Mission

by Patrick Tilley

  I made a cup of coffee while she told me about her day, then I passed her the note McDonald had sent with the books.

  She read through it and handed it back with a sniffy laugh. ‘Do you believe it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I hear from Larry Bekker,’ I said. The phone rang. It was Bekker. Right on cue. ‘Larry, just talking about you.’

  ‘Sorry to be so long,’ he said. ‘After you rang a million things happened. Listen, are you sure about the serial number you gave me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘The plate’s not listed on the New Jersey register,’ said Larry. ‘I got them to run the combinations of that serial through the computer. Not one of them is allocated to a brown VW truck.’

  I eyed Miriam. ‘So what does that mean?’

  ‘If you’ve got the right number, it can only mean one thing,’ he said. ‘It’s a fake – a made-up plate.’

  ‘I see …’ I whispered the news to Miriam. ‘What conclusion would you draw from that?’

  ‘Huh,’ said Larry. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. In this big bad world there are only two groups of people who use fake plates – professional criminals and employees of certain Federal agencies.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ I replied. ‘Have you passed the details over to Traffic?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But don’t sit by the phone. I don’t know what your interest is but if that truck is not part of a common criminal conspiracy then you and I ain’t ever gonna hear about it.’

  ‘Sure, I understand. Larry, listen, I want you to do me one more favour.’

  ‘Those girls had better be more than just pretty,’ he joshed.

  I adopted a tone of mock reproof. ‘Larry, if I suggested you might get lucky you could haul me in for trying to suborn a city official. On the other hand, what you do on your afternoons off is none of my business. I want you to get me a rundown on two detectives assigned to the Narcotics Division of the Organised Crime Control Bureau, down in the Seventh. They’re called Ritger and Donati. Is that going to be a big deal?’

  ‘It’ll make me late for dinner,’ he replied. ‘But it’s only meat loaf, so stick around. I’ll call you later.’

  I rang off and recounted the rest of our conversation to Miriam, including Larry’s remark about Federal agencies.

  She laughed. ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Well it’s not the Department of Agriculture,’ I said. ‘It would have to be the FBI, or the CIA.’

  She shook her head. ‘You really are getting paranoid.’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe I am. But I haven’t forgotten that the ambulance which brought The Man to the hospital was stolen, and that he and I got busted by the wrong section of the NYPD. And now this truck …’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that maybe it was Michael and Gabriel that brought The Man to the Manhattan General?’ she said.

  I stared at her. ‘Why would they do that?’

  She threw her hands in the air. ‘I don’t know. To meet you I suppose. You’re the one he’s spent most time with. As for the arrest, well – you’re the expert, but from what I know about the drug scene there’s so many narcs posing as pushers and buyers they spend most of their time busting each other.’

  ‘It’s been known to happen,’ I conceded. ‘But I’ve learned to become wary of facile explanations.’

  ‘Yeah, of course, I forgot,’ she groaned. ‘You’re not happy unless things are complicated. One of these days you’re going to end up outsmarting yourself.’ She pointed to McDonald’s note. ‘She’s lying. It’s obvious. She got caught out when you spotted her friends in the truck and now she’s trying to bamboozle you with a bum licence plate.’

  I met her reasoning with a rolled bottom lip. ‘It’s possible. But don’t you think it’s curious that, of all the numbers she could have made up, the one she gave me was not on the New Jersey register?’

  Miriam gave me a pitying look and got to her feet. ‘I think I’ll make something to eat.’ She paused in the kitchen doorway and looked back at me. ‘Only you could think of something like that.’

  I lay back in my chair and put my feet up. ‘That’s what makes me so smart and so lovable. How about frying up those steaks?’

  ‘You’re getting an omelette,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen enough red meat today.’

  She was still whipping it up when Larry Bekker called me. ‘I hope you’re luckier with model girls,’ he said.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  He let me have the bad news. ‘There’s nobody by the name of Ritger or Donati working out of the Seventh Precinct.’

