A Cool Breeze on the Underground nc-1

by Don Winslow

  Colin’s bedroom was large and dark. A blackout shade hung even at night. Neal expected the water bed and the Che Guevara poster. He expected the five locks that secured the main door. He didn’t expect the expensive television in the sitting room, nor the pricey stereo equipment, nor, especially, the brick-and-board bookcases lined with paperback volumes of poetry: Coleridge, Blake, and Byron, Colin was doing all right for himself.

  Colin disappeared into the bedroom and came out with a bowl of hash. “Here. This will help cool you out.”

  He went into the kitchen and came out with ice wrapped in a paper towel. He handed it to Neal.

  Neal placed the cold cloth on his face. It felt great. His nose had started to throb. He felt around it again and decided it really wasn’t broken.

  He loved undercover work.

  Colin lit the pipe, took a long drag, and handed it to Neal. Neal shook his head. More than enough is more than enough. “It’s mild, Neal. Bopper dope.”

  Neal accepted the pipe and drew the hash into his lungs. He held it for a long moment, then exhaled. It beat the shit out of Oval tine.

  Carnal sounds came from the small bedroom. “Violence turns Vanessa on,” Colin explained. “Is it worth it?” “For Crisp, it is.” “What’s his real name?”

  Colin shrugged and took another drag. He offered the pipe to Neal. Neal declined. More than enough is enough. “I’m going to get some kip. I’ll get you a blanket.” Daddy Colin.

  Neal had just dropped off when Allie came in. He heard her long sigh, and heard her put the kettle on the boil. She stood impatiently until it whistled. He listened as she stirred in milk and sugar and then tiptoed to the bedroom door. He heard it open and shut again, and was surprised to hear her tiptoe back into the sitting room. She finished her tea while looking out the window. Then he heard her shuck off her shoes and her jeans and felt her lie down beside him.

  “Push over and give me some of the blanket.”

  “If Colin comes out here-”

  “I just want to sleep.”

  “Does he know that?”

  Another sigh from Allie. “He’s not alone.”

  “He came home alone.”

  “So?”

  “Oh.”

  “Bright guy.”

  Neal gave it a shot. “You like living like this?”

  “Yes. Now you want to shut up and let me get some sleep?”

  Dear Dad, having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. By the way, tonight I’m sleeping with Allie Chase.

  He woke up hurting. His nose felt like someone had driven a fist into it, and the rest of his body ached with righteous indignation. He was hangover thirsty and went into the bathroom to get some water.

  Allie was sitting on the stool, her knees tucked up under her chin. She bent over with poignant grace, the needle poised over the small vein between her toes. She was concentrating hard, and noticed Neal only after she gently squeezed the plunger. She looked up at him as the heroin hit her. A small pop, but there it was.

  “Well,” Neal said, “they do say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  “Don’t tell Colin.”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He doesn’t know you shoot up?”

  “What happened to none of your business?”

  “That shit’s bad for you.”

  “But so good to me.”

  She got up, carefully put the gear back into her bag, and walked past him into the sitting room, where she lay back down on the floor and stared at the ceiling.

  He followed her in and lay down beside her. “How long have you been using a wake-up?”

  “My, aren’t we hip? A couple of weeks. I don’t know.”

  “Expensive habit.”

  “I pay for it.”

  “I bet you do.” “I’m not an addict.” “I didn’t say you were an addict.”

  She rolled over on her side, away from him. “He knows I shoot up. He doesn’t know how much.” She drifted off.

  Neal propped his feet up on the balcony railing and gently leaned his chair back. The last of the afternoon sun felt good on his face. He had showered and shaved, borrowed a clean T-shirt from Colin, and was now sipping a cup of bitter Nescafe, on his way to feeling at least remotely human. Allie was safely tucked in and sound asleep. Crisp and Vanessa had gone out in search of food, and Neal and Colin had settled onto the balcony.

  Colin was dressed for leisure. He was shirtless and wore denim jeans and biker boots. Reflective sunglasses shielded his eyes from the harsh glare of day.

