The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Sure,” I said. “I have nothing to lose but my balls.”

  He fished around in his shopping bag. He came up with a plastic container of spansules as big as suppositories.

  “For whales,” I said. “Where’s the size for humans?”

  “This is them.” Paul laughed.

  I sighed. “Give me one. Maybe there’s a water fountain in the lobby.”

  We had a big, horsey briefcase among our gear. We packed it with everything I thought I’d need.

  “Are you still getting him?” I asked.

  Paul moved his head closer to the receiver speaker. He turned up the volume, cautiously moved the tuning knob. What we heard could have been Roach moving around in his hotel room. It could have been anything. Then we heard a toilet flush.

  “That’s him,” I said. “On my way. Get it all. If you hear anything bad, or if I don’t come out within an hour, take the other tape to the Chief Director.”

  I started to duck out of the car. Paul pulled me back, kissed me on the lips. I was surprised. And pleased.

  “Take care, Nick,” he whispered.

  He had said the same thing to me on the helipad of the compound when I was starting off to meet Angela Berri in her California beachhouse. Was that aeons ago? Or yesterday?

  There was no water fountain in the hotel lobby. But there was a unisex nest in the cocktail lounge. I went in there, used a cupped palmful of water to bolt down the giant energizing spansule. I could almost feel it thud into my stomach.

  Do something, I urged it.

  I was turning to leave when an ef came out of one of the toilet booths, adjusting her skirt. She looked at me.

  “I suck cocks,” she said.

  “Who doesn’t?” I said.

  It was a stuffy obso hotel, with a color photograph of the Washington Monument over the registration desk. Not the kind of place that encourages wandering about the corridors. I called Roach on the single house phone. It rang seven times before he answered. “Yes?”

  “Art Roach?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Flair. Dr. Nicholas Bennington Flair. I’m downstairs. I’ve got to see you.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “About your condition. The results of tests we took. It’s very important I see you at once.”

  He panicked. “Oh, my God! What is it, doc?”

  “I must see you immediately. What room?”

  He was standing outside his door. He practically pulled me inside.

  “What is it, doc?” he demanded. “What about the tests? What’s wrong with me?”

  I sat down near a glass cocktail table. I set the briefcase at my' feet, opened it, took out the threaded tape deck. He watched me. First in astonishment. Then warily. His attache case was not in sight.

  “Nothing wrong with you,” I said. “Cracked arm. That’s all. But you’re strong as a horse. And not much smarter. Sit down. Something I want you to hear.”

  I stared at him. Slowly, almost tentatively, he slid into a chair at a diagonal to mine. Not across the table. Clear of the table.

  I switched it on. We listened to his entire conversation with Seymour Dove. When it came to an end, I switched off the tape.

  “There’s another tape,” I told him hastily. “Exactly like this one. Elsewhere. And films of the entire meet.”

  “And I suppose the bills are marked?” he said bitterly.

  “What else?” I shrugged.

  That was inoperative, but he couldn’t be sure.

  We sat in silence for at least a minute. Then he stood. I stood.

  “Motherfucker!” he shouted.

  It was more an expletive than an accusation.

  Then he came at me. Good arm reaching for me.

  I was not unmuscular, and I had a kind of desperate courage. Not quite hysterical. But even in that state it would never occur to me to strike an opponent with my fist if a more effective weapon was at hand.

  I bent to slip his lunge, picked up a heavy plastilead ashtray with rounded edges. As he was starting his turn, I clipped him just to the left and low on the occipital area.

  He went down, going “Houff!” Then he was still.

  I replaced the undamaged ashtray on the table. I bent over him, felt for pulse and respiration, peeled back his eyelids. He was already blinking, snorting, curling up into the fetal position. I patted him over and found a weapon, a short-barreled rocket pistol.

  Then I went back to my chair, sat down, lighted a Bold. My hands were trembling slightly. I abhor violence. I sat silently, staring at him.

  “I’m all right, Paul,” I said loudly. “Everything’s fine.”

  After a while, Art Roach roused. He looked at me from the floor.

  “You’re fast,” he said admiringly.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He glanced at his pistol on the table in front of me. No way. He climbed to his feet, staggered over to his armchair, sat down heavily. He lowered his head between his knees.

  “Dumb-ass,” he said dully. “I’m a dumb-ass.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You come here with enough to take me, ” he said in a grumbling voice. Shaking his head. “But you don’t just take me, like you could. So you want to talk deal. Right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Stupe,” he said mournfully. “I’ve been a stupe all my life. What do you want?”

