by Toby Ball
He felt the lock mechanism, sprang it; fifteen seconds, if that.
Inside, the lobby was carpeted in a grimy shade of green, on the wall a bank of letterboxes below a faded painting of a seaside—colorful umbrellas and high white clouds.
He walked past the elevators and up the dimly lit stairs, keeping his footsteps light. Listening. He paused at the door on the third floor landing, stood still for nearly a full minute. Silence. Eleven a.m. on a Wednesday, not a time for coming and going. He eased the door open, confirmed that the hall was empty, and walked to 302. He knocked quietly, trying not to arouse attention from the other apartments. No answer. He put his ear to the door. Nothing.
The lock to the apartment door was easier than the exterior lock, no more difficult than if he’d actually had the key. He stepped into the apartment, closed the door quietly behind him.
The apartment was centered on the living room, three couches arranged in a u around a coffee table made from an old wooden door. Scattered on the coffee table were cheaply printed pamphlets—sheets of paper folded, then stapled along the fold as a kind of binding. Also, scattered marijuana shake and four empty glasses, one tipped on its side.
Tapestries in different earth tones covered the walls; Grip could make out images of a man with an elephant’s head sitting cross-legged next to another man wearing some kind of high crown. Four lamps stood on four tables arrayed at the ends of the couches. An overhead light was recessed into the ceiling. Grip took the scene in, certain that there was something about the room that he was missing.
Four doors led off the living room. A doorless entrance led to a small kitchen. Grip started with the biggest bedroom, which he assumed was Linsky’s. A mattress lay on a wooden frame that looked as if it had been made by someone who wasn’t much of a carpenter. Linsky’s bedroom was orderly compared to the living room, a bare writing desk, a small octagonal rug, a closet with clothes neatly folded on shelves. Grip looked through Linsky’s desk drawers, found drafts of poems, clay marijuana pipes, and writing supplies. On the top shelf of the closet, a Smith-Corona typewriter. He carefully searched through the folded clothes, checked under the mattress and rug, played a flashlight into the heating vent. Nothing.
He checked the other two bedrooms while he was at it, though these also turned up nothing. They seemed to be occupied by college boys—text books, cigarette papers, posters with revolutionary slogans and socialist supermen doing industrial work. Linsky’s walls had been bare.
He finished by checking the bathroom and the kitchen. He sensed the clock ticking. He didn’t want to be caught here. From his coat pocket he pulled the memo that he’d kept from Linsky’s bag. He unfolded it and laid it on the table among the stapled journals. He stepped back, making sure that it would be hard to miss. Satisfied, he left, locking the door behind him.
30
THE MAÎTRE D’ WANTED A WORD THAT NIGHT, ASKING DORMAN IF HE knew a cop who he claimed was harassing his brother-in-law. Dorman didn’t, but said he’d look into it, making a note on the back of a receipt. People never understood that he had little authority beyond the pressure he could bring to bear as Mr. Canada’s assistant. This wasn’t the kind of thing that would impress a beat cop.
Anastasia was already there, two glasses of wine and an open bottle on the table. This was unusual, Anastasia beating him to the booth. She must have seen him come in, secured the wine while he was talking at the door. It made him uneasy, though. She noticed.
“You have a hard day, today?” Her accent was a little too harsh for her voice to be perfect, but it was pitched slightly low with an erotic trace of hoarseness, perhaps from the cigarette she was smoking now, blowing the smoke sideways out of her mouth, her face turned to him.
“You could say that.” He picked up the flower vase on the table, trying to make it look subconscious, like he was distracted. He held it up high enough to see that there was no bug on the bottom. This meant nothing, of course. There could be a bug beneath the table, in the leather cushions. He wasn’t going to tear the place apart.
“Your face,” she said, touching a swollen knot just beneath his right eye, where he’d caught a fist at the Double Eagle.
“That’s part of it.” He turned his head slightly, and she let her hand trail down his face and settle on his arm.
“Tell me.”
