The woman said something that Matthias didn’t hear. She took Brock’s hand, looked up at him. He smiled down, shook her hand, let go. He spoke. She spoke. They turned and went inside the Oyster Bar, Brock helping her turn with a hand on her back. His hand almost stretched across its entire width. A maître d’ appeared. They followed him to the left, out of sight.
The bleeding man was unconscious. The medics got him on the stretcher with no further difficulty and carried him away. Matthias walked into the restaurant. To the left were booths and tables, as he remembered, with counters to the right. Brock and the woman were talking in a booth in the far corner. Matthias sat at a counter between two men hunched over the market quotation pages in their newspapers. A potted plant blocked his view of Brock and Brock’s view of him, but he could see the woman in profile, and he had a clear line of sight to the door.
“What’ll it be?” asked the barman.
“Oysters,” Matthias said.
One of the market quotation readers ran his finger across a page of tiny type and groaned.
39
Big lout: Bernie Muller’s self-description.
Big, yes, thought Nina, sitting opposite him at a booth in the Oyster Bar under Grand Central Station, but not a lout. Louts were stupid, Bernie Muller was not—Nina could see that in his eyes, quick and lively; louts were rude, Bernie Muller was not—he had escorted her to the booth and helped her with her coat; and louts didn’t call themselves louts.
But big: men so tall and powerfully built, who pushed sexual dimorphism so far, almost seemed to belong to a different species. Everything about Bernie Muller was big—his head, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his hands—everything except his quick eyes, which must have been normal size but appeared small in contrast to the rest of him. Despite his fine suit, his well-cut hair, bleached by the sun—he was tanned too; it was winter in Australia—this was not some puffed-up product of yuppie gyms. This was the dream they were selling.
Bernie Muller reached into a vest pocket and handed her a card. “The Fifth Estate,” it said. “Australian Broadcasting Corporation. Bernard Muller.”
“I understand you’re in the media business too, Nina,” he said.
“In a way,” Nina said. “What’s ‘The Fifth Estate’?”
“Like ‘60 Minutes,’ but shorter pieces. Asian immigrants in Sydney. Dame Joan Sutherland. A man who eats cactus. A scam involving old folks’ homes and overpriced Bibles. Pat Cash’s father. That kind of thing.”
“And you want to do something on child kidnapping?”
“It’s on my possibles list,” Bernie Muller replied. He looked around the room. Nina saw a tiny hole in his left earlobe. “But,” he added, “so is the man who eats cactus, and that sort of story is easy to sell. Child kidnapping needs some focus before I can bounce it off the powers that be.”
“And you’re thinking that I might be the focus?”
Bernie Muller smiled. His smile was big too, showing all his teeth to the molars. “I’d have known you were in the media business even if they hadn’t told me at Channel Four.”
A waiter appeared. “I hope you like oysters,” Bernie Muller said. “I should have asked.”
“I do,” Nina said.
“Super. I love any kind of seafood myself.” He ordered a dozen Belons and a Pauli Girl, Nina half a dozen and a glass of water. “Half a dozen? I thought you liked oysters.”
“I’m not very hungry.”
Bernie Muller laid his hand on hers, covering it completely. “You should try to keep your strength up,” he said, “especially at a time like this.” He removed his hand, glanced around the room, smiled at her.
The oysters arrived. “Mind if I just slurp them?” Bernie Muller asked.
“That’s the best way,” Nina said.
“A woman after my own heart,” he replied, slurping a couple and washing them down with beer.
“You mentioned a kidnapping in Boston, Mr. Muller.”
“Call me Bernie. Everyone does.” He raised another oyster to his lips and sucked the soft body off the shell.
“I wondered whether it was the Laura Bain case.”
Bernie frowned. “The name rings a bell,” he said. “A baby called Clara?”
“Clea.”
“That’s it.” He gestured with the shell. A glob of liquid flew onto Nina’s face. “I beg your pardon,” he said, reaching across the table with his napkin. Nina had hers there first.
“It’s nothing.”
Bernie was looking at her face. “What happened there?” he asked, indicating her bandage.
“I bumped into something.”
“You’ll have to be careful,” Bernie said. “It’s exactly at emotional times like this that accidents tend to happen. We did a piece on it.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
Bernie smiled, but briefly this time, and squeezed lemon juice on his remaining oysters. “How do you happen to know about Laura Bain?” he asked.
“A Boston station ran the Channel Four tape and she got in touch with me.”
“Why did she do that?”
“Because our cases are similar.”
“In what way?”
“We both used a sperm bank, for one thing. And both sperm banks are defunct, for another. We found that out when we tried to trace the donors.”
“Trace the donors?”
“They’re anonymous.”
“Why did you want to trace them?”
“It was Laura’s idea. In child disappearance cases it’s routine to account for the father.”
“Isn’t this a bit different?”
“I don’t know,” Nina said. “Suppose some man wanted to have a child without the bother of having the mother around.”
“Who would want that?”
Nina had no reply.