  ‘Larry.’ I said. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. I was on the street with a client of mine when these two guys busted him. I went down there to get him out.’

  There was a brief silence. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last week. Last Monday. I called you – remember?’

  ‘Ohh, yeah,’ he said. ‘I thought you were being a little cagey. Well, listen, we can easily check this out. Their names must be on the arrest report.’

  ‘He wasn’t arrested,’ I said. ‘He was hauled in on suspicion. There is nothing on file. They junked the paperwork when they let him go.’

  ‘I see …’ Larry sounded doubtful. ‘Did you just deal with these two guys, or was anyone else involved?’

  My brain felt as if it was on fire. I must have sounded very confused. ‘Uh, yeah. I’ve got the names of a couple of other guys, uh – don’t worry, I’ll take it from here.’

  He tried to be helpful. ‘Maybe if you were to give me the name of your client …’

  ‘No, listen, everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘Thanks. I owe you an unforgettable lunch. Okay?’

  We exchanged bantering goodbyes. When I turned away from the phone, I found Miriam standing tight-lipped at the door to the kitchen. ‘Did you get all that?’

  ‘It’s written all over your face,’ she said. ‘No Ritger and no Donati. I was frightened he was going to tell you they’d closed down the Seventh Precinct station house.’

  ‘We can soon find out.’ I picked up the Manhattan Directory, found the number and started dialling.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘Lieutenant Russell. He had his name on the door – remember?’ I was out of luck. The guy manning the switchboard told me that there was nobody called Lieutenant Russell, or Frank Marcello with an office on the third, or any other floor of the building. ‘Put me through to the Desk Sergeant,’ I said. I covered the phone and looked at Miriam. ‘It must be me. I must be going crazy.’

  ‘Desk Sergeant,’ said a voice.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, as briskly as I could manage. ‘Is your name Benny?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh’, I said. ‘Maybe he’s not on this shift. Are any of the other Desk Sergeants called Benny?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I see. Okay, thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ The line went dead.

  I put the phone down and slumped against the wall, clutching my head. ‘They’ve all gone. They’ve all disappeared. What the hell is this?’

  Miriam poured me out a glass of bourbon, stuck it in my lifeless hand, led me firmly away from the phone and eased me into my armchair. ‘Drink,’ she said.

  I did as I was told and felt somewhat better for it.

  Miriam knelt down by the armchair, took hold of my other hand and addressed me in her best bedside manner. ‘Has it occurred to you that ‘Brax might be behind all this?’

  I downed some more bourbon and took my brain off the boil. ‘I don’t understand. You mean Ritger and Donati don’t exist? That the arrest never happened? That you and I didn’t go downtown and meet Rabbi Whatever-his-name-is?’

  ‘Weinbaum,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not saying that. What I’m suggesting is that they only existed for us. If ‘Brax is as powerful as he’s supposed to be, and he’s the master of external reality then he could have recreated that piece of 42nd Street where you w
ere arrested, the station house – and all the people in it. They could even look like people in the real building. She gripped my hand tightly. ‘If he wanted to, he could probably re-created the whole city. It would be just as real as the one we’re in now.’

  ‘Yeah …’ It was a mind-blowing proposition. I eyed her sulkily. ‘How come I didn’t think of that?’

  She patted my hand and planted a mocking kiss on my temple. ‘You’re too clever.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Before I buy this great idea of yours, why is he doing it?’

  She locked her eyes on to mine. ‘To make you doubt. To make us both doubt the evidence of our own eyes. To so disorient our senses that we would begin to believe that The Man wasn’t real – that none of what we had seen and heard had actually taken place.’ The smile had gone now. I could see she was totally convinced of what she was saying.

  ‘But why now?’ I insisted. ‘Why didn’t he start working on us from the very beginning?’

