by Alan Hruska
“I didn’t. I said only a very powerful man who doesn’t like to reveal his travel plans beforehand.”
“In the right circles, that might have given me away,” Lowell says with a broad grin.
“My friend doesn’t travel in those circles.”
“You never know, Yassy. People surprise you. Even those you think you know best.”
The plane, a Lear jet, pulls out onto the runway, and the captain’s voice is heard. “We’re already cleared for takeoff, Mr. Jockery. Should be airborne in a matter of minutes.”
As the jet taxis, Jockery leans toward his guest. “So how are things in the UAE, my friend?”
“Everyone’s fine and wishes us well.”
“You felt the need to go back?”
“Frankly, I did.”
“You detected what?” LJ asks. “Some uneasiness about our transaction? Our transaction is cast in cement.”
“They love the deal,” Yasim asserts. “But they’re thinking of having someone else here close it.”
As Jockery begins to react, the engines rev for takeoff and, moments later, the plane surges into flight.
“That’s not acceptable,” Jockery retorts over the clamor of the engines.
“Thank you, Lowell. I’m so pleased you feel that way.”
“Whom do they think they’re replacing you with?”
“A man named Rashid al-Calif. Do you know him?”
Jockery hesitates for only an instant. “By reputation,” he says. “We’ll have to turn that around. It’s too late for changes. The matter is entirely too sensitive.”
“That’s why I wanted to see you.”
“Consider it done.”
“What about the extra two billion?” Yasim asks.
“We won’t need it. Worry not, Yassy. All’s in hand.”
They sit in silence for some moments. Jockery smoothes his shiny pate.
“Funny,” LJ says. “I have a girlfriend too. And she also declined this trip. Nothing about clothes. She keeps plenty of clothes at the house there. She’s an actress. Auditioning for some stupid part. Won’t let me help her.”
“Independent.”
“Too much so.”
“Would we be interested if they weren’t?”
“Probably not,” Lowell says with a laugh. “Probably not.”
Yasim laughs too, then says, “This man Rashid—”
“I told you, I’ll deal with that.”
“He’s not to be trusted.”
“Who is, Yassy? Who is?”
“Apart from our girlfriends, of course.”
“Of course,” says Jockery, with an enveloping laugh. “They are to be trusted implicitly.”
THIRTY
After lunch at Gene’s Restaurant, Tom and Elena take a bench in the small park at the center of the Ashaway town square. Tom’s assignment that morning had been to sit in the back of the town court, observe arguments before the judge, and just see how things were done there. Useful assignment. The judge, a small dour lank man in a black robe, sat on an elevated chair at a tiny square table in the corner of what might once have been a grocery store. Opposing lawyers argued motions standing catty-corner at the same table, pretty much in each other’s faces, and the judge’s. It stopped them from raising their voices, so the courtroom was quieter than most. The cases, and the arguments, were pretty basic, and the rulings swift. Papers were submitted, but rarely looked at. The judge obviously preferred receiving information in oral bursts.
At the lunch recess, Tom bought a cell phone, and he and Elena now sit in the park studying it in Tom’s lap.
“I think I should call him,” Tom says.
“You think you can trust him?”
“Yeah. More than most.”
“Not sure that’s a ringing endorsement,” she says.
“He is a lawyer, subject to an oath and all that.”
“Oh, well! A lawyer! Took an oath, did he? That just fills me with confidence.”
“I worked for him nearly two years.”
“Okay. That’s something.”
“Never saw him breach a client’s confidence.”
“So we’d be clients.”
“Yes. That’s the point. Why? You know someone you would trust more?”
“Me?” she says. “Trust someone?”
“What about me?”
She thinks about that. “Up to a point.”
“Where’s the point?”
“Don’t push. It’s expanding. Slowly.”
“A point is expanding?”
“Well, the line is,” she says. “Let’s not get mired in geometry.”
He laughs. “So what do you say? Call? Not? You do have a vote.”
“All right, call him. I definitely don’t want to stay here the rest of my life.”
“What’s wrong with Ashaway, Kentucky?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” he says. “Seriously.”
“Apart from the fact there’s nothing to do here? Almost no one to talk to?”
“Who do you talk to in New York? You have friends?”
“Of course I have friends,” she says.
“Close friends? People you confide in? People you trust?”
“What are you now, my shrink?”
“That’s what I thought, no real friends.”
“I have friends!”
“Right,” he says, obviously not believing her. “Look. I have no friends, no close friends, because I work too hard. You have no friends, because you can’t trust anyone, and because you’re a pain in the ass.”
She sits in silence for a moment. “Why are you doing this?”
“Have I hurt your feelings?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. That’s progress. Now you’re confiding. I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I like you.”
“Though I’m a pain in the ass?” she says.
“Yes. Despite that. See? I’m confiding now too.”
“Well, I don’t like you.”
“Nonsense,” he says. “I wouldn’t have gotten close to your bed last night, let alone in it, if you didn’t like me.”
