Rubbed Out

by Barbara Block

  Next, I fed the fish and made sure that all the animals were okay. Bethany had been doing Manuel’s job of taking care of the animals, and while I trusted her, it didn’t hurt to make sure. I watched myself doing everything as if I was a third party.

  When I was done, I made myself some coffee and took the cup and went back into my office. I didn’t turn on the light. Instead I sat in the dark and thought. I thought about what had gone wrong and why and what I could have done to prevent it. Right before I’d driven off in George’s car, Phil had come over. It had taken an enormous amount of self-control on my part to keep from punching him.

  He’d leaned his elbow against the window frame, bent down, and told me he’d do what he could to find Manuel. But I didn’t see how. Everyone who knew where Manuel was was dead. There was no one to talk to. And the Russians who were still alive were probably on their way out of here by now. I know I would be if I were them.

  I took the butterfly knife Manuel had given me a couple of years ago for my birthday out of the desk drawer and weighed it in my hand.

  “I got it for you,” he’d said. “Just in case you need a little extra something.”

  I’d asked him what was wrong with flowers and candy, and he’d laughed.

  When I told Calli and George, they both thought I was crazy to take it. But I’d been touched by the present.

  “Butterfly knives are like switchblades. You can get arrested for carrying one of those,” George had said.

  “I can get arrested for crossing in the middle of the street too,” I’d told him.

  “This isn’t the same thing.”

  “You’re right. An AK-47 would have been better. More efficient.”

  George frowned. “You’re missing the point.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s illegal. You shouldn’t let Manuel give you things like that. It encourages bad behavior.”

  While I could understand what George was saying, I’d thought then and I think now that you accept what people can give you. From Manuel, this knife was a gesture of affection. He would have been hurt if I’d given it back.

  “I’m not returning it,” I told George.

  “Have it your own way,” he’d snapped. “You always do.” And we’d watched television in silence for the rest of the night.

  I ran my finger around the holes that decorated the length of the metal hasp. Then I took off the clasp at the bottom of the knife and began flicking it back and forth, watching the blade come out and go back in as it opened and closed. The knife had what looked like an eight-inch blade, though I’d never measured it. But it was enough to do some serious damage if you stuck it in the right place. I closed the knife, pushed the clasp up, and slipped it in my sock, around my ankle, where my boot ended. It felt comforting to be carrying something of Manuel’s on me.

  I started thinking about him and about how long we’d known each other. About how he’d been a street punk when we’d met. About how he’d saved my life and I hadn’t saved his. Then I thought about Manuel’s mother and Bethany. What was I going to say to them? This was my fault. If it hadn’t been for me, Manuel would never have gotten kidnapped.

  I should never have believed Phil. I should have done more to find Manuel. But most of all, I should never have taken the job from Paul Santini. I should never have gone to Wilcox’s office. And after I found his body, I should have pulled out. I shouldn’t have allowed Paul to talk me into going down to the City. Although by that time it was too late. The moment I walked into Wilcox’s office, I was involved. I wished the Russians had gotten me instead. But of course they wouldn’t do that. They know it’s always worse for the one left behind.

  I closed my eyes. My eyes. My hands. My feet. Even my hair felt heavy. As if I weighed five hundred pounds. All I could do was sit there in the dark and listen to the noises. I heard the swish of the pumps running in the fish tanks. There were rustles and squeaks as the hamsters and the mice went about their business.

  The parakeets were chirping. I could picture them pecking at the birdseed in their food dishes. Their colors reminded me of the Yucatan. I could catch a plane and fly down there. Lie on the beach for a couple of days. Get skin cancer. Janet Wilcox would have been better off if she’d done that. At least she’d be alive.

  I inhaled the smell of cedar shavings and the aroma of the water in the tanks. I was thinking of the time Manuel had let a barrelful of crickets escape when my cell phone started ringing. I reached into my backpack and turned it off. Let whoever was calling me leave a message. A moment later the phone out front started ringing. Five rings later, the answering machine clicked on. Bethany’s voice floated out into the dark.

  “Robin,” she said. “Robin, are you there? Pick up.”

  And she started to cry. I knew I should speak to her, but I couldn’t make my hand reach for the phone. Then the answering machine shut off and it was blessedly quiet. But not for long. The phone started ringing again. The answering machine clicked on again. Whoever invented it should be shot.

  “God damn it!” Bethany cried. “Talk to me. Where the hell are you? Turn your goddamned cell phone on. Fuck you, Light. Just fuck you.”

  Then the answering machine clicked off again, but I knew she’d keep calling. I fumbled in my backpack and found a cigarette and lit it. As I took a puff and watched the smoke curling up in the dark, it occurred to me that the more people you lose in your life, the harder it gets, not the other way around. This was something you never got used to.

  The phone rang again. This time it was George wanting to know how I was. I didn’t answer him either. Why couldn’t everyone just leave me alone?

  I would have sat in the dark forever, but the phone kept ringing and ringing. Finally, I managed to get myself up and out of the store. I drove around for a while, not knowing what else to do. The city plows had done their work. The streets were relatively clear and traffic flowed easily.

