“Aud?”
I shook my head, and accepted the beer. I took one swallow and set it aside. “Dornan,” I said. “What are you going to do about that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, think about it.”
“Sure.” Her eyes cut sideways, the way a street dealer’s would if you rousted him on the street with a dime bag in his pocket.
“I mean think about it now. At some point you’re going to have to face him, face yourself. At some point you’ll have to leave here.”
“Oh, right. I’ll just leave, go back to Atlanta, and pick up where I left off. No problem. Only I can’t. Not while that prick is out there with that tape. He could send it to anyone, anytime. He could already have sent it to Dornan. All he has to do is threaten to do that, to make me do anything he wants.”
“Only if you let him. If you call Dornan, tell him everything, Karp has no power over you.”
“Could you do that?” Her voice was intense. “Could you have picked up the phone and told your girlfriend, ‘Sorry, honey, yes that’s me screwing some guy, but why don’t we pretend it didn’t happen? Why don’t you just never, ever let it cross your mind again?’ ”
I wanted to smash her lush, filthy mouth with my bottle.
She changed tack. “I have some money. I could give it to you, if you helped me, if you fixed him for me. Geordie.”
It was an effort to speak politely. “I’m not in the revenge business.” But I remembered what I had done after Julia’s death.
“Please, Aud.”
“No.” If I hit her I wouldn’t feel any better. I breathed as evenly as I could. “We could both do with some food.”
This time we ate inside, and neither of us spoke.
I woke when Tammy slid naked into my bed. It felt good, her mouth at my throat, her hand on my breast then my stomach then my thigh, and my breath went ragged, the muscles in my belly tight, and I got hot and swollen and wet, before I realized what was happening and held her away from me.
“Please, Aud. I need this. Please, please. I need someone to hold, someone.” And her waist was so warm and soft under my arm, her thigh so smooth, and it had been so long I wanted to let her.
She kissed my cheek. “I saw you looking at me tonight, the way your eyes followed me. Here.” She took my right hand, put it on her breast, where the nipple puckered and tightened under my palm, and despite myself I groaned. “Yes, you want me, don’t you?” and she rolled on top of me, belly against my vulva, face between my breasts, “Oh, yes, come on, come on,” and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to just give in, push myself wet and slick against the warm rounded skin, I wanted to, but I heaved her off and raised myself up on one elbow. It took a moment of groping to find the light switch.
She lay on her back, hair tousled, cheeks touched with sharp red. Her eyes glittered. “Turn it off.” Her voice quavered. “What’s the matter? What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it because you don’t like me? Not even enough to fuck? How hard would it be, Aud? A half hour of your life. Is it so much to ask?” Short, angry movements as she wiped her cheeks with her hands.
I wanted to turn to her, cradle her head against my shoulder, let her feel her tears dropping on another human being’s skin, not a sheet, but I knew if my body came close enough to touch hers I might not be able to stop a second time. “It’s not me you want.”
“Everyone is always telling me what I want! Like my own opinion doesn’t count!” She grabbed my hand, thrust it between her legs. “There, does that feel like I don’t want you? Does it? Does it matter, does it really matter what else is real except that we could have sex here, just two people, giving each other back something good? But it does to you.” She thrust my hand away. My fingers were wet and sticky. The small trailer was thick with the smell of sex. “Well, maybe you’re right, maybe I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last person on earth, except that I want something. That’s what you think, isn’t it? Well, I do want something. I want you to get that man for me. Fix him. That’s something you’re good at, isn’t it? Hurting people. It would be easy for you. Fix him. Oh god, Aud, please! Get the tape. Please.”
“He won’t use the tape now.” I didn’t know why my voice didn’t shake, didn’t know how I kept it so flat, why I didn’t just kiss her and tear her apart. “Think about it. There’s no point. It was to control you, but you’ve already left. He doesn’t sound like the type to waste time on a lost cause. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing to worry about.” Her voice was thick with anger. “You have no fucking idea, do you? Look at you. You’ve always done what you want, got what you want—you just reach out and take it. You have no fucking idea. You’ve never been paralyzed with fear, never had to wonder if you did the right thing, or wish you were different. Always so self-confident, so fucking controlled. You have no idea even what it’s like to make a mistake.”
