Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  “You never told me your name.”

  “You wanna hear what I got to say, or you wanna ask questions?”

  “Depends on how bad you want the fifty.”

  “He was livin’ in a motor court, Merle was. Out on Route 50.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Why’s it matter?”

  “For fifty, it matters.”

  “ ’Cause I stayed there myself. Not in his room, I ain’t no fag. But same place, and he was there. Saw him coming out his door one morning.”

  “Which motor court?”

  “Where’s that fifty?”

  “In my wallet. If you want it, keep talking.”

  He grinned again, and then nodded.

  “Place called the Breezeway, just this side of the Nanticoke Bridge. She’s back up in the trees a little.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  He shrugged.

  “Three weeks, maybe. You gonna pay up or not? ’Cause I can always come back and get it some other way, you know.” He nodded toward Anna, who was watching through the screen.

  Henry, the color rising in his cheeks, took a step forward and put a finger on the man’s chest, nudging him toward the side of the porch until his back was pressed against the prickly leaves of an overgrown holly. Up close he smelled like sweat and chicken manure, and his teeth were the same color as the tobacco juice.

  “Keep talking like that, my man, and you’ll never get a dime.”

  “Just funnin’ with you, ’cause I reckon you’re good for it, right?”

  “You make sure that’s all it is.”

  Henry stepped back and took out his wallet. By the time he’d pulled out a pair of twenties and two fives the fellow was practically salivating.

  “Never did say your name.”

  “Nope. Never did.” Another grin as he eyed the bills.

  “If this turns out to be bullshit, the first thing I’ll do is tell that crew chief over at the labor pool about our little transaction, and I’m sure he’ll want a cut.”

  “That spic with the mouth? I can deal with him.” He spit again, putting down another brown streak across the crabgrass. Henry handed him the bills. The fellow counted them twice, as if the math was a little complicated. Then he stuffed them in his pockets and mimed tipping a cap to Anna.

  “Pleasure, ma’am. Nice doing business with the both of you.”

  They watched him walk away until he turned the corner toward the highway. Only then did Henry let Scooter out. The dog sniffed at one of the brown streaks and sauntered off in the opposite direction.

  “What do you think?” Henry asked. “Tackle the letters, or chase down this tip?”

  “After that creepy little visit? Let’s check out the tip. Those letters aren’t going anywhere, but Merle probably is.”

  Henry carefully stacked the letters in order, and then stashed them in a kitchen drawer behind a loaf of bread. They locked up and headed for the highway.

  33

  The Breezeway Motor Court looked like it had been down on its luck for a while. It was a long, low-slung block of fifteen rooms. Red-brick, peeling white trim. Brown doors and smudged picture windows with the curtains drawn. A No-Tell Motel if there ever was one.

  There was a gravel parking lot and, just as the tipster had said, the place was set back from the highway in a grove of pines that only added to its gloom. It was dusk when they arrived, and the orange neon “Vacancy” sign was buzzing on the wall of the office, next to a jalousie window that was obscured by a tangle of trumpet vine. Out front, a hand-lettered plywood sign announced a weekly rate of $90.

  “Quite a bargain,” Henry said.

  “Bedbugs at no extra charge.”

  The screen door of the office was unlocked, so they walked on in. The desk clerk looked up from an issue of Motor Trend. A breeze from a ceiling fan curled back the tops of the pages. The clerk was in his early twenties, with a porn star mustache but otherwise clean-shaven, and more neatly dressed than the place deserved. He stood and greeted them with a cheerful smile.

  “One room or two?”

  “Actually, we’re looking for somebody,” Henry said. “Guy named Merle. White guy in his fifties, had a beard, was staying here maybe a week ago?”

  “Oh, sure. Merle Watkins. Rolled in more than a month ago and paid in advance. Around here, that makes an impression.”

  Henry looked at Anna, who nodded. A last name, and a last known whereabouts. Finally, the trail felt a few degrees warmer.

  “Any chance he’s still around?”

  “Nope. Took off about a week ago with three days left on his tab. Don’t see that every day, either. He owe you money or something?”

  “Or something. We just want to talk to him. You wouldn’t have his check-in card handy, would you? I’m Henry, by the way. And this is Anna.”

  The clerk set aside his magazine and stood a little straighter.

  “Derrick, pleased to meet you. And if it were up to me I’d be happy to show you, but, well…”

  “Rules?”

  “My boss is kind of a stickler for privacy stuff. Said it’s what most of our customers are paying for.”

  “Never knew privacy was that cheap. What’s he paying you an hour?”

  “ ’Scuse me?”

  “Your manager. I guess what I’m really asking is, if you could pick up an extra twenty just for letting somebody take a quick look at a check-in card, he wouldn’t begrudge you that, now, would he?”

  Derrick smiled uncomfortably and gazed up at the ceiling fan, as if thinking it over.

  “Tell you what. For twenty bucks, what I can do is give you the key to Merle’s old room. Number eight. Nobody’s been in there since he checked out. That way you could have a look-see and come on back. But—and here’s the good part—first I’d need to go out there myself to make sure that, you know, nobody’s illegally occupying the space. And while I’m doing that, well, you two could make sure nobody goes poking around in that card file over there. ’Cause that would be wrong.”