  People were shoveling out their driveways and clearing off their cars, while little kids bundled up in snowsuits, boots, hats, and gloves were building snow forts. According to the announcer on the radio, the storm had deposited seven inches of snow in Syracuse, more up north. No kidding.

  I tried to keep from yawning and failed. My eyelids started drooping. I reached over and rolled down the window to keep myself awake. All I wanted to do was go to bed. I was surprised when I looked at my watch to see that it was just a little before six. Somehow it seemed as if it should be eleven. This day had gone on forever.

  The lights in the window of a bar on the north side of town attracted my attention. The place was snugged between a grocery store and a rundown colonial. Someone had replaced the rotten wood with boards painted different colors, giving the place a patchwork look.

  I parked the car in front of a hydrant and went in. The six people sitting at the bar glanced at me when I came through the door and then went back to watching television. They looked as if they were used to minding their own business.

  I sat down at the far corner and ordered a beer. If I had to guess, I’d say that the place had been fitted out twenty years ago and hadn’t been touched since. There were tears in the bar stools that had been mended with duct tape and big gouges on the bar itself The pictures hanging on the wall were covered with grime. A fine layer of dust and smoke hovered in the air.

  As the bartender put my beer in front of me, I remembered that one of Manuel’s friends lived two blocks away from here. A short kid with a permanent limp from the motorcycle accident he’d been in, he and Manuel had been talking about getting a car and driving cross-country next summer.

  Suddenly I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. I threw a five-dollar bill on the bar and went out to George’s car without touching the beer I’d ordered. The fresh air made me feel better. So did driving. I cruised in and out of streets. The North Side was a good place for that, since everything turned and looped. They say only the dead know Brooklyn. Well, the North Side isn’t that bad—but if you don’
t live in it, you need a map. Then, I’m not quite sure how, I was passing Wilcox’s office. I stopped and backed up and stared at the place. It looked the same as it had when I first went in there.

  Wilcox had worked for the Russians. Which meant that he had their names on file. Somewhere. Maybe all their names. Maybe even some that hadn’t been on the lake. I was sure the cops had gone over everything.

  Still.

  It wouldn’t hurt to have another look.

  It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do at the moment.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Walter Wilcox’s office turned out to be surprisingly easy to break into. For openers, the place wasn’t alarmed and even though the door had a dead bolt, the windows had nothing on them in the way of locks. Even better, they were all about three feet off the ground. In addition, no one was around, nor were they likely to be since this area was largely commercial. All I had to do was boost myself up and I was in.

  Which is what I did. Then I lowered the blinds in the office that weren’t already down and got to work. Wilcox’s phone book and computer were gone, taken by the police no doubt, but his files were still there. I pulled up a chair, made myself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, and spent the next couple of hours going through them.

  By the end of that time, I had a crick in my neck, my eyes hurt from reading fine print in bad light, and I was extremely glad I’d never become a lawyer. But that was all I knew. Judging by the content of the files, it appeared as if Walter Wilcox was the model of what he presented himself as—a hard-working attorney in private practice.

  He must have kept the records of his transactions for the Russians hidden somewhere in his house, because according to these files, all Wilcox did was close on houses and draw up wills and adoption papers. He shepherded people through separations and divorces—if they weren’t too complicated. He also took care of traffic tickets and the occasional misdemeanor. His business seemed strictly limited to dealing with individuals and their problems.

  There was only one thing that broke that pattern: His business dealings with the real estate company upstairs. He did all their house closings and record keeping. Not that that meant anything. Probably a matter of convenience for the people upstairs. Why get in a car and drive when you could walk downstairs to get what you needed done? Still it was something.

  I leaned back in Wilcox’s chair and let my mind drift to the first time I’d walked in here. I’d made a crack to the secretary about the stretch limo waiting outside. I’d asked her if that was how Wilcox got to court. She hadn’t found it funny. Coming out of Wilcox’s office, I’d wondered if the real estate company owned it. Not that they weren’t entitled to. It was just another anomaly.

  Anomalies are usually just random incidents without significance. On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to go upstairs and poke around the real estate office. I was definitely on a roll here. I’d already broken into one office. What was one more? If I couldn’t get inside, I’d turn around and head for another bar.

  But I was saved from that fate by the graciousness of the gods. The lock on the office door was a cheapo special, and I managed to open it without too much trouble. The moment I walked into the inside office, I knew I was on to something. The place didn’t have the feel of any real estate office I’d ever been in. It had the feel of something provisional, something that could be abandoned without a backward glance.

  The office consisted of three interconnecting rooms. The front room contained a couple of cheap particleboard desks, two vinyl chairs, plus a small scatter rug and a card table covered with empty Styrofoam cups, envelopes, and magazines. Add a tatty-looking sofa shoved over into the far corner, and you had the sum and substance of the furnishings.