  “Sunday’s a hassle, so I leave it alone,” he was saying. “Too many citizens on the street and the coppers don’t want to see you there. Sunday night’s all right, though.”

  “I should get going,” Neal said, yawning.

  “What for?”

  “The job.”

  Colin stretched like a cat. “Talk about the fox in the friggin’ ’en coop.”

  “I don’t screw around with it.”

  “Pity.”

  “Do you rip off your customers?”

  “Never.”

  They sat quietly for a while. Neal thought about what he was up to, then tried not to think about it. Made him feel like shit.

  “So are you a heavy dealer, Colin?”

  “Not ’eavy enough. Bit of hash, bit of coke…”

  “Heroin?”

  “No. Wouldn’t harf mind, but the nicker, lad, the nicker…” He rubbed his thumb over his fingertips, the universal sign language for cash. “Takes a ’eap of the filthy lucre to get into smack in any serious way.”

  “And the ladies?”

  “Wha’ is this? The BBC?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “I have a few lady friends who’d rather get paid for it. I take a finder’s fee.”

  Yeah, I get a finder’s fee, too, Neal thought. So to speak.

  Colin set his head back to catch the rays better. “I was a little bugger during the ’ole ’ippie thing. Love and peace an’ all ‘at shit. The bloody Beatles and their wog guru. Fucking sitars…”

  “You got that right.”

  “This punk thing. It says the world is shit. Get pissed, get stoned, get your rocks off. All there is.”

  These are a few of my favorite things.

  “We just got back from a ’oliday in France,” Colin said. “Got pissed, got stoned, got our rocks off in a different place.”

  You did? You did? It didn’t take long for it to sink in. You working-class heroes were on some beach in France while I was sweating my balls off on the Main Drag looking for you!

  “Colin, you aspire to the middle class.”

  “I aspire to a ’eap of filthy lucre.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not ‘arf.”

  “Maybe I know where you could get it.”

  There followed what could be called a significant silence.

  “Where’s ‘at?”

  Neal set the chair back on the floor, put his cup on the railing, and stood up. He stretched and yawned. “We’ll talk.”

  He patted Colin on the head and walked out.

  Always leave ’em wanting more, he thought.

  20

  The next morning, Neal was in a doctor’s office, wincing bravely, fighting back the pain.

  “Did that hurt?” Dr. Ferguson asked him. He bent Neal’s leg back again.

  “A little,” Neal answered, lifting his head up from the examining table.

  “You have a nasty strain here, I believe. You can get dressed.”

  Neal slowly brought himself into a sitting position and struggled back into his shirt. “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.”

  Ferguson didn’t look up from his prescription pad. “Any friend of Simon’s, as the saying goes…”

  Ferguson tended toward chubby, and seemed quite content with it. He had an owlish face and a full head of brown hair. He lived in the same St. John�
�s Wood house that held his office. Not that he needed to. He had considerable private income in addition to his practice. He confessed a public passion for cricket, a private passion for his wife, and a secret passion for first-edition books, hence the Simon Keyes connection. Neal had found his number in Simon’s address book.

  “I feel really silly, falling down the stairs,” Neal said.

  “Yes, well, those stairs of Simon’s…” Ferguson answered. He handed Neal the scrip. “This will help you sleep. Also ease what we physicians like to call discomfort.”

  “I just can’t find a comfortable position.”

  “‘As the actress said to the bishop.’ Yes, back injuries are inconvenient that way. Next time, you really should consider hurting your ankle. Simon tells me you’re interested in books.”

  Neal tossed in another small wince as he lowered himself from the table. “You talked with him?”

  “I was motoring up north and popped in at the cottage unannounced. He was quite gracious about it. He tells me you’re a Smollett scholar.”

  “Hardly a scholar.”

  “And you’re here looking at his collection.”

  Thank you, Simon, Neal thought.

  “It’s incredible.”

  “Does he still have the Pickle?”

