Box Nine

by Jack O'Connell

  “Why do you think this happened?”

  He just shakes his head.

  “It occurs to me,” she says, “that we know almost nothing about each other.”

  “I think,” he says, “that we both suspect a great deal.”

  “This might be a golden opportunity to clear up those suspicions,” she says.

  “You’re sure you wish to do that?”

  “I don’t know about you,” she says, “but at this point I honestly, absolutely, have nothing else to lose.”

  He rubs his eyes and breathes heavily.

  “Tell me something,” she says.

  “You tell me what it is you suspect,” he snaps back, not angry, but suddenly very serious.

  She wishes she were on the floor with him, at the same level, and that the lighting in the room were different so she could see his face more clearly.

  “Okay,” she says. “I suspect that everything they think about you is wrong—”

  “They,” he interrupts.

  “The department. And the Feds. And the DEA. And Interpol.”

  “What is it they think?”

  “That you’re a very sharp renegade. That you’ve had a plan from the start. That you’re on your way to control of the whole East Coast, and then, maybe, beyond the East Coast. That the Italians and the Jamaicans and the Colombians and all the various Asian cartels are going to have to deal with you sooner or later. Basically, that you’re the top dog, so to speak.”

  “And this you don’t believe?”

  “No,” she says, a little nervous. “I don’t know why. I can’t even look at their paperwork. I can’t even hear about the documentation. Transcripts from a million informers. Something’s wrong about it.”

  “You think,” he says, “I’m a puppet of some kind. You think there’s someone above me.”

  “No offense intended.”

  “But this is your suspicion.”

  Lenore nods. Cortez bites his lower lip and gives a barely perceptible shrug.

  “What I’d like to do,” he says, “is get all the suspicions out in the open before we confirm or destroy them. So here’s mine. Certainly, you’re a narcotics officer. There’s no question about this. For a time, the question was, were you filthy, or, perhaps, did you wish to be filthy? To the best of my knowledge, I wasn’t paying you. Mingo’s idea was that you were, in his words, a headcase. Le falta un tornillo. Your friend in the lobby, Jimmy, he thought you had the makings of a spectacular junkie, which, I must admit, I had to agree with. Tonight, I think something else, something beyond all these things. I suspect you are a woman without a sense of place. You don’t know where you belong. And you’re drawn to Bangkok Park because of its completely ambiguous nature. Because you think this might be the end of the road.”

  Lenore wishes she’d taken him up on the drink offer. She gets out of the rocker and comes down to the floor, sitting in the same position as Cortez, almost mimicking him.

  “Okay,” she says, “I’m a headcase. And I’ve got an appetite for speed that’s on the move. And I think I belong in the Park more than you do.” She pauses, turns more toward him, and says, “So, your turn.”

  “As a younger man,” he says, so quietly she strains her eyes to watch his lips, “I was a seminarian, and then a medical student, and also a journeyman trumpet player. I grew bored with everything in time. And now I am a fine actor. Tremendous actor. There should be the Oscar, there, up on the mantel. But I’m bored to tears. I’m bored to the point of distraction.”

  He uncrosses his legs, rises, and moves to the sheet-covered piece of furniture behind the rocker.

  “Come here and see something,” he says, and Lenore stands and moves next to him.

  He pulls the bed sheet free like a magician at a children’s party. Underneath is what looks like an antique traveling salesman’s product case, a big black wooden steamer trunk with fat leather straps for reinforcement. Cortez take a moment to open it and Lenore sees that it’s fitted with shelves for displaying the goods. The shelves here are crammed with old-fashioned books, leather-bound. Lenore leans forward a little to take in the wonderful smell. The titles written down the spines are all in Spanish.

  “I thought you got rid of all your books,” Lenore says.

  “I got rid of all those books,” Cortez says, gesturing toward the empty bookcases. “You have no idea what you’re seeing, my friend.”

  “Old books.”