I had made bigger mistakes than this woman even knew existed. To her a mistake was something that made you feel bad, something embarrassing on tape. My mistakes had led to that white room, to those machines, that dead husk. Tammy’s mistakes were her own. Mine had dug a hole in two lives and annihilated a third. And here Tammy lay, so smug in her assumptions, still healthy, still breathing, still alive.
I put my hand on her throat. She went very still. It wasn’t a small throat, it was smoothly muscled, young and strong, but I could rip out her trachea or crush her larynx in a second, or I could just squeeze. Some harsh noise began to irritate me, and I realized it was my breath, tearing in and out, and Tammy was terrified, and I lifted my hand. “Go away,” I said. “Just go away.”
She scuttled away to her own bed at the other end of the trailer and I turned off the light.
Rage and sex and grief bubbled like magma below my breastbone. I wanted to fuck, to kill, to hurl myself from a cliff. Julia was dead, she’d gone away and left me, naked and raw and uncertain in a world where people who called themselves my friend kept pulling off the scab and making me do things for them. Dornan had assumed I could just go find Tammy. Tammy assumed I could get on a plane to New York and fix her problems for her. Just like that, as though they were asking me to pass the salt at dinner. Thank you, they’d say, and think no more about it. And Julia hadn’t even stayed behind to help me with this, she hadn’t even tried. She had just gone away, given up, because it hurt. But I was still here, and now I was cursed to see that what I did in the world mattered.
No. Tammy’s mistake, her mess to clean up.
But, Please, she had said, Get that man for me, and she couldn’t do it for herself. But she had tried to manipulate me. She had slid her warm, smooth body on top of mine, belly between my legs, and her eyes had been wide, watching as the flush hit my cheeks, smiling as her pulse and mine ratcheted up and synchronized, as we came within a hairsbreadth of moving together in a dance that meant nothing to her, nothing. So close. But it had meant something to her. Her smell, the slipperiness between her legs, the way her nipples puckered and grew. Unmistakable. Her smell was on my fingers, mine on her belly. She had wanted sex, maybe even needed it, and I’d said no. It would have cost me nothing to pretend, to give her, as she said, half an hour of my life.
I imagined how it might have been, to bend and kiss her, to feel the flutter of the pulse at her throat, to make her croon with her eyes closed, to lay myself slowly, ah, inch by inch along her length, mouth to mouth, lips like plums, breast to breast, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. Wet pubic hair would tangle together, and her breath would shudder, her eyes would flick open, stare into mine, blue, like still-wet-from-the-dye denim—
Tammy’s eyes were brown. Brown. It was Julia’s eyes that were blue, Julia whose lips were like plums. It was Julia’s scent I imagined, Julia huffing down her nose, Julia’s hands holding my cheeks, grinding me into her, pulling me down hard enough that her long fingers would leave bruises. But my palms tingled with the me
mory of Tammy’s breast, Tammy’s skin. Help me, she had said. They had both said.
I sat up. Julia? No response. Should I do this? There were always consequences. There always would be. Perhaps it was a bit late to think about that now. Julia? Nothing.
I put the light on again, made the seven strides to Tammy’s bed. She lay on her side, back to me, very tense. “Tammy.” She turned, slowly. “Tell me everything you know about Karp. What he looks like. His routines, his friends, his work. Everything.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
“He’s not worth killing. But I’ll get the tape.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The red-breasted grosbeaks lifted from the clearing just after dawn. Three hours later, I lifted from Asheville regional airport, on my way to New York. I’d left Tammy with the truck, a brand-new cell phone, and a list of things she could attend to in the cabin and clearing, if she felt confident to do so. “I should be back tomorrow or the day after, but I’ll call.”