  “The gray box?”

  “Yep.”

  “We’ll watch it like a hawk.”

  Derrick grabbed a key from a slot and let the screen door slam shut behind him. Henry slid over the box from the end of the counter, opened it, and began thumbing the cards. There were blessedly few at a dive like this, and he quickly found what he was looking for.

  “Here we go.” Anna leaned closer for a better look. He could feel her breath on his ear. “Merle Watkins, checked in on June 27th. Run this address on your phone.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Forty-four North Main Street. Latham, New York. Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I was hoping for a tag number, but there’s no car listed.”

  “And the address is a fake. There’s no forty-four North Main, not in Latham. There’s one in Cohoes, New York. Or in Harriman, New York. But not in Latham.” She clicked around a while longer while Henry waited. “There’s no Merle Watkins listed in Latham, either. On any street.”

  “Fake name. To go with his fake address.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not unless he paid with plastic. If he did, for another twenty maybe Derrick will let us keep an eye on the receipts.”

  But, as Derrick informed them a few minutes later, Merle had paid in cash.

  “Did he have a car?” Henry asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure did.”

  “You get a tag number?”

  “Nope. But it had Virginia plates, I remember that, mostly because he had such a sweet ride. Camaro SS, a 2010. That’s the year they finally brought it back.”

  “Brought what back?”

  “The Camaro. Best thing Chevy ever built. He had a V-8 with four hundred horses. Swee
t, like I said.”

  “Remember the color?”

  “You bet. Silver. A real nice look. Oh, and here’s the key if you want to take a look.”

  He tossed it to Henry, attached to a plastic green oval with the room number in white.

  “Make it quick, though. The owner likes to drop by some nights around this time. To make sure I’m not throwing any parties, I guess, and, well…”

  “We’ll be out of here before you know it.”

  By now it was almost dark, especially in the deep shadows of the pines. Number 8 was about halfway down. There were only three cars in the lot besides Henry’s, so it wasn’t surprising no one had needed Merle’s room since he’d checked out. Henry unlocked the door and switched on a light. The place smelled of pine resin, disinfectant, and cigarettes.

  “So this was his home for more than a month,” Henry said.

  “Lovely. The orange curtains are a nice touch.”

  “He did have cable, though.”

  “And he spent his days grabbing five chickens at a time, forging doctor’s signatures, impersonating a UPS man, and going hunting with my brother. For what?”

  “Either he’s a real pro or this whole idea is crazy as hell.”

  “Just about everything I’ve learned in the past few days is crazy as hell.”

  She stooped down to check the wastebasket.

  “Nothing in the trash.”

  “I doubt we’ll find anything. This guy doesn’t strike me as the careless type.”

  Anna went into the bathroom and switched on a fluorescent light, which flickered and hummed while Henry checked beneath the bed. There were a few empty peanut shells, a crushed cigarette butt, but nothing of interest. He pulled a chair across the room to place it beneath a heating duct high on the far wall, climbing up for a closer look just as Anna emerged from the bathroom.

  “Find anything?” he asked.

  “Dead cockroach. What are you doing up there?”

  “Checking the ducts. The paint is scratched on these screws, and they feel a little loose.”

  “Are you saying Merle and my mom have the same taste in hiding places?”

  “Got a dime?”

  “You sure you don’t want your magic paper clip instead?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Here.”

  She handed him a dime.

  “Move that floor lamp closer, so I can see.” She switched on the light just as he was removing the last screw.

  “Anything?”

  He raised on his tiptoes and peered inside.

  “Empty, but there’s a path through the dust, like something has been dragged through the duct.”

  “Maybe that’s where he kept his cash.”

  “Or anything else he didn’t want people to know about.”

  Henry put the grate back on, tightened the screws, and hopped down. He noticed Anna looking around with a restless, unreadable expression.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m imagining my mom, holed up in some room like this in Europe, doing whatever it was that she did in those days. Hiding from the Russians, maybe. Or meeting some contact.”

  “She would have been in much better digs than this.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like what?” She touched his arm.

  “A cozy little pension in Paris, maybe. With a sloped ceiling and a charming view.”

  “Keep going.” She squeezed his arm.

  “Or maybe a chalet at the base of the Alps, with a fireplace.”

  “And a hot tub in the back?”

  “Now you’re making it almost sexy.”

  “Meeting people in secret places is pretty sexy all by itself, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  He concentrated on her eyes, and her touch. For a moment they hung in that delicate balance between affection and passion, with Henry aware of the beating of his heart. He drew her closer and they kissed.

  Within seconds her hands were under his shirt, and his were pulling up her blouse. She backed him against the mattress and they tumbled onto the bedspread. She grabbed for his zipper. He undid a button, and then another. Groaning bedsprings and gasping breaths.

  There was a loud knock at the door, followed by a shout from Derrick.

  “Y’all ’bout done in there?”