“Involuntary propinquity is what that was.”
“You’re saying you’re stuck with me.”
“For the time being,” she says. “So call your lawyer friend. Let’s get unstuck.”
With a shrug, he opens the phone and dials. Two rings, an operator comes on, and Tom says, “Perry Rauschenberg, please.”
Another moment, it’s Rauschenberg’s secretary. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Just tell him, Tom. He’ll know.”
“Mr. Weldon? Is that you?”
“Yes, Sally. Put Perry on.”
Another moment, it’s her boss. “Tom?”
“It is. And best not to ask me where I’m calling from.”
“Understood. But I’m glad you called. Wherever it is you are, you may well want to return to New York. I got a call. Mike Skillan. He says he doesn’t believe you and Riles’s daughter are murderers. He thinks you’re being framed.”
“Skillan called you? Just called to say that?”
“We were at law school together. He knew you worked here.”
“He happen to mention how he reached his conclusion? About Elena and me?”
“The evidence looks rigged to him,” Rauschenberg says. “Too much of it. Exactly what he should be thinking, right?”
“Yeah. If he’s genuine.”
“I think he is.”
Silence for a moment, until Rauschenberg says, “It’s not a trick, Tom.” He pauses a moment, as if deciding how to proceed. “He wants you to come in, and he wants me to persuade you, but Skillan is a blunt, honest guy. When he says he’s inclined to believe you’re being framed, I’m inclined to believe him.”
“We’ll think about it.”
“You’re still with the girl, Elena Riles?”
“Yes. Who also wants you to represent her.”
“That might be a conflict.”
“There isn’t one,” Tom says, “believe me. We’re both being framed by the same person or persons.”
“She should know, if a conflict were to develop, I’d have to drop one of you.”
“I’ll tell her, but it won’t happen.”
“There’s something else you should know. Skillan’s probably talked by now to that truck driver who tried to blackmail you. What’s his name, Roy?”
“How the hell did Skillan get his name?”
“I had to give him Roy’s email.”
“Roy sent you an email?”
“Furiously denying yours. Threatening me with various and graphic forms of castration.”
“Shit.”
“It wasn’t a privileged communication.”
“Obviously,” Tom says.
“So Skillan’s probably figured out roughly the area you’re in.”
“Yeah, I get it. But his finding us is the least of our problems right now.”
“You’re worried about whoever’s framing you. Damn right. Which is another reason to come in.”
“I doubt the ones who are framing us talked to Roy.”
“They may have less chance of finding you, but you’re still safer here.”
“You’re vouching for Skillan?” Tom says.
“I trust him.”
“And you want me to trust you? With my life and Elena’s? Because it could come to that.”
“Either way, Tom. I think you’re more at risk staying out.”
“Maybe.”
“So what do you say?”
“We’ll sleep on it.”
Tom hangs up and turns to Elena. “So you heard?”
“Got the gist, yeah.”
“Reaction?”
“You’re right,” she says. “We should sleep on it.”
“Together?”
She regards him with impatience. “Another reason for leaving Kentucky.”
He laughs. “You know what we should be thinking about.”
“You think I haven’t been.”
“Easy enough to understand why whoever killed your dad is now after us. But who killed your dad?”
“Too many people with motives.”
“You’re thinking corporate types?” he says.
“Domestic and foreign.”
“Businessmen? Typically not the type. Not their kind of risk.”
“So who’s your candidate?”
“Don’t have one,” he says. “Not enough facts. Which is maybe the best reason for heading back to New York.”
“Oh, really? We go back to solve the crime? You and me, Sherlock?”
“We can help, El. You know lots of things they don’t.”
She blinks.
“What?” he says.
“You’ve never called me El before.”
He laughs. “People do, don’t they?”
“No,” she says. “They don’t.”
“Would you rather I didn’t?”
“No, it’s okay,” she says, blushing slightly. “You can.”
Jacob and Piet park their rented Honda on the diagonal in the middle of a small town and sit for several minutes observing the twilight scene. Jacob says, “This search, town by town, could go on forever.”
“Not literally forever,” Piet says.
“There’s no more reason to believe they’re in Kentucky than in Saudi Arabia.”
“There’s some reason,” says Piet. “The intel.”
“Intel?” says Jacob. “What, are you reading spy novels now?”
“That’s what she called it.”
With a grunt, Jacob gets out of the car, looks around. “Shit. I’m hungry. You hungry?”
Piet climbs out of the vehicle and stretches. “We’ve already eaten in six restaurants in six different towns.”
“Shitty meals.”
“There’s a place, looks pretty good. Across the square.”
Jacob reads the sign. “Gene’s. Looks like a dump.”
“Then why’s it crowded?”
“Only restaurant in town?” Jacob says.
“All’s the more reason to go in, then, doncha think?”
A group vacates a booth as Jacob and Piet walk in. The waitress, Nancy, signals them to take it, then comes over to clean up the table. “Back in a jiff,” she says, leaving them menus.
