The Binding

by E. Z. Rinsky

  “What happened in that hotel room with Greta? Before you killed her? Did she play the tape?”

  I breathe out slowly. Fortunately I’ve rehearsed this:

  “I told you,” I say carefully. “I didn’t hear it all.”

  Courtney arches one eyebrow so high it almost brushes his hairline.

  “You don’t have to lie to me,” he says, his tone clinically neutral. “If you don’t want to tell me what you heard, just say so.”

  I scratch the back of my neck.

  “I’m not lying to you,” I lie. “I heard some stuff, but I don’t really understand what it meant.”

  Courtney is quiet for a moment. Then, like a Jenga player surgically plucking out one more piece: “But was it what we thought? Did it tell you about what happens after we die?”

  I stand up from the tub again and take my portion of the papers.

  “Has it occurred to you that I’m not telling you everything to protect you?” I say.

  Courtney stares up at me evenly.

  “There’s no need to protect me.”

  I bend over until my gaze is even with his. Shoot him a look that I hope conveys that he is not to raise this topic again. I say: “There is. You can’t unhear these things, Court.”

  I let that hang for a second in the air, then straighten up. “I’m going to bed,” I say. “Happy reading.”

  “So then . . .” Courtney starts.

  “So tomorrow morning we’ll call this guy Rico and take it from there. Swap and get paid.”

  Courtney frowns for a moment, clearly still processing the details of that exchange. He rubs a long index finger along his bottom lip.

  “Yes,” he says. “Should be fairly straightforward.”

  Part Two

  Tuesday

  Exodus 33:20

  And [The Lord] said, Thou canst not see my face; for man shall not see me and live.

  If this is typical, then Colorado summer mornings are amazing: dry, crisp and cloudless. Sky is a robin’s-egg blue. I guess most Coloradans would prefer storm clouds—water is apparently outrageously expensive now because of the drought—but the fresh morning has me upbeat and optimistic as Courtney and I walk to Mindy’s guesthouse.

  Maybe this could all go smoothly.

  Courtney made a pathetic effort to clean himself up before breakfast, and he looks all the worse for his failed attempt: His polo shirt is half-ironed, he missed a big spot shaving his chin, and the left corner of his mouth is blemished by a white splotch of dried toothpaste.

  “So what about Rico? Did you read your half?” he asks.

  “Yeah. I mean, skimmed a lot obviously, but I got the idea.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t think we’re dealing with a criminal mastermind here. I mean, the guy worked at a processing center for junkies for ten years without a promotion. The best I can tell, Sampson mainly hired him because he’s huge, and didn’t ask too many questions. I figure he saw the same Sampson we did yesterday, realized how desperate he’d be to get the books back and took advantage.”

  Courtney frowns.

  “But he’s patient.”

  I snort. The highest praise Courtney can give someone is calling them “patient” or “thoughtful.”

  “There’s a fine line between patient and stubborn,” I say. “Wouldn’t take a penny less than forty. But guess it’s about to pay off.”

  With five pages left in the Rico file I’d slipped into a series of horrible dreams: rabid dogs lunging for my throat, angelic faces crying tears of blood, a man who had an extra pair of limbs that he used to climb up walls. But out here in the sunny yard, surrounded by an Edenic scene of grass, flowers and topiaries, the images feel distant and silly.

  In fact, it’s not hard to imagine that all the unpleasantness of yesterday was an overreaction. For instance, it sure seems likely that Sampson’s missing Erector Set was some sort of optical illusion or a bad dream, because as he greets us outside the guesthouse door, shakes my hand firmly, locks his eyes onto mine, grins and asks how I slept, I find it near impossible to picture that awful stump. He looks composed, confident and healthy—in short, like a United States Senator.

  Sampson then takes Courtney’s hand and gives him a hearty smack on the shoulder.

  “Ready to see some action?” he teases, a far cry from the desperation he showed yesterday.

  Courtney smiles weakly and manages something resembling a yes.

  “Then let’s get to it.”

