Smoke

by Donald E. Westlake

  Freddie grinned, feeling a sense of camaraderie. There the cigar was invisible, here the whole man was invisible; it was a link. (Freddie, in his increasing isolation from humankind, would take his links where he found them.)

  Having learned much from Gus, Freddie made his way back to the front of the store:

  “Hi, Pop.”

  “Hello, sonny.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  This time, he decided to heck with it, just do it. So he went past the registers, over to the door beyond the drugstore, found the button, and pushed it, and a few seconds later was rewarded by a buzzing sound. He leaned the door open just barely wide enough to slide quickly through, then let it shut behind him, and waited, looking up.

  There was no one visible at the head of the stairs, just a glimpse of ceiling up there, with an egg carton-style fluorescent light fixture. A hum of voices, a chitter of office machinery. The person up there who operated the buzzer was undoubtedly, like most such people, on automatic pilot; they hear the call, they respond.

  Up the stairs Freddie went, very well pleased, because these stairs were carpeted. Scratchy industrial carpeting, but nevertheless carpet, and warm.

  At the top, he found the second floor was mostly one large room, with a vaguely underwater feel. The industrial carpet was light green, the walls and ceiling cream, the fluorescent lighting vaguely greenish, the office furniture gray. They could be on the Nautilus, and out beyond those venetian blinds could be the deep ocean itself, with giant octopi swimming through the submarine’s powerful searchlights.

  Instead of which, of course, this was the command center of the Big S, a long low-ceilinged air-conditioned humming space full of clerks, mostly women, with an enclosed office at the far end for the manager. Freddie looked around and saw, positioned atop the desk nearest the stairs, a small TV monitor showing the space in front of the door below. The woman seated at that desk was entering an endless series of numbers into her computer terminal, reading from a two-inch-thick stack of pink vouchers. While Freddie watched, an employee appeared in the monitor and pushed the button; a buzzer sounded here, just like the one downstairs; the woman at the desk never looked away from the vouchers but just reached out, pressed a button in front of the monitor, and went on with her typing.

  Routine is the death of security.

  Freddie now spent a lot of time wandering around this office, watching over people’s shoulders as they worked, reading the forms, studying the charts on the walls, getting to know a lot about the operation of this place. He learned that on weekdays the store closed at eight, but that clerks remained in the office until ten, and the cleaning crew came in at eleven, and there were four guards on duty all night, but no dogs, which had been a worry. (Invisibility wouldn’t faze dogs; they trust their noses more than their eyes anyway.)

  He also learned that the clerks arrived up here at eight in the morning, so there were two overlapping shifts of clerks, so nobody could ever be absolutely certain that such-and-such a decision had not been made by the other clerk on this desk. He learned that the store opened for business each morning at ten. And he learned a lot about the flow of goods in and through and out of the store. He saw what he could maybe do, and it looked nice.

  And then he saw the clock on the wall, and he’d been up here an hour and a half! And who knew how long downstairs before that. He’d told Peg he’d see her in one hour. It had to be at least two hours by now, maybe more.

  No no no; things were tough enough for Peg these days as it was, having to live with somebody she couldn’t see. There was no point making her also sit forever in the hot sun in an exposed parking lot. Time to get out of here.

  Freddie was in such a hurry to got going that he started down the stairs without looking, and then he looked, and here came Gus, tromping upward. Frowning at the invoices in his fist, chewing his invisible cigar, boot-shod feet clomping one step after another upward toward the second floor.

  Too late to go back. To late to do anything but make a run for it.

  Holding his breath, grimacing in terror, Freddie scraped past, downward, between Gus and the wall.

  “Sorry,” muttered Gus, not looking up.

  “Sorry,” Freddie told him.

  Both kept going.

   

  * * *

   

  The reason Peg didn’t notice the time going by was because she was making plans. She had come to a decision, and now she had to make her plans, work out her timing, figure out exactly what to do and what to say and when to do and say it.