Every other table is occupied, and the place is lively. Civil servants, lawyers, truck drivers, agricultural workers, shop assistants, bank tellers—all dressed in the garb of their trades, all talking loudly. Nancy yells orders, a hash slinger yells back, music blares from an old-fashioned jukebox, and the aroma of meat loaf scents the air.
“What’ll you have?” Nancy looms over them with her pad.
“Two eggs over easy with bacon,” Jacob says.
“You?”
Piet gives deep thought. “Whaddya recommend?”
“Stew’s good. Meat loaf, mashed potatoes with gravy. Most anything.”
“I’ll have the stew,” Piet says.
She swirls and is off.
Looking around at those still waiting to be fed, Jacob says, “This’ll take a while.”
“Easy,” says Piet. “I have a feeling about this place.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“’Cause it’s the last town on the spur?”
The meal, when it finally comes, is devoured by both and declared to be excellent. They’re ready to order dessert.
“Pie,” Nancy says.
“What kinda pie?” asks Jacob.
“I’ll see what’s left.”
She’s gone again but back in five seconds. “You’re in luck. Two slices of coconut cream. Best we have.”
“Suits me,” Jacob says.
“Me too,” says Piet. “Decaf coffee?”
“Two?”
“Regular for me,” Jacob says. “And one more thing. You’re so good at recommending pie. Can you recommend a lawyer?”
“Why, you in trouble?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” he says cooly. “We’re going into some big transaction near here. Need a lawyer, that’s all. Who’s the best?”
“That would be Horatio.”
“And Mr. Horatio, he’s not too busy? I mean, he’s got other lawyers working for him?”
She looks at him suspiciously. “Now what kind of question is that?”
Piet jumps in. “We’d simply like to assure ourselves he’s adequately staffed to take on our matter.”
“Well, why don’t you ask him yourself?” Nancy says, and takes flight once more.
Elena is already in bed, on the far side, when Tom comes out of the bathroom. Her eyes are on his thin frame.
“You might as well get used to it,” he says.
“I am used to it,” she retorts.
“I don’t buy pajamas, because I sleep in my shorts.”
“There are all levels,” she says.
“Of what, civilization?”
“Yes! Civilization!”
“Which you equate with pajamas?”
“And other things,” she says pointedly.
He spreads his hands on the open side of the mattress and leans toward her. “I’m getting into bed now.”
“So turn out the light,” she says.
Surprised, he flips off the bed lamp and lies down on his side. “I’m to be trusted, am I?”
“Night at a time.”
“Sounds so provisional,” he says.
“No accident there.”
They lie in silence for some moments.
“Bit of a problem,” Tom says.
“Oh?”
“It’s a chilly night, and you have both of the blankets.”
“You’re cold?” she asks innocently. She lifts the edge of the top blanket and tosses it in his direction.
He says, “There are two blankets.”
Without a word, she hands him an edge of the other.
“
Thank you,” he says, covering himself.
“You’re welcome.”
“You do realize,” he says slowly, “there’s no barrier between us now.”
“Go to sleep, Tom.”
“I’m not as tired as I was last night.”
She sits up abruptly. “I’m not having sex with you.”
“Okay,” he says, sitting up too. “Clears the air.”
“You think the air needed clearing? That I’ve been somehow unclear on this subject?”
“Hardly convincing, El. We’re quite obviously attracted to each other.”
She thrusts herself down again on the pillow.
He says, “You’re not denying it.”
“Are you going to force me to sleep downstairs?”
“No,” he says. “I’m going to shut up and let you lie there. Let us both lie—in mutual, and pointless, frustration.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Really?” he says.
“What did you say last night about pillow talk?”
“Y’know, El … I don’t believe you. I think you don’t believe you. But you’re lucky. I know—eventually—you’re coming out of that pit you’ve dug. So I’m going to wait.”
“Dream on,” she says.
“What both of us will have to do, now, won’t we?”
THIRTY-ONE
On a stretch of downhill road between undulating white fences, Jacob stands, cell phone to his ear, trying to explain the situation to Birdie.
“We’re wasting our time,” he says, all the green and white beauty of stables and fields lost on him.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“Outside of Lexington.”
“Wait, I’ve a map here. Lexington. That’s in the north.”
“Yeah, so?”
“What are you doing in the north? I told you to stay south. To stay on that southerly spur.”
“Well, we did that,” he says. “Then the spur ran out.”
“Where?”
“A town called Ashaway.”
“And?”
“And nothing. We were there. They aren’t.”
“Why you so sure?”
“We asked around, like you said. I mean, who the fuck knows? There are a million towns. They could be anywhere.”
“And what’s in Lexington?”
“It’s a city. We’ve been in the towns, thought we’d try a city next.”
“Right. I know where that’s going.” She’s silent for a moment. “All right. Stay there. I’ll let you know when I want you.”