  It’s immediately obvious that the guesthouse is solely Mindy’s domain. The cottage is packed with books. Like her strands of hair, there seems to have once been an effort to subjugate them, that’s long since been abandoned. Only about half the books are shelved, the rest lie open on the floor or coffee tables, pages dog-eared, some books serving as bookmarks for others. The walls are covered in posters for once-upcoming Phish concerts, and blown-up, framed French cartoons. I wonder if she’s really working as hard as Sampson thinks, or just taking advantage of the room and board. An argument for the latter is a large bong made of green glass sitting in the center of the kitchen table, its prominence suggesting it’s the primary reason for this home and its occupant’s existence. She’s poking at her oatmeal when we walk in, and barely acknowledges us, either lost in thought or just grumpy.

  Sampson snatches the bong off the table and puts it in a cupboard.

  “For heaven’s sakes,” he says. “Wouldn’t kill you to at least be discreet.”

  Mindy just shrugs. She’s wearing pajama bottoms with ducks on them, and a baggy button-down shirt that I’m sure she slept in. Her hair has a little bit of an Einstein thing going on. Yesterday she was wearing a little eyeliner, not today.

  “Good morning, Mindy,” says Courtney.

  “Oh, hi,” she says. “How did you two sleep?” Her intonation is like she’s asking where we keep the horse tranquilizers, in case this day needs to be put out of its misery. I imagine that she wishes her cheeks weren’t so round and pink; they could give you the mistaken impression that she’s cheery.

  “Fine, thanks,” I say.

  “Help yourselves to some breakfast,” says Sampson, in a booming voice.

  There’s a big fruit arrangement that looks catered, some boxes of cereal and a bottle of rice milk. Courtney eagerly sits down across from Mindy and fills a plate with cantaloupe. Between bites he steals glances at her. When she catches him he squints and pretends to be studying whatever is over her shoulder. She couldn’t care less. Just keeps joylessly shoveling spoonfuls of oats into her mouth, like sustaining herself is a minimum wage job she’d quit in a heartbeat if an alternative presented itself.

  Sampson sits down at the head of the table, seems uninterested in the food, just watches us expectantly. I’ve hardly had a chance to start eating when Sampson says: “I have a conference call in a half hour—maybe you fellas could just go ahead and call Rico now?”

  “Now?” I say, spearing a cantaloupe chunk. “I kinda figured Courtney and I would talk to you two a bit more about Rico, and take some time to strategize.”

  Sampson looks strained.

  “I’d prefer if you called now,” he says, his solemn tone conveying that this is more than just a strong preference.

  Courtney fidgets in his seat.

  “Surely a few hours of planning—” he starts.

  “It will be fine,” Sampson says. “Call on speaker, alright?”

  Courtney is frowning intensely. But I don’t think Sampson is open to debate on this.

  “His number is 303-742-1829,” Sampson says, from memory.

  I slide him the phone so he can just enter it himself. He types the numbers with great gravity, like he’s entering a nuclear launch code. When he returns the phone his enormous hand is trembling slightly.

  “Okay.” I address the Senator and Mindy. Try to recall my mannerisms from years ago, when I used to regularly instruct grateful clients on details of my MO, mostly just to convince them that I kne
w what I was doing. “Nobody talks but me. We don’t want to spook him. Make him think we’re with the feds or something. And once we call, we have to be ready to go right away. He used to be a cop. He knows that the longer he gives us, the better our chance of setting up a sting.”

  Sampson nods dutifully. I’m sure he’s both nervous and excited, but unlike last night in his office, he’s dignified enough to maintain a solemn air of nonchalance. Mindy keeps mirthlessly swallowing oatmeal, apparently still unwilling to take this whole thing seriously.

  “Alright,” sighs Mindy, pushing her now empty bowl away and sitting back in her chair. “Go ahead then.”

  “Don’t worry,” Courtney says to Mindy. “We have a lot of experience with this sort of thing.”

  “Oh do you now?” she retorts dryly.

  I roll my eyes. Watching Courtney talk to women makes me feel like I’m in a National Geographic documentary on failed mating tactics.

  “Okay,” I say. “Quiet please.”