Bernie finished his beer, patted the corners of his mouth with the napkin, a dainty gesture that didn’t appear to suit him at all. “What’s the status of the police investigation?”
“Nothing’s happening. The detective in charge has bigger fish to fry.”
“What’s his name?” asked Bernie, taking out a notebook.
“Her name,” said Nina, “is Delgado.”
Bernie wrote it down. “Does she know about Laura Bain?”
“Yes.”
“Is she working on this donor theory?”
“I don’t think she buys it.”
Bernie closed his notebook and put it away. There was a silence. Then he said: “You lied to me.”
“Lied to you?”
“About liking oysters. You haven’t touched them.”
“I’m not hungry,” Nina said.
“Mind if I scarf yours then?”
“Go ahead.”
Bernie swept all the oysters but one off her plate and ordered another beer. “Join me?” he said. “Beer’s full of protein.”
“All right.”
But when the beer came Nina took one sip and left the rest. “What have you found out about Laura Bain?” she asked.
“Not much so far. Committed suicide, didn’t she?”
“So they say.”
Bernie swished his beer around in the glass, stared into the swirling liquid. “But you don’t believe it?” he asked.
“I don’t know what to believe.” The reply was true. It also allowed her to avoid the questions raised by her own Seconal overdose and the blue ballpoint on the kitchen table; to avoid looking like the kind of conspiracy theorist who might appear on a sleazy syndicated show but never on network TV. “But I’m convinced that Laura’s case and mine are related.”
“Just because you both used sperm banks?”
“There’s much more to it than that.”
“Like?”
“We were both impregnated by the same physician. Dr. Crossman. He’s disappeared. And all the donor records may have too.”
“What does your detective make of that?”
“She hasn’t really absorb
ed it.”
“And these sperm banks are defunct, you say?”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“Laura’s is an audio-video store. Mine is a hole in the ground.”
Bernie raised his eyebrows, fair eyebrows bleached by the sun. She could easily imagine him riding a surfboard on weekends, or squeezing in a quick set of tennis after work. “Is it?” he said.
“Is it what?”
“A hole in the ground.”
“Yes.”
“That’s interesting,” Bernie said.
Nina wondered whether she had appealed to his pictorial sense. Had she given him the tool to pry a budget out of his home office? “It was a landmark building,” she said. “Stills of it in the before state will be easy to find.”
Bernie tipped the last oyster into his mouth. “Where is this hole?”
“On East Ninety-second Street.”
Bernie scanned the room again, then rubbed his hands together. “I’d like to see it.”
“Now?”
“Why not? This isn’t a nine-to-five job.”
“Okay,” Nina said. “I’ve got a car.”
“Great,” Bernie said. “You’re not eating that oyster?” Nina shook her head. Bernie slurped it down and swallowed the rest of the beer. He paid the bill in cash and rose to go.
“Don’t you want the receipt?” Nina asked.
“The receipt?” Bernie said, looking puzzled. Then he smiled. “I’m on a set per diem.” They went out to the street, walked around the corner to Nina’s car. Getting in, Nina saw a man in a windbreaker hailing a taxi.
She drove Bernie Muller uptown. He seemed to fill the little car. “How long have you been in television?” she asked.
“Forever,” Bernie answered. He turned up the heat.
Nina parked in front of the fenced-off rubble pile on Ninety-second Street. They got out of the car. “Here?” said Bernie. The word rose from his mouth in a cloud of vapor. It was a cold night.
“Here,” Nina replied.
Bernie glanced up and down the street. No one was around. He walked to the fence and looked through. Nina followed him. The nearest streetlight was too far away to illuminate much, but Nina could see that work had progressed: the dark hole in the middle of the rubble had widened. The bulldozer sat at its edge.
“Looks good,” Bernie said. “Very good.”
“For pictures?”
“For pictures. Right.” He moved to the gate, hefted the padlock that secured it. “You don’t suppose they just buried all the records, do you?”
“I doubt it.”
“But you never know,” Bernie said, feeling in a pocket. “The unexpected happens all the time, love. If I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned that.” He took out something silver, stuck it in the lock, turned it. “Well, well,” said Bernie. He shoved the gate open and smiled at Nina. “After you.”
Nina stayed where she was. “How did you open that lock?”
Bernie held up a key. “I carry lots of masters. One of them usually does the job. You’re not shocked, I hope? It’s all part of the investigative reporter business.”
Nina tried to imagine Mike Wallace carrying a pocketful of master keys, and couldn’t. But she could picture one of his assistants carrying them for him. She walked through the gate. Bernie came after her, closing it behind him.
They moved through the rubble. Bernie kicked at a stone, a brick. He knelt and knocked a broken pipe aside, revealing more broken pipes underneath. He picked one up, patting it against his palm thoughtfully, like a cavalry general with a riding crop.
They came to the edge of the hole and gazed down. It was a deep hole. There was more rubble at the bottom. Nina looked up to find Bernie watching her. “You’re a pretty girl,” he said.
Nina took a step back, stumbling on the rocks.
