more with a room.”

  I began counting out hundred dollar bills and she said, “Very well. Room or roomette? The roomettes don’t have their own showers and toilets, but they’re not as expensieve.”

  In the end I paid a premium for the room and then again, on the Lakeshore Limited, for the Chicago-New York run, with a twenty-four-hour gap in between.

  I wasn’t going anywhere near airports—places where they wanted ID. The name I had them put on the ticket was Paul MacLand, that bastard Paully from my old karate class.

  I gave Special Agent Proctor one more chance, again catching him at his desk.