He met her eyes. “Let’s see, it started, I went to a murder scene.”
This didn’t seem to startle her. “Who was killed?”
“Security guards.”
“Do you know who did it?”
Dorman nodded. “Apparently, they owed some money or fixed a boxing match or something like that.”
“What is this to do with you?”
“Nothing, I guess.” In truth, he wasn’t convinced that their deaths were unconnected to the heist. It was far too much of a coincidence. He was jarred by a sudden wave of distrust, and wasn’t sure if it was directed toward her. He floated something false, like he sometimes did, to see if it led to anything over time, if this conversation was truly private. “We think that at least one of them was selling drugs.” He regretted it as the words left his mouth—he was essentially accusing her of treachery.
“I know I can trust you,” he said.
She looked surprised, as if the statement had come out of nowhere. She cupped her hand around his neck. His skin tingled. “Of course,” she said, her husky whisper barely audible above the languor of the band.
“Live with me,” he said.
She withdrew her hand, leaned back with a pout. “Phil. You know I can’t do that. It is against the rules.”
He didn’t bother to pursue it. Having said it was enough.
THEY LISTENED TO THE BAND IN SILENCE FOR A WHILE, A CHASTE SPACE between them. Dorman tried to think of the three security guys, laid out on their stomachs, heads caved in from behind. But his mind kept coming back to the bug. Whose bug? Whoever it was, they already knew quite a bit to target him through Trochowski. He massaged the bridge of his nose.
“Phil?”
Dorman knew that Anastasia was uncomfortable when he was so clearly stressed.
She asked, “When you came to the City, what did you know of this New City Project?”
“Not much.”
“But you come and you work for Nathan Canada, yes?”
Dorman nodded.
“So, how do you know you are on the right side?”
“What do you mean?” He didn’t like the defensiveness in his voice.
“Do you ever wonder if maybe the changes to the City aren’t so good?”
“If the City doesn’t change, it will die. I’ve told you that.”
“I know, Phil. But you were brought here by your boss, and you knew nothing of the project. How do you know he is correct in his beliefs? How do you feel so sure that you do what you do? When I left my country, that was an easy choice. I look around and see what is happening—the fear, the arrests—everything changed. But here, I don’t know. It’s not so clear.”
“You have to take a side and commit, Anastasia. You have to believe in your side and work for it as hard as you can. I’m not kidding myself—if I were born in Moscow I’d probably be fighting like hell against the Capitalist Menace. Maybe if I’d come to the City under different circumstances, I’d see the New City Project differently. But I didn’t. I have to take things that are gray and change them into black and white. If I didn’t do that, I’d never act.”
Anastasia looked at him with her head cocked. “Is that what they teach you in the Navy?”
“No. That’s what I need to get through life.”
THE MAÎTRE D’ WALKED OVER, HIS EXPRESSION PAINED, THE WAY IT ALWAYS was when he had to disturb a table.
“There’s an Arthur Deyna requesting to see you.”
Dorman checked his watch. Midnight. Why would Deyna be coming to see him now?
“Okay.”
Anastasia looked uncertain.
“A reporter. Give me ten min
utes.”
Deyna arrived at the table as Anastasia slid out of the booth. He smiled at her, turning to watch her walk away, surprising Dorman, who hadn’t thought of Deyna as being much interested in women.
The maître d’ hovered.
“Drink?” Dorman asked.
“Scotch.”
When they were alone, Dorman said, “It’s a little late for business, isn’t it?”
“I won’t be long.”
“Okay.”
“Three dead security guards, bats to the back of the head.”
“Sure.”
“Any thoughts you want to share?”
“Plenty of people are murdered in the City. It sounds like the police have it under control.”
“That’s it? Any connection with the New City Project? Maybe something connected to site theft? What site were they on?”
Dorman kept his expression blank. “From what I’ve heard, there’s no connection at all. It’s a gambling thing. Where are we going with this, Art?”
Dorman thought he could see in the dim light a trace of a knowing smile on Deyna’s boyish face.