The flight was uneventful, and this time when I checked in at the Hilton I remembered to ask for a king-size bed. King beds are often put in corner rooms so that any noise the occupants might make is less likely to disturb other guests; the greater distance from the elevator means less foot traffic, and so more peace and less danger. They are also very handy to the emergency exits. This time, too, I remembered to bring underwear. Unpacking took longer.
At four in the afternoon, the hotel’s corner coffee lounge was largely deserted—just me, the baby grand in the corner that looked as though it hadn’t been played for months, and the solitary customer who sat with his back to huge windows onto Sixth and stared morosely at a legal pad covered in scribbled figures. I took a seat in the corner, facing out, where I could watch both the room and the three pigeons strutting in and out of the shadow on Fifty-third Street. In the sun their neck feathers shone green and purple, in the shade their tiny eyes glowed brilliant orange. Eventually a server in black trousers and white shirt came over to find out what I wanted. I ordered a latte. He ambled off.
Tammy had given me Karp’s cell phone number. “He always answers it, if he’s at home. If he’s working, or with a client, he keeps it switched to voice mail.”
“Always?”
“I was with him for nearly four months, I never saw an exception. He takes that phone with him to the bathroom, the bedroom, when he’s emptying the garbage. He has four batteries: it’s always on. It’s the only phone he uses.”
“What about when he’s out, but not at work?”
She had frowned as she thought back. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember it ringing when we were out eating dinner or at a movie or anything.”
I took my own cell phone from my pocket and dialed his number. It went straight to voice mail. “This is Geordie Karp. Leave a message.” He was working—but where, and for how long? A lot of the initial work on any project would be informal, she said. He would sit and watch for hours, not even taking notes, then he would talk to the client—again, usually informally; he liked cafés and food courts and bistros. It was only after that that he made detailed notes, and set up his cameras to record data. Then he analyzed the video data and drew up recommendations. He could be anywhere, at any stage in the process.
My latte arrived. It tasted like Starbucks; not a patch on Dornan’s. Two of the three pigeons took flight and landed on the verdigrised metal sculpture at the corner, on Sixth. I had no idea what it was meant to be, but from the back it looked like an enormous green dildo. Perhaps the artist had been making some kind of statement about prostituting her art. I tried to estimate its size, ran through scale comparisons in my head: it would have to be wielded by a person about the same height as the Hilton. Assuming that person was having sex with someone of the same proportions, and that they were enjoying themselves and thrashed about a bit, they’d do more damage to Manhattan than Godzilla. For a while I had fun with film titles: Attack of the Fifty-Foot Couple. Dyke! They Came from Bikini Atoll … The body doubles would have a hard time of it, take after take rolling naked on tiny model buildings. Perhaps they would be paid time and a half, to make up for all the bruising.
It took me a while to realize Julia had not appeared to join in the fun. I tried not to think about it.
Karp liked to eat out, he liked to party, and when he had the choice he rose late and worked late. I could either check out his favorite haunts, one by one, or I could relax until tomorrow; he would be in or out of the loft at some point and I could track him from there.
I walked south under an early evening sky: violet and strawberry and peaches-and-cream, like some fanciful layer cake. I ate at a restaurant in the MetLife Building, where the haricot soup was better than mediocre, the service impeccable, and the highly polished marble floor slippery. One old man with frail skull and wrist but strong chin, too proud to use a cane although it was clear he needed one, nearly fell three times just getting to the bathroom. Perhaps the food was so expensive because of all the lawsuits.
It was still early, so I walked the fifteen blocks to the hotel. It was about nine when I got back, and the downstairs bar was filling up. I found a seat near the stone sphinx and snagged a harassed-looking server. I’d been drinking Syrah with dinner, but here they didn’t have anything decent by the glass. I asked for brandy instead, and it arrived at the right temperature, and more swiftly than my afternoon latte.
When I brought the glass to my mouth, the fumes punched right into my hindbrain and the memories there: sitting in the restaurant in Oslo, stomach full of good food, sipping Armagnac while Julia leaned across the table and put her hand on my arm, her lovely hair swinging across her jaw, smoky sable in the low lighting. She wore the gorget I’d just given her, and her smile was lopsided, patient, because she knew I’d bought the gift because I loved her; it was just that I didn’t know that yet, and she would have to wait a little longer for me to work it out.