  He shakes his head no. “There are one hundred books in this trunk. And not one of them has ever been seen by a northerner. Not a single one. Never been seen, let alone read. You want to talk about conspiracies? Here are novels, stories, poetry. From Argentina. And also from Peru, Brazil, Chile, Venezuela, Bolivia, Mexico, Ecuador. From all the countries below.”

  He pulls out a volume and holds it in his hand.

  “Paraguay.” He reshelves it and pulls out another.

  “Guyana.”

  He reshelves the second volume and begins to point at spines.

  “Colombia, Nicaragua, Honduras.”

  Then he folds his arms across his chest and says, “And, except for this trunk, Cortez’s own trunk, none of them have ever traveled north of Juárez. It’s our hidden library. The ghost library. The North knows nothing of it and never will.”

  Lenore shrugs her shoulders. “So why are you telling me about it?”

  “Because this is my future,” he says. “This is what I wish to do. I wish to go back home. Like you. For me, it’s possible. I want to just disappear. Into the Andes. Into a cave in the Andes. With my trunk. I want to vanish with my books.”

  “Why don’t you?” Lenore asks.

  “All things in time. The instinctual actor knows when to exit.”

  “I’ll bet he also knows how to line his pockets one last time.”

  “Which brings us to Lingo.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “Not as much as you think. It’s already out there. I’m sure you’re aware of that. I’ve been listening to the police radio all night. Such excitement. The city is humming. There was a sample batch. Every parasite in this hotel has dipped into that cookie jar, I’m sure. In another week, the blood will be rolling down the streets.”

  “Do you know who’s selling? Do you know who smacked the Swarms, who you’re buying from?”

  “No idea. I hope you believe me on this. I know it’s a new company. The sales rep is unusually elusive. Refers to himself as the Paraclete, which, I’m embarrassed to confess, appeals to my sense of the dramatic. But I can’t tell you where they come from or how big they are or how they got involved with the Swanns. You see, I’m more in the dark than you.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. Let’s try something else. Confirm a hunch for me. Do you know who the Swanns cooked it up for in the first place? I mean, was it CIA or NSA or some other circle of fuckers in mirror sunglasses and wash-and-wear suits?”

  “Who knows these things? These kinds of questions are like little Zen koans, don’t you think? The answer is really moot. Inconsequential. It’s the process of pondering the question that counts. I personally believe in a unified field theory in these matters. Everything interconnected and as important as everything else. You know who I think dreamed up Lingo? I think it was some blind, deaf, dumb, illiterate, incontinent, unwashed streetperson selling pencils from a soup can for a nickel, standing in front of the White House gates. Good an answer as any.”

  “Maybe for you. But I’ve hit bottom. And now I’ve got to ask questions that I didn’t even acknowledge a week ago. Like who is it on the other side of the fence, on my side of the fence, that’s been helping you out for a while now? Someone up near the top of the department? Someone up in City Hall?”

  “How do you know it’s not both?”

  “How high does it go? Does it get up to Welby? Does it go beyond him?”

  “My guess would be it goes fairly high. But, like you, my friend, I’m just a cog, correct? I’m an errand boy of sorts,
yes? A caretaker. That’s your theory, right? You have to have the courage to stand behind your theories, Detective.”

  They smile at one another. She says, “I don’t think you’d last a week in a cave in the Andes.”

  He shakes his head and says, “That’s where you’d be wrong.”

  She shrugs. “You know what you want, I guess—”

  “And you also.”

  “So why can’t we both have what we want? Why can’t there be a way that you get the money and the distance? You get to run. All shots fired far over the head.”

  “You want a time and a place?”

  “You knew that when I came in the door.”

  “You want everyone left over after I run?”

  “I want the producer. And the broker. I’d say I want the Aliens too, but I’m betting you’d balk.”

  “The aliens?” Cortez repeats.

  “The people above you,” Lenore says.

  “I love that term. But you know how it is with aliens. Long arms and all.”

  “You’ve got quite the imagination.”