  She did love Freddie, dammit, and she did like being with him, but only when she was with him. Being with his voice and some clothing and latex masks and Playtex gloves wasn’t the same. Knowing you did not dare turn on any lamps once you were in bed at night took some of the fun out of having fun. Being tense all the time was bad for a girl’s complexion, digestion, and posture.

  The disastrous experience last week, that doomed effort just to go out and have a normal date and eat dinner at a restaurant, was the last straw, really. That had been last Friday, the restaurant fiasco, the beginning of the July Fourth weekend, and she’d spent the whole time since brooding about what to do, sitting up by the pool, under the umbrella, with Silas Marner, while that invisible whale surged back and forth in the pool.

  Of course she already knew what to do, she’d known for some time what the only possible option was, but she stalled, she held off, and she was still stalling. And she knew all this was bad for their relationship, if you can call hanging out with the little man who wasn’t there a relationship.

  It wasn’t Freddie’s fault he had this condition, and she knew it, and yet she found herself blaming him, feeling as though he could be visible if he just wanted to, that he was being invisible just to be a smart-ass. In some ways, of course, Freddie was a smart-ass, which gave the accusation a little credibility; more credibility than Freddie himself had, these days.

  I’ll stick through this caper, Peg told herself. I won’t distract him by talking about it now, but once this caper is done and he’s got a bunch of money and he’s set up here for a while, I’ll explain it to him. “Freddie,” I’ll say, “this isn’t working out. It’s straining my love for you, Freddie, being stuck here in the backwoods with you when I’m not even with you. What we have to have, and I’m sorry about this, Freddie, but what we have to have is a trial separation. I’ll go back to Bay Ridge, and you stay here, and we’ll talk on the phone, and maybe from time to time I’ll come up and visit, and if you ever get your visibility back I’ll be here for you, you know that. But this way, honey, it’s just too much of a strain. I’m sorry, but.”

  Peg sighed. She was sorry. But.

  The passenger door opened. Indentations appeared in the passenger seat and backrest. The passenger door slammed. A passing mother on her way to the Big S didn’t even look around, but her three tiny dirty-faced children all stared and stared, hanging back until their mama whacked all three of them on the top of the head. Then the entire group progressed on to the store, yelling and wailing.

  Freddie’s voice, out of breath, said, “Gee, I’m sorry, Peg, I lost all sense of time in there.”

  She smiled at where she figured his head would be. She might as well treat him nice, until she pulled the ripcord. Give him nice memories. After all, she really did love him, or what was left of him. “That’s okay, honey,” she said. “I was just sitting here thinking, that’s all.”

  “I didn’t mean to be away so long.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Is it gonna be okay?”

  “It’s gonna be wonderful!” The enthusiasm in his voice gave her yet one more reason to be sorry she couldn’t see his face. “All I gotta do,” he told her, “is spend one night in there, and in the morning I walk off with half the store.”

  “That’s terrific, Freddie.”

  “What we’ll do, when we get home, I’ll call Jersey Josh, ask him what he would most like a truck o
f—and the truck, too, he might as well take that along with—and then we do it.”

  “That’s great.”

  “And then we can come back here,” he said, bubbling over, “and take it easy for the summer. We got it made, Peg.”

  Something touched her right leg. She knew it was Freddie’s hand, and didn’t even flinch. “That’s wonderful, honey,” she said. “Why don’t you go in the back and get dressed now?”

  “Let me kiss you first.”

  She closed her eyes.

  39

  On the Wednesday after the July Fourth weekend, while Freddie Noon was casing the Big S upstate, Mordon Leethe was continuing, in New York City, to concern himself with Freddie’s affairs. It began first thing in the morning, right after Mordon had parked his car in the untaxed parking space in the basement of his office building. Hearing another nearby car door slam, he knew even before he turned around that he was about to have another encounter with Barney Beuler.