  Neal gave him his best Mona Lisa, inscrutable smile.

  “I see that he does,” Ferguson said. “Right. Try to stay off your feet. Lie flat, no sitting. If it’s still giving you trouble in a week, come back and we’ll have another look.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Don’t thank me. Just filch his Pickle and bring it over in the dark of night.”

  Ferguson chuckled at his joke.

  Neal chuckled. Then he winced. Then he chuckled again.

  There was still a good hour or so before the shops would open, so Neal treated himself to a long walk through Regent’s Park. He went down Park Road through Hanover Gate and found a footpath that took him across the lake past the boat house. By the time he reached the south gate of the zoo, his shirt was soaked but he felt good sweating the weekend’s poisons out of his system.

  He stopped in at a grocer’s on Regent’s Park Road and bought ten bottles of Coca-Cola, ten bottles of Pepsi, twenty Aero chocolate bars, three packages of sugar-coated tea biscuits, a pound of white sugar, two jars of honey, a dozen eggs, bread, butter, and jam.

  He found a linen shop and bought two sets of sheets, three bath towels, and a dozen hand towels. At a small athletic shop, he bought four pairs of gym socks. An expensive little stationer’s shop provided him with an expensive little attache case with combination locks. His last stop was at the chemist, where he exchanged Ferguson’s prescription for a large plastic vial of sleeping pills.

  Simon’s flat was brutally hot and stuffy, so the first thing Neal did was open the windows. Then he laid his groceries out in the kitchen and put the soda in the refrigerator. He tore the sheets up into thin strips and left them in the bedroom, then taped the towels to the sharp corners of the dresser and bedside table. He tied knots into each of the gym socks. Then he removed the bright white bulbs from the ceiling light and the bedside lamp and replaced them with low-wattage frosted bulbs. He took half of the sleeping pills and left them in the bathroom cabinet and put the rest back in his pocket.

  Back in the sitting room, he removed the four volumes of Smollett’s Peregrine Pickle and placed them in the new attache case. He memorized the combination and locked it up.

  By the time he was finished, it was noon, and already steamy hot out on the street. He bought a Times and grabbed an outdoor table under an umbrella at a sidewalk cafe. He had an espresso and a truly goopy Italian pastry as he scanned the paper. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for: the London Philharmonic at Albert Hall. Thursday night. Proceeds to go to the World Wildlife Fund. Prince Philip to make opening remarks. Public welcome. And a large SOLD OUT notice bannered across the ad. Buy early next time, public.

  He downed another espresso and grabbed a taxi back to the hotel

  An already harried concierge looked up from his list of problems. The house was jam-packed with tourists. “Yes, sir?”

  “Yes. Would you have any tickets available for the Philharmonic on Thursday evening? July second?”

  “Let me check, sir.” He looked into a thick book. “No, sir. Terribly sorry. All booked.”

  “I’ve already booked. Name is Carey.”

  The concierge sighed through his smile. “That is different, sir. Let me find you.” He went back to the book. “Sorry again, Mr. Carey. I don’t seem to find you here.”

  Neal could hear impatient shuffling starting behind him. “Maybe it’s under another name. I’m with a party.”

  He let the silence hang.

  The concierge gave in first. “Which party might that be, sir?”

  “The Henderson party.”

  Back to the book.

  “At this hotel, sir?”

  “Wouldn’t use any other.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The concierge looked over Neal’s shoulder at the next guest and gave a quick smile indicating his tolerance. Then he perused the book again. “No. Sorry, sir.”

  “Oh dear. Maybe she’s using her married name.”

  The concierge could not resist a two-beat comic pause before he intoned, “And if we knew what that name was, sir, we might be able to find it.”

  “Zacharias. Z as in zebra, a as in appropriate, c as in choreography, h as in-”

  “I think I can take it from there, sir.”

  No luck.

  “Sorry once again, Mr. Carey. Are you quite certain-”

  “Well, maybe Susan didn’t make the arrangements, maybe Nell did. Could you look under Taglianetti?”