  The second room had two cots in it. The beds had sleeping bags on them instead of bedding. There was an overturned plastic box between them that functioned as a table. It had a half-empty bottle of vodka on it. A clue? Whaddaya think? The third room was empty. I did a quick check of the bathroom before going back to the main room. There was toothpaste, shaving cream, mouthwash, soap, shampoo, and towels. Someone had been living here.

  I went back into the first room and went over to the bridge table. One of the magazines was Time. But the title of the other one was in Cyrillic. Ah-ha! Another clue. Finally. You look long enough, and sooner or later one pops out. So this is where some of the Russians had stayed.

  And then something else hit me. There was no phone in the place. Novel way for real estate agents to do business, I decided. Your clients reach you through mental telepathy.

  And there was another thing. Something I couldn’t identify. I stood there for a few seconds and then it came to me. The place smelled like the Russian who had been holding me. It was a combination of cigar smoke and alcohol and something vague and indefinable.

  So what had the Russians used this place for? A crash pad, obviously. But then why set this place up as an office? Why not just rent a flat? Maybe because they had business holdings of some kind. Like the limo, maybe? I wondered what else they owned. I hadn’t been paying attention when I’d flipped through their file downstairs.

  And then it occurred to me that this was how Walter Wilcox had become acquainted with the Russians. I could see it happening. They’d moved in over him, invited him out for drinks, and suddenly before he knew it his life was taking a different direction.

  They must have seemed exciting to him. Exotic. Like something out of the movies. A temptation he couldn’t resist. Suddenly he had a secret life. And a girlfriend. Things he’d never had. Things he’d fantasized about having. And by the time he’d woken up and realized with whom he was playing, it was too late. He couldn’t dig himself out.

  I ran down the stairs and went back to Wilcox’s office to take a look at the files for the real estate company again. They could have stashed Manuel in one of their properties. It was a long shot, but it was the only shot I had.

  I grabbed the file and opened it up. I couldn’t find a mention of a car-for-hire company. But according to what I read, Wilcox had closed on six properties for them in the last year and a half. Maybe there were more, but checking that out would have to wait until tomorrow morning.

  I took a pen off Wilcox’s desk and jotted down the addresses and phone numbers on a scrap piece of paper and put it in my pocket. Then I put the file away, returned the chair to where it had been, and turned off the lights. As I walked out of Wilcox’s office, I thought about calling George, but that would have meant explaining what I’d been doing for the past hours, and I wasn’t in the mood to do that. I decided I could always call George if anything came up.

  It was snowing again when I stepped out onto the pavement. I watched the flakes drifting down under the streetlights for a few seconds before I drove off. The first three addresses were on the North Side, close to where I was, so I checked them out first. One was a strip club, the other featured an “all-nude review,” and the third had a sign on the window that said, ALL NAKED GIRLS, ALL THE TIME. Maybe the Russians were building their own little nudie-bar empire.

  In addition, all three had signs in their windows advertising wide-screen TV Judging from the cars in the parking lot, all three places were busy. Naked women. Big screen TVs. I mean what else could a guy want?

  They seemed like unlikely places to put Manuel. But then, I never would have guessed that the Russians owned the real estate company upstairs from Walter Wilcox either. I started with the strip club. It had an entrance on the side where the girls came and went. It was locked, but when I knocked, one of the strippers let me in. She looked about fifteen going on forty.

  “I’m looking for my son, Manuel,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Try out front.”

  “He said he was going to meet a girl that worked here. Maybe you know her? She’s . . .”

  “Save it.” The girl tugged at the belt of her terrycloth bathrobe. “I’ll get Mario. He’s the one you should talk to.”
>
  “That’s all right. I’ll find him.”

  She tossed her hair back from her face. “If that’s what you want,” she told me in a seen-it-all voice. “I have to get ready to go on. I’m next.”

  I followed behind her as she walked into the dressing room. There were three other women in a room as big as a galley-sized kitchen. None of them paid me any attention as I wandered down the corridor. The entrance to the stage was off to the right. I peeked out. A bored-looking girl in a cowboy outfit was getting ready to remove her top to a souped-up rendition of “Home On the Range.” The men in the audience seemed equally unenthusiastic. I moved on.

  There were two doors on the left-hand side. I opened them both. One was the bathroom. The other one was the supply closet. I walked a couple more feet. There was another door at the end of the hallway. When I opened it, a guy who could have been a linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers looked up from his laptop.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  I could think of a lot of possible answers to that question, none of which would get me the information I wanted, so I favored him with a sweet smile and lied.

  “I’m looking for my son.” I described Manuel. “He’s infatuated with this stripper. I don’t know her name or where she works, but I thought if I walked around . . .”

  The man cleared his throat. I could tell from the expression on his face that this was the first time he’d heard a story like this and he figured he’d heard them all.

  “I’m sorry, lady. I ain’t seen anyone like that back here.”

  I did a good hand-wringing demonstration. “He hasn’t been home in two days.”

  The man’s eyes darted back to the screen and away. “I see him, I’ll tell him to call his ma.”