  I hit call and put the phone in front of me on the tabletop. Nine long rings on speaker. Pulse jumps as someone answers abruptly. Courtney jerks to attention. Sampson is staring intently at the phone, perhaps with loathing at the source of the voice.

  “Yes.”

  He’s using one of those machines that makes your voice sound like Darth Vader, which immediately strikes me as odd for two reasons: One, does he always answer the phone with that thing? And two, we already know who he is.

  “Is this Rico?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi Rico,” I say. “My name is Ben Donovan. I’m a private investigator sitting here with Senator Sampson. He’s asked me to contact you on his behalf. And . . . we have the amount you asked for. We would like to set up an exchange.”

  Heavy modified breathing.

  “Are you with the police?”

  “No. I’m a private investigator. I have no affiliation with the police.”

  “Forty in bonds?” the voice says quickly.

  “Yes.”

  Heavier breathing.

  “I’ll call back.”

  Click as he hangs up.

  Sampson wrings his hands.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, voice trembling.

  I shrug. “Could be anything. Maybe he’s at work and needs to step outside the office.”

  “I doubt he has to work these days.” Mindy purses her lips. “The Senator has already paid him what, two million since this whole thing started?”

  I jump in my seat as the phone starts ringing. I answer quickly on speaker.

  “Hello?”

  “Price has gone up.” He’s trying to sound intimidating I think, and the pitch shifter is helping. “Waited too long. Forty-eight now. Two per book.”

  Every feature on Sampson’s face falls toward the floor. He goes pale and grips two handfuls of hair. Mindy shakes her head like what did you expect? Courtney is totally focused, staring at the phone, an impartial data processing machine.

  I lick my lips.

  “I’ll call right back, okay Rico?”

  “As you like.”

  He hangs up.

  Sampson lays his glasses on the table and groans.

  “Every time you gave in to him it just emboldened him,” Mindy mutters, ostensibly to herself, but loud enough for all of us to hear. “He knows he can do whatever he likes—”

  “Enough.” Sampson writhes in his seat. He’s close to tears again. “I can do forty-eight,” he says softly. “I can get another eight by tomorrow—I know somewhere I can get the money.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my chair.

  “Listen, Senator, as much as I’d love to get the books back and collect the commission, I’m not sure it’s wise . . .”

  “Something is weird,” says Courtney half to himself. “I need to hear him talk more.”

  “I’ll do it,” Sampson repeats. “Tell him I can get him the other eight in unregistered stock certificates. They also don’t have the owner’s name on them. They’re nearly as anonymous as bearer bonds.”

  I hesitate. Look at Mindy—her eyes are widening, like she’s starting to allow for the possibility of the Senator actually going through with this.

  I look at Courtney, who’s deep in thought. “I want to hear him talk more. That voice alternator is removing most of the tells.”

  “Call him,” says Sampson, quietly but forcefully. “Tell him I can give him forty-eight by tomorrow. You are working for me. I am telling you to arrange a swap for forty-eight.”

  “Okay.” I half laugh nervously. “You’re the boss.”

  I hit dial. Rico picks up instantly.

  “Yes.”

  “Rico?” I say.

  “Yes.” The voice sounds surprisingly calm.

  “We can get forty-eight by tomorrow. The last eight will be in unregistered stock certificates.”

  Long, long pause. I think he’s hung up, but a little scratching says he’s just put his hand over the receiver for a second.

  “You have the bonds now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lay them out on a table. Cut up the front page of today’s Denver Post and put a piece on top of each bond. Take a high res picture and fax it to the following number: 303-555-4213. If I’m satisfied I’ll call back.”

  It takes me a second.

  “Fax? We don’t have a fax—”

  He hangs up. Mindy scrunches her eyebrows in confusion. Sampson is confounded, terrified, but obviously excited.

  Courtney’s eyes are glowing. I can tell he’s secretly thrilled that Rico is proving to be at least a nominally worthy intellectual adversary.

  “Why does he want it faxed?” I ask Courtney. “Why the hell can’t we text it to him?”