“Just looking into a story, Phil.”
The scotch arrived. Deyna took down half of it.
Dorman smiled coldly. “Is that all?”
Deyna chuckled. “Yeah, for tonight. No promises about tomorrow. Hey, what the hell happened to your face?”
Unconsciously, Dorman touched the lump under his eye. “Nicked myself shaving,” he said, flatly.
“Of course. That’s exactly what it looks like.” Deyna finished his scotch and winked. “Nice seeing you tonight. I’ll be in touch.”
They shook hands.
DORMAN WATCHED DEYNA WALK TOWARD THE DOOR. ANASTASIA emerged from somewhere and their paths crossed. Deyna said something and she stopped. Deyna leaned into her, whispering something in her ear, looking right at Dorman. Anastasia nodded, not smiling. Dorman went cold.
31
DORMAN WALKED THROUGH THE DRIVING RAIN IN THE EARLY MORNING, the streetlights still on, their sharp glare reflected in the wet street. There was no one on the sidewalks and the roads were clear, save for a handful of delivery trucks. He felt a kind of grim enjoyment at the near emptiness as he strode over puddles, his shoes quickly becoming soaked. He’d grabbed four hours of restless sleep before deciding he had no more stomach for the nightmares. He took a shower, the hot water making the swelling around his eye ache. In the mirror he saw that the area had turned dark blue and yellow. He headed to work.
The overnight guards were still on their shift, looking bored as hell, when he arrived at City Hall. He nodded to them, took in the empty foyer. If the foyer was crowded, which it generally was during working hours, you couldn’t really see the mural that ran along all four walls. It was an odd piece of work, tracing the history of democracy from its origins in Greece—balding, bearded old men in togas instructing younger men sitting on the steps of a Greek temple—through the signing of the Magna Carta, the American Revolution, the Civil War, and so on. All of these tableaus were framed by clouds, which in turn were littered with cherubs, some of whom seemed to be blowing on horns. It was pretty weird—far too weird not to distract from the point that the artist had tried to make.
He took the stairs up to the second floor, saw his door open, and found a maid cleaning his office. She was startled by his presence and bolted upright, a stocky young woman, hair wrapped in a white scarf.
Dorman smiled at her. She looked frightened, as if he might chastise or punish her for being in his office; or maybe it was just the sight of his swollen face. He shook out his umbrella in the hallway, hung it and his rain jacket on the hooks attached to the back of his door. She watched him do this. He thought she might feel trapped if he stood in the doorway, so he took a step out, made an exaggerated gesture encouraging her to leave. She picked up her rag and a bottle filled with yellow liquid and edged past him, keeping her suspicious eyes on him. He watched her broad frame as she walked away, her weight shifting heavily with each step.
He smoothed out his hair with his hands and returned to his office, shutting the door behind him.
HE SAT IN HIS CHAIR, LOOKING AT HIS HANDS CLASPED ON HIS DESK. A pile of papers awaiting his attention was stacked neatly on the right corner, next to a pen box and desk lamp. He was in the grip of a strange mood, a kind of paralysis. He was stuck in a mental loop: contemplating the implications of Trochowski wearing a wire, unable to get beyond the fact that there were implications, thinking that these implications—whatever they were—could not possibly be good. He didn’t want to see anyone, address any problems—he needed to think.
He heard people walking in the corridor beyond his door, arriving for work. He glanced at the clock. Nine a.m. He’d been there for two hours, hadn’t even touched a paper, done any work at all. Canada would have arrived sometime in the past hour. Dorman knew he’d be reading through memos, leafing through the morning’s newspapers, barking out notes for his secretary to take down, observations or things to do. He needed to speak with Canada, but it was so much easier to sit in his office. Avoiding. Procrastinating.
A knock on his door. He waited for a second, wondered if the person would go away. Another knock.
“Who is it?”
“Fleming, from Procurement.”
“Come back later.
“When would that be, sir?”
“An hour.”