  Yes. Here he came, the hard fat man, making his way between the cars toward Mordon, smiling his hard smile, saying, “Morning, Counselor. Have a nice weekend?”

  What a question. Ignoring it, Mordon said, “Barney, please tell me you’ve located Freddie Noon.”

  “Well, I could tell you that,” Barney said, “but I’d be lying. Come on into my office, let’s hit our heads together.”

  Mordon, heavy-footed but fatalistic, followed Barney to today’s car, a burgundy Daimler. As Barney opened its rear door, Mordon said, “Do you intend to test-sit every car in this garage?”

  “Call me Goldilocks,” Barney said, unfazed. “Could be I’m in the market for new wheels. Get in, Counselor.”

  There was, surprisingly, a bit less space inside the Daimler than in the other cars Barney had chosen. Mordon found himself uncomfortably close to the other man, who slammed the door, heaved around to grin at him, and said, “I hear you’ve had a death in the family.”

  At a loss, Mordon said, “Me?”

  “The Fullerton family.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  “So my first question is,” Barney said, “is the guy that’s taking over, is he just as hot for Freddie Noon as the old guy was?”

  “Even more so, Barney,” Mordon assured him. “Even more so.”

  “Good. That’s a weight off my mind. Now, here’s something I been thinking about.”

  “Yes?”

  “I put myself in this Freddie Noon’s place, you see?” Barney nodded as he spoke, looking past the front seat and out the windshield, as though it were Fredric Urban Noon he could see out there, and not the rump of a parked purple Lexus across the way. “At first, this guy,” Barney said, “he had to worry, maybe he was gonna die, maybe he was gonna stop being invisible, maybe something was gonna happen. But nothing did. We know that, because we know he pulled two quick heists here in the city within a week of getting invisible. And we know he was still a no-see-um, the son of a bitch, a week after that, when he waltzed out of his Bay Ridge place right under our nose and then knee-capped me upstate.”

  “He would appear,” Mordon said, “to be in a stable condition, so far as being invisible is concerned.”

  “That’s right,” Barney said. “So now he’s not so worried anymore that somethin bad is gonna happen. Now what he is, he’s startin to get worried that nothin is gonna happen.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Mordon admitted.

  “Face it,” Barney said, “is this guy gonna wanna stay invisible the rest of his life? Would you? Would I? No.”

  “It’s useful to him, though,” Mordon suggested, “in his line of work.”

  “Sure. That’s why he’s hittin big and hard and often. Two major heists in a week. He’s probably done more by now, but if he’s working outside the city it’s gonna be harder for me to keep track. If I was him—and this is the only way you can be a cop, you know, a detective, which in fact is what I am, and fuck the shooflys—if I was him, and I’m looking through his eyes, and I’m thinking with his head, what I’m thinking is, pull a lot of jobs quick, stockpile a whole lotta cash, then get visible again and retire.”

  “How? Get visible again how?”

  Barney waggled a finger unpleasantly near Mordon’s nose. “This brings me to my subject,” he said, “the reason I’m here today. The doctors.”

  “The doctors.”

  “The doctors. Sooner or later, our friend Freddie is gonna make contact with the doctors.”

  Mordon hadn’t thought about that, but now he did and slowly he nodded. “I see what you mean. Make a deal with them, finish the experiment for them if they promise to put him back the way he was. The status quo ante.”

  “You said it. He is gonna call the doctors.” Barney nodded, satisfied with his own deductions. “Or,” he said, “maybe he already did. You think about that at all?”

  “You mean if he contacted them, they might not tell me about it?”

  “Not without being asked.”

  Again Mordon thought it over, and again he had to concede that Barney was right. “The relationship between the doctors and myself,” he allowed, “in fact, between the doctors and NAABOR generally, is not perhaps as good as it might be.”

  “I bet it isn’t.”

  “Well,” Mordon said, “as a matter of fact, I’d meant to call the doctors today anyway, make an appointment with them, to discuss some proposals that were made over the weekend. I can include this as a second topic.”