  “Mr. Carey, we are just a bit busy at the moment. Would it be terribly rude of me to ask if you would be so kind as to look yourself and then inform me of your progress?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Here you are, then.”

  He handed Neal the book. Neal scanned it, looking for the names of married women who were going to the affair alone. He found five, their room numbers inked in beside them. He ran a chant several times through his head: Harris, 518; Goldman, 712; Ulrich, 823; Myers, 665; Renaldi, 422. Then he hurried to his room and wrote them down.

  Now for the tedious part, he thought.

  Ulrich 823 turned out to be German, so that was no good. Neal hung up as soon as he heard the “Ja?” on the phone. He tried Harris 518. “May I speak to Joe Harris, please?”

  The voice was an old woman’s. “I’m sorry, dear, you have the wrong party. Ask at the desk.”

  Okeydoke. Let’s give Goldman 712 a spin.

  “Hello, may I speak to Mr. Goldman, please?”

  “Speaking.” A man’s voice. American. East Coast. Sounds about the right age.

  “Mr. Goldman, this is Mr. Panto of Consolidated Limited ringing to confirm our appointment tomorrow morning.”

  “I think you have the wrong number.”

  “I’m terribly sorry. Is this Mr. Alan Goldman of Schreff and Sons?”

  “No, this is Dave Goldman of just plain Goldman. I’m an attorney.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Have a good one.” Dave Goldman hung up.

  So, Neal thought, I know a few things about Goldman 712. He’s a lawyer, here with his wife, and she isn’t dragging him to any damn philharmonic Thursday night, he doesn’t give a shit who’s going to make opening remarks. Maybe I’ve found my couple. Better take a look at them to make sure.

  Nice-looking couple, he thought, which they better be after keeping me waiting an hour and a half in the hallway. Mid-forties, stylish, the wife an uptight brunette who puts in some time at the spa. He’s well built. Black hair just beginning to show a little silver. What used to be called a snappy dresser. Amazingly white teeth, Full range of plastic: AmEx, Diners Club. Good tipper.

  He didn’t follow them out of the restaura
nt, but finished his own meal-an excuse for a hamburger that would have made the boys at Nick’s weep-and read the International Herald Tribune, The Yankees were in first place.

  The phone woke him from a pleasant nap. It was only five o’clock and he hadn’t planned to head out until seven or so.

  “You haven’t called in for three days,” Ed said.

  “No news.”

  “Then call and say ‘no news,’” Levine answered. “No progress at all?”

  “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Do better. You have four weeks.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ed. You and I both know this is a fool’s errand.”

  “Then you’re just the man for the job. Call in.”

  Neal got out of bed and stepped into the shower. The cold water woke him up. Four weeks, he thought. A lot can happen in four weeks, Ed.

  Ed levine set the phone down.

  “Nothing, huh?” asked Rich Lombardi.

  “Not yet.”

  Lombardi set the case notes back on Levine’s desk. “Might have been too much to ask for, anyway.”

  “It was always a long shot.”

  Lombardi left the Friends office and went to the nearest phone booth. He had a lot of calls to make. The convention was just around the corner, the Senator was on the short list, and there was so much to make sure of. Title this story The Man Behind the Man.

  21

  Allie was stoned out of her gourd.

  When Neal made it over to the Earl’s Court flat around eight o’clock, he found her pacing the floor, muttering a semicoherent diatribe against television game shows, particularly British ones where the contestants didn’t win any money worth mentioning.

  “No Frigidaires, either. No dinette sets, no living room combinations, washer-dryers. No Toyotas. No trips to Honolulu!”

  “C’mon in,” Vanessa said to Neal. “Colin’s not here, though.”

  Neal knew that already. He had already placed Colin back in Leicester Square. “Where is he?”

  “Taking care of business.”

  Spotting Neal, Allie switched gears and launched into an assault on American men, particularly the ones from New York who think they know everything about screwing, but don’t.