“Careful,” Bernie said. “You wouldn’t want to fall in.”
“I’d like to go now,” Nina said. “Have you seen enough?”
Bernie tapped the pipe against his palm. “There’s one more thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“This relative on your father’s side. What was his name before he changed it to Kitchener?”
“How do you know about that?”
“I’ve talked to a few people.”
“Who?”
“We’ll get to that. But it would help if I knew the name.”
“How?”
Bernie smiled. “This is more complicated than you imagine. And time might be a factor.” He waited.
“I don’t understand,” Nina said. “It was Kapstein or Kupstein or something. How does it matter?”
“Jewish?”
“That’s right.”
Bernie shook his head. “It’s too bad you didn’t mention all this before.”
“To whom? What are you talking about?”
Bernie didn’t answer her question. He just said: “None of this would have happened.”
“None of what?”
He came toward her. “This isn’t personal,” he said. “Believe me.” Then he raised the pipe high over his head. Nina turned to run, but he caught her arm in one hand, so tightly she cried out. She looked up, far up, into his eyes. They were fixed on her, but didn’t appear to be seeing anything at all.
“Don’t,” Nina said.
He shook his head again. “Sorry, love. There’s no time to explain.” Then he brought the pipe down.
Nina started to say “Don’t” again but there wasn’t time for that either. Many things happened, far too quickly for her to absorb. First a shadow came flying out of the darkness and collided with the backs of Bernie’s legs. Bernie, the pipe still in his hand, still on its way down, rose above the ground, sailed over her head and landed hard on the other side. The pipe fell, making a metallic clatter on the rocks. The shadow danced by her, took the shape of a man in a windbreaker, stood over Bernie. All at once big men were abroad: this man, not as tall as Bernie, was just as thickly built, perhaps more. Had she seen him before? Nina was trying to remember when Bernie flipped over and looked up. He saw the man and recognized him: she could see the shock in his eyes. The man said: “Hi, Brock.”
A slow smile spread across Bernie’s face. At the same time, his hand reached for the pipe. The man in the windbreaker didn’t appear to notice, yet he kicked the pipe away just before Bernie’s hand closed on it.
“You’ve been careless, Brock,” the man said. “Getting your prints on Hew’s bottle. Calling Two-Head while I was there. This may not be your kind of work.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” Bernie said, still smiling. Then he showed that he could kick too. His leg lashed up out of the darkness and caught the other man in the stomach. The man grunted and fell by the edge of the hole. Bernie scrambled on top of him, raised his fist, smashed it in the other man’s face. But then Bernie cried out in pain, although Nina couldn’t see why. The next moment both men were on their feet and there was blood on the face of the man in the windbreaker and Bernie was no longer smiling. He hooked a tremendous right-hand punch at the other man’s head, but the other man was quicker. He ducked, sidestepped, cocked his own right. That was the last Nina saw clearly of the fight, because the other man’s elbow clipped her under the chin and she went down.
Nina lay under a neon sky in the ruins of the Human Fertility Institute. Two enormous hominids fought over her: more thumps, more grunts, more blood, dripping off the face of the man in the windbreaker, and then off Bernie’s face. Nina heard a crunching sound. Bernie cried out again. There was another crunch. Something fell on her, bringing blackness.
Nina opened her eyes. She sat up. The man in the windbreaker was squatting beside her. His face was bloody, his nose crooked. His dark eyes were full of concern. It seemed to be for her. “You all right?” he said.
“I think so. What happened?”
“He got away. I’m not much of a runner, after the first twenty yards or so.
”
“You mean he ran away?”
“I wouldn’t put it like that. He would have beaten me in the end, but he just didn’t realize it, that’s all.”
“Why not? Your face is a mess.”
The man in the windbreaker laughed. It was a wonderful laugh, loud and free. The only disconcerting part was the blood flowing out of his nose. She had never met a man who laughed like that in any circumstances, and when it came to their own blood, she could remember a few Boyfriends who had ruined whole weekends because of shaving cuts. “It wasn’t much to begin with,” he said. He stopped laughing. “Think you can get up?”
“Yes,” Nina said, thinking he was wrong about his face: it was a good face. “I can get up.”
But she couldn’t until he took her hand and pulled her gently to her feet. She looked up at him, but not as far up as she had had to for Bernie. “Bernie’s bigger than you,” she said. “Much bigger.”
“Bernie?”
“The man you were fighting with.”
“Bernie.” He laughed his laugh again, then touched his nose. “The thing is I’ve had worse. Your friend Bernie hasn’t. That’s the difference, if it’s analysis you want.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Good,” said the man in the windbreaker. “And his name’s not Bernie.”
“It isn’t?”
A woman walked by the fence, looked through, saw them, kept going. “We can talk about it later,” said the man. “Right now we’d better change your tire.” He walked her toward the gate.
“Why?” Nina said.
“It’s flat.”
“You can tell that from here?”
“Even with my eyes closed. I let the air out.”
“You let the air out?”
“Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“I didn’t think it out that far.”
Pressure Drop Page 34