  “Yes, you can,” Barney agreed. “And you can include me as a second participant.”

  “You want to come along?” Mordon asked, surprised. “Meet the doctors? Have them meet you?”

  “Right.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, first,” Barney said, “you’ll discuss the situation with the doctors, and why they should cooperate, and the legalities and their responsibilities and all that. And then I’ll come on,” Barney finished, and smiled, “and scare them.”

   

  * * *

   

  The black receptionist, Shanana, recognized Mordon this time, seeing him through the oriel beside her desk, and started to smile, but then she saw Barney. Her expression clouded, and she looked at Mordon with fresh doubt; still, she released the door lock and let them in.

  “An equal opportunity employer,” Barney commented, as the buzzer sounded.

  “I wouldn’t underestimate that girl,” Mordon told him, pushing the door open, holding it for Barney.

  Shanana had come to her office door. “Good morning, Mr. Leethe,” she said. Mordon saw that she was prepared to pretend that Barney didn’t exist, as though he were an embarrassment she wanted to spare Mordon having to acknowledge.

  More than willing to go along with that concept, Mordon smiled his nearest-to-human smile and said, “Good morning, Shanana. The doctors are expecting me.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll tell them you’re here.” She gestured with a slender graceful dark hand. “You remember where the conference room is?”

  Mordon looked mournful. “Not the pleasant room upstairs, eh?”

  She was amused, sympathetic. “Afraid not,” she said, and retired into her office.

  Mordon led the way toward the conference room, and Barney followed, saying, “You get along pretty good with that one.”

  “I get along with everyone, Barney,” Mordon said.

  Barney stared at him. “Do you really believe that?”

  Mordon didn’t bother answering. They entered the fluorescent-flooded conference room, and Barney looked around and said, “Okay, I confess. Where do I sign?”

  “It does lack an amenity or two,” Mordon agreed.

  Barney spread his hands. “Here we are in the Asteroid Belt,” he said, and the doctors entered.

  Barney and the doctors were meeting for the first time, of course, and it was interesting to Mordon to see how immediate and instinctive the loathing was on both sides. The body language alone was enough to set off seismographs in
the neighborhood, if there were any. Mordon was watching two herbivores meet a carnivore on the herbivores’ own ground, and the rolling of eyes and curling of lips and stamping of hooves was thunderous.

  Mordon, as though nothing at all were wrong, made the introductions. “Dr. Peter Heimhocker, Dr. David Loomis, I’d like you to meet Detective Barney Beuler of the New York City Police.”

  “Harya,” Barney snarled.

  Loomis remained wide-eyed and mute, but Heimhocker looked Barney up and down, raised an eyebrow at Mordon, and said, in a you-rogue-you manner, “Oh, really.”

  “Barney,” Mordon explained, “has been helping us in the search for Fredric Noon. We thought it would be a good idea if we all got together.”

  “Did you,” Heimhocker said.

  Mordon gestured at the bare conference table. “Shall we sit down?”

  “Yes, of course,” Heimhocker said, remembering his manners.

  Loomis, also remembering his manners, said, “Did Shanana offer you soft drinks? Coffee? Anything?”

  “Not necessary,” Mordon assured him. “Thank you just the same.”

  They sat at the long table like labor-management negotiators, two on each side, facing one another, hands clasped, elbows on the table, mistrustful eyes shaded from the fluorescents by furrowed brows. Breaking a little silence, then, Loomis said to Mordon, “To be honest, when you called this morning, we thought it was about Merrill Fullerton and his ideas.”

  “I do want to get into that,” Mordon agreed. “Perhaps we should cover it first.” Glancing at Barney’s unpleasant profile, he said, “Barney, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Mordon turned back to the doctors. “About his project, whatever it was called.”

  “The Human Genome Project,” Loomis said, and Heimhocker said, “It does exist.” He didn’t sound as though he entirely approved.