  Her grip on my hand tightened again. ‘He did. Didn’t we doubt what we’d seen? Didn’t we try to convince ourselves that it hadn’t happened? Didn’t we tell each other that it was impossible? Weren’t we worried about our jobs? Frightened about what our friends would say? ‘Brax was there inside us, exploiting our instincts for self-preservation, bringing out the worst side of our characters. And then when, in spite of yourself, you began to listen to The Man, you were threatened physically.’

  ‘Yes, with the elevator,’ I said. ‘But why has he hit us with this trick? Why is he re-creating external reality?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ said Miriam. ‘It’s the ultimate weapon. You’ve forced him to use it because you’ve started to believe. You may not be aware of it but when I sit and listen to you and The Man, I can feel this bond between you …’

  ‘Yeah, well, we get on okay,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Miriam. ‘You know it’s more than that. You’re important to him. You must know by now it’s no accident he’s here. I don’t know what’s going to happen to any of us, but there has to be a reason why he’s been telling you these things. Whatever it is, ‘Brax is trying to stop you two getting together. He’s trying to scare you into thinking you’re being followed, leading you down a blind alley then making the alley disappear.’ She paused. ‘Do you realise that might not have been the real Larry Bekker you were speaking to?’

  As you can imagine, that had me reeling. ‘Oh, come on,’ I cried. ‘Where are you getting all this stuff?’

  She smiled. ‘Relax. I’m just trying to demonstrate the power ‘Brax has. After all, how can you be sure I’m me?’

  I smiled back at her. ‘The real Miriam Maxwell knows how to make a mean Spanish omelette.’ I pulled her close and put my mouth on hers. ‘And she kisses good too.’

  She eased herself out of my arms and stood up. ‘Food and sex. I guess that makes you the real Leo Resnick.’

  I followed her into the kitchen and watched it all happen. ‘You really amaze me, you know? I’ve never heard you talk like that before.’

  She eased me away from a cupboard door. ‘I’ve never had to.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you really helped me out,’ I said.

  She started to chop up the green and red peppers. ‘So why are you frowning?’

  ‘Because we still have a problem,’ I said. ‘Let’s suppose you’re right and that ‘Brax has created specific incidents which are indistinguishable from, uh – what we can call – ‘ordinary’ external reality. Where do we start? What do we use to anchor ourselves if he is able to play around with our perception in the way you suggest?’

  She gave me that irritating know-it-all smile again. ‘It’s so simple, Leo. You believe. You believe in The Man. He’s your anchor. If you concentrate all your mental energy on him, ‘Brax won’t be able to warp your mind. Didn’t he say that he represented the ultimate reality and that external reality was the illusion? Forget all this business about conspiracies. Stop looking over your shoulder and concentrate on the road ahead. Because that’s where The Man’s taking us whether we like it or not.’

  As I sit here, writing down her words, I ask myself once again – did she know? Had the Man given her the secret knowledge he gave to Mary Magdalene? Was the part she played greater than I knew? Did I ever know who she really was? Or even, crazy as it sounds, which side she was on?

  When we finished the omelette, I consulted the entertainment section of the Post and checked my watch. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’ve just got time to catch a late movie.’

  She eyed me cagily. ‘Of whose choice?’

  ‘Yours,’ I replied, gallantly offering the paper. It was her turn anyway.

  She ran her eye down the movie house listings. ‘Don’t you think this is a little irresponsible? Supposing The Man comes back?’

  ‘It could be embarrassing,’ I said. ‘If we don’t go to the movies, I plan to strip you naked and make mad passionate love.’

  She took me to Cries and Whispers. Another gloom-laden smorgasbord put together by Bergman and distributed by Roger Corman. Presumably by way of penance for making so much money with his own endearingly outrageous brand of cinematic junk-food.

  You may think it was an odd moment to duck out and take in a movie but the truth was I wanted to give my brain a rest. The Man had come steaming down the centuries like a great ocean liner leaving my life-raft rocking in the wake of his presence and in danger of capsizing completely. I desperately needed a moment of calm to get myself back on an even keel. I didn’t want to think about cosmic truths, real or unreal cops and nosey girl-reporters – or Linda who I would have to confront in the morning. I just wanted to empty my mind. The Bergman film was a great help.