  “And a strong sense of history. You’re free to believe what you want. I know the extent of their power. It’s been my experience that what is fantastic up here is simply the boring routine when you get south of the border.”

  “In that case, one last question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The Aliens. They wouldn’t by any chance be women?”

  An enormous smile breaks on Cortez’s face. He cups a hand around Lenore’s neck and, without actually making any sound, mouths the words “Of course they are.”

  “I’m glad I entertain you so much,” she says.

  “I hope it’s been a mutual infatuation.”

  “Infatuation. That’s how you want to define this.”

  “You’d prefer something stronger,” he says, voice low, genuinely flirting with her.

  “Absolutely. And since you’re the one breaking to run, that makes me the spurned victim.”

  “You? A victim?”

  “And I’m here for some concessions.” She pauses, then says, “So how about it?”

  He starts to close up the ghost library. He sinks to his knees to latch the case and says, without looking at her, “I’m taking Max with me, you know. You won’t be seeing any more of him.”

  Lenore is startled. “You know about Max and me?”

  Cortez nods. “And I don’t believe I’m the only one. But a father will forgive a son almost anything.”

  “Father? Figuratively, or—”

  “Does it matter?” He pauses, looks at the palm of his hand. “I don’t want Wyatt hurt, either.”

  “Okay.”

  “Mingo, I’m not as concerned about. I’ve had the feeling lately that if I looked into some of Mingo’s off-time activities, I’d be very disappointed. He’s caused more of my problems than he’s worth.”

  “Just keep your people near you.”

  He comes back upright, moves in close to her until their bodies are almost touching.

  “You’ll be free at two A.M.?”

  “I think I can make it.”

  “St. James Cemetery? Off Richer?”

  “Where my parents are buried.”

  “The old section. Near the railroad tracks. A freight car labeled ‘Pachinko.’”

  “All right. Done. Have you been given the money for the purchase yet?”

  “It should be arriving shortly.”

  “Then I should be getting out of here. You keep your hands on the cash. Can you set something up between now and the meet? Transportation and all?”

  “I’ve had some loose contingencies in place for some time.”

  “Then this is it,” she says, taking an awkward step backward, feeling a little woozy. “Have a good life, Cortez. Reading. In the caves.”

  He rolls his eyes for some reason. He looks sheepish, embarrassed. He seems to her, suddenly, almost shockingly, unsure and young, like he could hold up his hands at any second and tell her the whole thing was a joke, an elaborate put-on. Ike and Woo, the whole narc department, even poor cousin Lon might come running into the library, conspirators in the gag. Everyone might laugh, bottles of champagne could be popped open, music could be introduced to the dusty room, and a party, based solely on a fat prank played on Lenore, could start its march into the night.

  Instead, Cortez holds his hand above his head, palm flat and parallel with the crown of his skull, and says, “Remember, shoot high.”

  Lenore stares at him, waiting for something more. Then she gives a single, small nod and turns to move. Cortez puts his hands on her shoulders, pulls her in toward him, and begins to kiss her. At first, Lenore doesn’t respond, but as seconds pass and he shows no sign of separating their lips, she lets herself go comfortable, and then she’s returning the gesture, applying pressure of her own. Their mouths open, almost simultaneously, and tongues slide around one another and into new territory. It goes on for full minutes, their breathing becoming more and more audible, sucking noises multiplying.

  She wants to press on his shoulders and force him down onto the floor. But he stops, draws his head back slowly, then brings his mouth forward, this time pressing his lips to her forehead. He kisses softly now. He tilts his head and kisses her cheek, holding her face in both his hands. Then he steps backward, gives a small bow of the head, like some odd Euro-Latin count, some last-century duke, and he walks out of the library in a modified march, hands down at his side and feet moving in syncopated time.

  She stands for a moment, taken back. She realizes she, too, should leave, get back to the Barracuda, get back to the green duplex, get on the phone, and start setting strategy. Instead, she moves to the fireplace, squats down, and hunches in over her knees. She tries to lean close and get any last heat the embers might have to offer. But it’s no good. She’s got a chill and an ache that’s only going to grow. The thing is to keep it under control for the next three or four hours.