“An hour, then.”
Dorman listened to the footsteps recede down the hall. This interlude had jostled him from his stupor. He picked up the phone, called over to Canada’s secretary, asked if the old man could meet with him.
CANADA WAS READING THROUGH A STAPLED REPORT OF SOME SORT, PEERING through half-lens glasses. He didn’t look up when Dorman closed the door behind him, nor when he took the green leather chair on the other side of the desk. Dorman waited. Still, Canada didn’t look up. Dorman shifted in his chair. Mr. Canada peered over his glasses, not moving his head.
“Lost your goddamn voice?”
“Sir?”
“What do you want, Mr. Dorman?” There was something troubling about the tone of Canada’s voice.
He’d come to this meeting intending to tell Canada about the incident with Trochowski and the wire, but suddenly decided that he didn’t want to.
He hadn’t suddenly lost his trust in Canada—nothing so dramatic—but he couldn’t help but think that if his trust were misplaced, if he’d somehow miscalculated, then there’d be consequences.
He decided on another topic of conversation. “I saw Gerald Svinblad yesterday. He was a little testy. We may start butting up against the limits of what he’s willing to give.”
“Of course he’s going to act like he’s reaching his limit. He has no reason not to. Is that what you came here to tell me?”
“I know that he’d put on a show of reluctance, sir. What I’m saying is that I deal with this kind of thing every day, and I’ve developed a sense for these things, and my sense is that Svinblad is serious.”
Canada nodded and appeared to give it more thought. “What, in your opinion, should we do about it?”
“I think we should do what we always do—let him know who’s running this show.”
Canada nodded thoughtfully. “That’s the most important thing, keeping the pecking order straight. Maybe I should contact him myself.”
Dorman didn’t say anything. Canada didn’t expect or want him to weigh in on this.
Canada looked across the desk with one of his unreadable expressions. “Are you sure this is why you came to talk to me?”
Dorman nodded.
Canada squinted at him. “What the fuck happened to your face.”
32
A DECADE AGO, IN AN EFFORT TO DRAW TOURISTS, THE CITY HAD INVESTED in a narrow municipal park that traced the curving arc of the river. The hope was that the park would be the first revitalizing step in this deserted riverfront—that the blocks bordering the park would be given over to
apartments for the wealthy who would enjoy the river view and the shaded path. The park had barely opened when Canada had arranged for the construction of the Riverside Expressway, an early phase of the New City Project. Instead of a quiet street and wide promenade separating the park from the river, there now ran an eight-lane highway. The apartment buildings never materialized—the City had, as usual, undermined itself.
Walking the path now, Frings reflected that anyone with a sense of the City’s history could have foreseen the inevitable next step—the annexation of the park by drug dealers and prostitutes working for menacing pimps. During the day, a walk could be pleasant if you ignored the indigents sleeping in the bushes and didn’t get caught around a remote bend by the gangs of teenagers who seemed to roam around at all times of the day and night.
Frings walked with Ebanks, who seemed a different person today, more engaged, his personality not so diluted. Frings had suggested meeting somewhere other than the house, hoping that a different environment would animate Ebanks. It seemed to have done so, though Frings wasn’t entirely sure that the change of scenery was the reason.
The clang of the pile drivers upriver was just audible over the din of the traffic, just out of sight, on the other side of the high, landscaped shrubs.
Ebanks listened without interrupting, walking with his hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted slightly forward, as Frings recounted his visit with Ledley. When he was done, they walked several yards in silence.
“That motherfucker,” Ebanks said with surprising venom. “That fucking perverted son of a bitch.”
Frings kept walking.
“Get a warrant and take him down. The motherfucker deserves it.”
“I’m going to try,” Frings said cautiously, “but it’s not easy. I’ve got to arrange something with the police, convince them both that Sol Elia is a missing person and that Ledley’s files are relevant to the case. It doesn’t seem very likely.”
Ebanks shook his head, and Frings could see his jaw working. Ebanks’s neck was red.