  When we got back, I checked the hall closet. The robe was still there but the apartment was devoid of his Celestial presence. We went to bed where, despite Miriam’s earlier prudish reserve, I got lucky. Better than lucky. Everything clicked so perfectly it almost blew my head off. As we lay locked together with our hearts pounding against each other’s ribs, I thought – What a crazy world. In which the woman who only hours before had argued so ardently on behalf of The Man could surrender her body with equal passion – notching up several points for ‘Brax in the process. But then she was always full of contradictions. That’s what made her so interesting.

  I reached for the inevitable cigarette. A real cliché gesture. Life’s full of them. At least mine is – or rather it used to be. Miriam nestled her head against my shoulder. I circled the small of her back with my fingertips and thought what a pity that the Empire had not seen fit to include this kind of activity in their prospectus. I watched the smoke disperse as it rose out of the glow of the lamp towards the darkened ceiling and wished that all my problems could vanish as easily. Eventually I gave voice to them, and we returned to the menace of Miss McD.

  ‘You should have asked The Man what to do when you saw him today,’ said Miriam.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ I said. ‘He was invisible. I’d have been walking down Madison Avenue talking to myself. Which may not seem important to you but there are people round there that know me. I’ll ask him what I should do when he comes back.’

  ‘It’s a pity he wasn’t here tonight,’ she said. ‘I was looking forward to the next instalment.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, the “missing years”.’ I crushed my cigarette and blew the last of the smoke from my lungs. ‘I think he just travels around. He’s already mentioned going to England and Rome.’

  ‘You mean he walked?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ I replied. ‘If you were to do ten miles a day for twelve years that’s a – ’ I figured it out, ‘ – a good forty thousand miles. It would take you round the world and back.’ A thought struck me. ‘Hey, I wonder if he came to America?’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me he walked across the Atlantic,’ said Miriam.

  ‘He wouldn’t have to,’ I replied. ‘He could have made his way across the Kamchatka Peninsu
lar and down through Alaska.’

  ‘Very clever,’ she said. ‘And then what – back the same way?’

  I shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. Thor Heyerdahl is supposed to have proved that the Polynesians reached the Central Pacific from South America. Maybe he worked his passage on one of their reed boats, or hitched a ride in one of the Nazca hot air balloons.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ yawned Miriam.

  ‘No, listen,’ I said. ‘Just suppose The Man did come to America. It could mean that the Mormons were right after all. The angel Moroni who called on Joseph B. Smith could have been Michael or Gabriel, or maybe some other Envoy from the Empire.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she agreed. ‘On the other hand, Joseph B. Smith and his friends may have made it all up because they liked having women round the house waiting on them hand and foot.’ She signed off with a kiss under my ear and settled down to sleep.

  I switched off the lamp on my side of the bed and lay there in the dark, reviewing various aspects of the mess I’d got into. And I wondered whether it was wise to go ahead with my two-week sabbatical. Now that I had McDonald on my back, it made good sense to head for the hills. But what would that solve? There were another four weeks to the Feast of the Pentecost – always assuming that that was when this time-twisting misadventure was due to end.

  And that led me, once again to consider the idea that The Man might not be time-travelling in the accepted sense. That the theory of simultaneity that Miriam and I had constructed and which he had confirmed might only be a convenient device to bemuse us and, in so doing, enhance the omnipotent image of the Empire and our liege-lords, the Celestials, who had allegedly ordered the history of the Universe since the Creation. There was no doubt in my mind about The Man’s ability to disappear from twentieth-century Manhattan. But the fact that he did so was not proof that he reappeared in an earlier, still-existent time frame of this planet’s history. He might merely have transferred to an extra-temporal dimension adjacent to our own. One of the other wavelengths he’d talked about.