I sipped, and the hot liquor eased the pain in the center of my chest, warmed the unfallen tears, made me long to bury my face in a woman’s hair. In Julia’s hair. I sipped again, and breathed more easily, and knew I wouldn’t curl up and weep in the bar of the Hilton.
The bar was almost full, but the conventioneers—the Sixth Annual National Minority Business Conference—were easy to spot. They sat in tight groups of three or four, mostly men, mostly in black or charcoal suits with pin-striped shirts and silk ties. It was clear from the volume that most were meeting for the first time: as strangers, they didn’t know who was the most important, so they had to seem comfortable, to take up space physically and verbally; they were defining their places in the hierarchy. Laughter and booming voices rose and fell in unpredictable patterns, accompanied by lots of backslapping and gaze-meeting. The occasional woman in these groups showed the same affinity for solid primary colors—sky blue, bright red—as women in politics used to.
A young Japanese woman stood as three sober-suited Japanese men approached her table. She bowed quickly, a test bow, to which they bowed in fast response, but a fraction more deeply, and now they had each other’s mettle. She held a business card in both hands and bowed again deeply, committed, and they followed suit. Bow, bow deeper, straighten, bow more deeply still, back and forth. Inverse hierarchy: allow me the privilege of abasing myself more than your most illustrious self! The conventioneers laughed loudly in their corner. I wondered how each group would manage in the other’s culture.
The Japanese eventually sorted themselves out, and I judged by the body language that the woman was some lower-level employee pitching something to three superiors. She did not seem to be having much success. Somewhere in the back of the room, someone lit a joint. No one would call the police; the charge wouldn’t be worth the negative publicity. An extra loud burst of raucous laughter rolled over the room from the front, followed by a higher-pitched but longer-lasting version from the back, where the joint was being smoked. It would just get worse. Time for bed.
I woke, slick with s
weat, at four in the morning. “Julia?” She had never been gone so long. I sat up. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean it.” But I had, I’d wanted her to shut up, just for a moment, and now it seemed she had shut up forever. “Julia?” I listened, but all I could hear were sirens in the street below, the hum of the fan, and the churning of blood through my veins.
Sitting at the table by the window with my tea and toast the next morning, I found it hard to believe that it was autumn. It seemed more like spring: puffy white clouds scudding by, sunshine, spits of rain. Even shackled by miles of road and pinned by monstrous glass and concrete towers, nature was exuberant. Karp, assuming he was tucked up in his windowless loft, would be missing it.
I finished my breakfast, wiped my mouth, and called him. He picked up after five rings. He sounded annoyed that the caller wouldn’t respond, or maybe by the lack of Caller ID. I folded the phone. Time to hunt.
• • •
SoHo’s huge, cast-iron-framed buildings were originally erected in the middle of the nineteenth century to house companies such as Tiffany’s and Lord & Taylor; the lower floors were designed as display windows, perfect for the art galleries and boutiques and upscale stores of today. Across the narrow cobbled street from the building that housed Karp’s loft were two cafés, a gallery, and a bar. Surveillance here would be easy and comfortable. Although Tammy had told me Karp never, ever left before eleven in the morning, I took a window seat in the first café at ten-thirty. The place was empty, and seemed likely to stay that way until lunchtime. I hung my jacket over the back of the chair, ordered mineral water, and opened the paperback I’d bought at the hotel—a best-seller, nothing too engrossing. If the elevator doors across the street opened, I wanted to be able to catch it with my peripheral vision. Good surveillance and good books don’t mix.
It was eleven forty-five and I’d reached page 182 by the time the café began to fill up and the server started asking me every two minutes if I wanted to order anything else. She was new at her job, reluctant to push me, but an older woman at the counter kept punting her back in my direction. There was nothing on the menu that appealed, so I left her a twenty-dollar bill—about a four hundred percent tip—and walked over to the next café. They didn’t have a table by the window, so I moved on to the gallery. Which was a mistake.
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