  That’s the goal. Get through a specific period of time. Keep the mind on that simple goal. Continue to perform, to move through the motions. Fulfill the duties, the responsibilities. Do her job.

  And, where Cortez is concerned, shoot high.

  Eva sits on the aluminum fold-out chair in the back room of the Bach Room. She keeps both hands around her glass of ginger ale. The glass is growing foggy with the discrepancy between the heat of her fingers and the cold of the ice cubes. Rourke is sitting in a chair across the table, opposite her. He’s trying to make her as uncomfortable as possible, staring at her for long periods of time without blinking his eyes.

  In fact, it’s Rourke who is uncomfortable, and growing more troubled as time goes by. He keeps biting on hangnails, using his teeth to tear at tiny strips of skin near the base of his thumbnail until trickles of blood run down his knuckle toward his wrist. There’s a bottle of Wild Turkey on the table, the cap off, but Rourke hasn’t taken a drink yet. It’s apparent to Eva that he wants one, and she doesn’t understand his abstinence. But for some reason, it gives her some confidence, it signals some obscure assurance that she’s made correct decisions, chosen the right path.

  Marconi, the bartender, sticks his head through the doorway curtain, looks from Eva to Rourke, then says, “He’s here.”

  Rourke nods his head rapidly.

  Marconi says, “He wants to see you out in front.”

  Rourke’s eyes break away from Eva and look down at the table. They stay focused there for a second, as if there were writing, some kind of microscopic graffiti, on the tabletop. Then he rises, pushing back the chair with the back of his knees, making an awful scraping noise against the floor. He moves out into the bar and Marconi steps just inside the doorway and stands in the corner watching Eva, his hands together behind his back. He seems frightened just being inside the back room.

  Eva asks, “Is everything all right?” not really interested in a response, but more to prod and jangle Marconi, watch for a reaction.

  H
e says nothing, looks down to the floor in the same manner that Rourke looked to the tabletop.

  From out in the bar they both hear a slapping sound, like the flat palm of a hand coming down on wood, onto the bartop maybe. There’s an undercurrent of mumbling that can’t be made out and then silence again.

  Rourke calls Marconi’s name and the bartender exits the back room without another look at Eva, as if he might turn to salt with a last glance. After a few seconds the curtain is pushed back and a rail-thin man steps into the room. He’s wearing a charcoal suit and a crimson silk tie marked with a splatter of grey dots. It’s impossible to make a good guess of his age, but if pressed, Eva would say late thirties to mid-forties.

  He takes the seat Rourke had been in, reaches to an inside suit coat pocket, and withdraws a pair of small round wire-frame glasses. He makes slow precise movements opening the glasses, holding them up to check for smudges, then securing them on his face. He acts with such care that Eva thinks a wrong move could break both the glasses and the small bones in his nose or behind his ears.

  She decides to take the initiative. She says, “So you’re the Paraclete?”

  He smiles at her, waits a moment, then says, “If you say so.”

  She shakes her head and smiles back. “No, no. I need you to say so.”

  He breathes in and out, reaches to his face to adjust the glasses, then brings his hands down to the tabletop and folds them together, staring at her and still smiling the whole time.

  “I am the Paraclete,” he says.

  She nods. “I’m Eva Barnes,” she says. “And as you probably know, I’m the supervisor of the postal station across the street. I appreciate you sparing the time to speak with me.” She hopes her voice sounds ambiguous, gives nothing away. She wants him to be in doubt as to whether she’s mocking him or acting in some rehearsed, rigid manner.

  “I think,” he says, “we could both see that the benefits of our meeting would outweigh the risks.”

  Right away, it’s clear he’s taken on the same tone and measure as Eva, and any confidence she’d taken from Marconi’s nervousness vanishes. She clears her throat and says, “I guess my first question is, do you think you’re the first person who’s attempted to transport illicit materials through the U.S. Postal Service?”