  Courtney shakes his head.

  “I really have no idea.”

  “Senator, do you have a fax machine?” I ask.

  Courtney preempts me.

  “There are cell phone apps that let you send faxes. That won’t be a problem.” He turns to Sampson. “The paper is to make sure the picture was taken today, and that we didn’t just Photoshop the bonds in,” he explains, wiggling his tongue inside his mouth with excitement. “I assume you have the Post, Senator?”

  Sampson nods, exhales. “Yes. I read it every morning. Rico knows that.”

  “Go get the bonds,” orders Courtney, all business. “Frank, find a fax app.”

  Sampson runs out of the guesthouse doors. Mindy brings scissors in from the kitchen, and Courtney carefully cuts up the front page of the paper into chunks large enough to be recognizable.

  “I’m not sure we should let him do this,” I say.

  “Not our place to say,” Courtney says, embroiled in cutting. “He hired us.”

  We turn our eyes to Mindy, asking for her tie-breaker vote. She’s on her feet, suddenly alert and on edge, shaking her head and staring at the table, as if in disbelief.

  “Of course,” she says softly. “Of course we’ll let him do it. Don’t you two want to get paid?”

  Sampson returns with a brown leather suitcase, flushed in the face.

  Wordlessly, Courtney snatches the case, unzips it, and pulls out a bond at random to inspect it. It looks like a college diploma. Each one is for a hundred thousand Euros, redeemable only at such and such bank in Switzerland. No ID required.

  So . . . there’s 400 sheets of paper in there? Or a bit less, I guess—Euro is what, $1.10?

  I clear the fruit and cereal off the table while Courtney covers it in bonds, then find an app to send faxes from the smartphone. Courtney lays flat about thirty of the bonds, and stacks the rest in a pile in the middle. Places a newspaper clipping in the center of each face that’s exposed.

  “Take a picture with the phone Frank,” he orders me.

  “Good thinking Courtney,” I say.

  I was just going to take a mental picture and send it by telepathy.

  I take a few photos of the bond-covered table from different angles.

 
“303-555-4213,” says Courtney.

  “I remember,” I lie.

  I fax the photos, then set the phone on top of one of the bonds and sit down.

  “What do you think fellas?” asks Sampson, face pink. “Is he going to go through with it?”

  Mindy bites her thumbnail.

  I shrug.

  “That’s a hell of lot of money. If he doesn’t call back I’ll be shocked. Courtney, you think we can trace that fax number?”

  Courtney smiles.

  “He’d have to be pretty stupid to use a listed fax number. I think he’s sharper than that. But I’ll try.”

  The phone vibrates. I pick it up.

  “Take the one in the lower left hand corner of the table, hold it up to the light and take a close-up of the watermark. Then fax it.”

  Rico hangs up.

  I pick up the bond and hold it so that the morning sun seeps through it. Snap a few pics and fax them. Set the phone back down and cross my hands on the table. Sampson is breathing fast. Courtney is just frowning, staring at the idle phone, as if trying to intuit the thoughts of the man on the other end. Mindy’s eyes are darting rapidly around the room. She’s having a lot of thoughts that she doesn’t feel like sharing.

  Phone rings. Sampson’s eyes go wide. Courtney just frowns. He’s in information gathering mode—his memory of this phone call will be as reliable as a tape recording. He’ll note phrasing, tone, breathing patterns . . .

  “Hi Rico,” I say.

  A long pause. Then:

  “Who are you?” Do I detect a slightly higher tone in his voice? Is he pleased with the picture?

  “As I said, my name is Ben Donovan. I was hired by James Sampson to facilitate this exchange. So—do you want to go ahead with this, or you just wasting my time with games?”

  Courtney nods slightly in approval of my mild strong-arming. Rico’s response to some light pushback will betray a lot about what’s going through his head. Sampson looks petrified that I’ve just challenged his tormentor, probably worried that I’ve displeased him and he’ll renege.

  “Yes. I would like to,” he says. A quick flicker of a grin escapes from Courtney’s face, but he instantly suppresses it, reverting to his default dour frown.