  They stopped, a freeze frame, chests heaving. Henry looked into her eyes, and she broke into a flushed grin.

  “It’s the KGB!” he whispered. She giggled but held on tight.

  “Hello in there?” Derrick again, this time with a note of panic.

  “Just about done!” Anna shouted back, and they collapsed in laughter, molded to each other, Henry alive with the heat of her body. But the spell was broken, and with a creak of the springs Anna rolled off the bed and hopped to her feet.

  “Damn,” she whispered, buttoning her blouse while Henry zipped his jeans. “Guess we should’ve hung out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.”

  They smoothed the bedspread. Then, with the chair and floor lamp still out of place, they went out the door. Derrick sagged in relief as Henry tossed him the key.

  “Thanks,” Henry said. “But maybe next time you could throw in some complimentary champagne.”

  “Huh?”

  Anna laughed and took his hand as they walked toward his car, squeezing it just before she let go to head for the passenger side. Neither of them spoke until they pulled onto the highway.

  “Where do you think that came from?” Anna said.

  “Both of us, I guess.”

  “Well, I did tell you to keep me busy.” She reached over and squeezed his knee.

  They stopped for dinner at a Chinese place on the way back, the only customers at the hole-in-the-wall joint on Route 50. The electricity of their moment in the motel room lingered throughout the meal, and they amped it further with spicy food and a bottle of wine. When they reached his house, Henry didn’t even have to invite her inside.

  “What do you think?” he said, switching on a light. “Tackle the letters, or wait till tomorrow?”

  She answered by switching off the light and seeking him out in the sudden darkness. He pulled her closer. She spoke into his ear.

  “Here’s the better question. Couch or bed?”

  34

  Outskirts of Berlin, 1979

  Helen looked out the window onto the bleakness of East Germany. She had hopped off the Hamburg train in Spandau, where she changed clothes and adjusted her wig in a bathroom stall before boarding a train to Wolfsburg. From Spandau the train had exited West Berlin across the Wall without incident. The East German border authorities had barely glanced at her Canadian passport. They zipped open her bag but didn’t touch its contents. No search or seizure. No escort from the train for questioning. For the moment her biggest problem was that the wig was making her scalp itch.

  Her rail pass was now good for another thirty days, and by then, she’d be…where, exactly? And in what sort of condition? Still on the run? Locked in a cell? Facing an interrogator? Or, maybe, with no place else to go, she’d even be back in Wixville, shamed and disgraced, exiled once again to the boring brick rancher by the woods. Living with her mom and dad in a place she’d been trying to leave behind since the age of ten. If it came to that, she vowed to at least supply her mother with a better brand of vodka, something made by actual Russians. They’d drink together. It would be their shared secret.

  She was already weary of checking for surveillance. But whenever she contemplated giving it a rest, the thought of Gilley prodded her. Elimination was his specialty, and he seemed to have plenty of people to carry out his plans.

  Even so, she fell asleep for more than an hour, awakening with a start as the train neared the next border crossing into West Germany. Looking around, she saw that a
ll was calm. God, but this was dreary countryside. The view was of chockablock houses and drab industrial buildings—gray Stalinist rush jobs from the 1950s, concrete monuments to state-sponsored anonymity that were already crumbling.

  The train clattered along, skirting a village now, fluttery leaves from linden trees showering down. She spotted a line of women outside a bakery, all of them in dark coats, holding empty shopping baskets. Beetling down a potholed road was one of the clunky autos of the East—a squatty Trabant the color of putty.

  Before she’d fallen asleep they’d stopped at some bleak industrial town, the name already forgotten, the depot little more than a concrete platform with exposed rebar, populated almost entirely by VoPos, or Volkspolizei, who stood ready to seize anyone who might try to jump on board to escape the “Workers’ Paradise,” as Herrington always delighted in calling East Germany. Helen’s passage to Wolfsburg meant she wasn’t supposed to leave the train during its transit through this forbidden land. Until they crossed back onto free soil she might as well be riding in a sealed car, like the one the Swiss had used to send Lenin back to Russia in 1917, transporting him as carefully as if he were a virus.

  But who could Helen possibly endanger apart from herself? And, with her career and reputation already terminal cases, even that was a moot point. Only one potential victim sprang to mind—Kevin Gilley. She might still infect him, she supposed, as long as she collected enough incriminating evidence, and distributed it to enough of the right people before the Herringtons of the world shut her down. But how likely was that? Success probably depended on her contact in Paris, the woman she knew only as CDG.

  It was then that Helen remembered something that CDG had said during their first phone conversation. If you’re ever in a jam, and the usual channel isn’t an option, ring me at the same time as today. Twenty hours.

  A phone number in Paris, but for the moment it was beyond reach. In a panic, she tried to remember it. Gone for good, unless she was able to relax. She drew a deep breath, looked out the window at more falling leaves, and then shut her eyes as she tried to clear her head. She recalled the moment when she had first unfolded the typewritten message that had contained the phone number, and in a flash she saw it again, as clearly as if the sheet of paper was in her lap.