  “Her,” I said.

  “Oh, Jesus.” He groaned. “Do I gotta?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You gotta.”

  I didn’t have to spell out for him what would happen if he didn’t "gotta.’' He knew. But he was a pro and wanted to know how it had been fiddled. I told him: the phony accident, the memory block, the broken arm, the shared splint. It had been his nun, but he wasn’t angry.

  “That was beautiful," he breathed.

  “Yes,” I said. “Now let’s get to it. I know she’s on the suck. Where does she hide the love?”

  It was an interesting story. He had been shrewd enough to keep records, figuring they’d be a bargaining factor if Angela ever decided his activities were contrary to the public interest. From that, I guessed he had his own private little scams going which she tolerated as long as he didn’t become too greedy.

  I had thought her method of concealing her booty would be original and complex. It proved depressingly simple. There was, it seemed, a well-organized band of thieves serving at the National Data Bank. They were all assigned to the Stopped Section where, according to law, the BIN cards of all stopped objects were returned, flamed, and their names and registration numbers erased from the master computer tape.

  BINS of stopped objects flowed into the NDB at a rate of approximately 10,000 per serving day. It was not difficult for the crooks to extract from this flow certain BIN cards expressly ordered by a growing list of customers. The going price had risen to 1,500 new dollars per card.

  Angela Berri had a standing order for cards of stopped efs whose age and physical description "approximated hers. The stopped efs were victims of accidents, disease, murder, suicide, etc. When Angela purchased such a card—the unlawful possession of which, incidentally, made her liable for execution, under certain circumstances—she merely attached her own photo, sent Roach to a large city to open a bank account under the stopped ef’s name and number.

  Once a year, under her orders, he closed out each account and moved it to another bank, under new identification. This was to thwart annoying investigation by the Voluntary Contribution Commission of the Department of Profitability. They hadn’t even come close to her.

  Roach had a complete record of her current deposits, which he handed over to me. I also received a lengthy list of government contracts on which she had received kickbacks. And a neatly written journal of her other peculations: unlicensed dealing in grains and other foodstuffs; part ownership of a small refinery producing methanol ostensibly for sale as a solvent, though a goodly percentage of the output was dive
rted to a distiller producing champagne; and—Angela! Shame!—ownership of a very posh, very secret Washington, D.C., bordello called, by its habitues, “The Sexual Congress.” This last was, of course, completely illicit, since the US Government had a monopoly on bagnios.

  That would seem to be enough, I told Art Roach, packing up my goodies. I would do everything I could to pillow his involvement in these disgraceful shenanigans. He might be called on to testify, but I doubted if that would be necessary. He might even be able to retain his rank-rate and continue to serve as Chief, Security & Intelligence, DOB.

  He brightened at that.

  “You'll be taking over her spot I suppose,” he said. “Real good.”

  I looked at him in amazement.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” I said.

  “Why else would you be doing this?” he asked.

  I could have explained to him that Angela Teresa Berri had grievously wounded my amour propre, and in that area I was as sensitive as a Sicilian. But he would not have understood. Besides, there might be something operative to what he suggested. Not a vulgar ambition to have the title Director of Bliss. But an almost unconscious thrust for power.

  I didn’t answer him, but turned to go. He spoke before I reached the door.

  “I told her to watch out for you,” he said.

  “Oh?” I said. “Why?”

  “Listen,” he said, “it takes one to know one.”

  I wasn’t certain I knew what he meant by that, and didn’t want to know. I took the elevator down, my spirits rising as the cage descended.

  I could move mountains. Do anything. I told myself it was me, my talent, my will. But way down deep in that prune I called my heart, I knew it was partly, mostly, that experimental energizer. That wonderful whale-sized spansule. I was on air. Not walking on air. Just on air. Roaring.

  I leaned down to talk to Paul through the opened car window. “That new methylphenidate . . .” I said.

  “Yes?” Paul said.

  “Make notes. Too euphoric. Loss of visual perception. Slight mental displacement. Some verbal slurring. No obvious impairment of muscular coordination. Improved audition. Ego inflation. Got that?”

  “Yes,” Paul said. “I’ll remember. Want to stretch out on the back seat awhile, Nick?”

  “No,” I said, “I do not want to stretch out on the back seat. Did you get all the Roach stuff?”

  “I did,” Paul said happily. “A complete tape. That’s it, isn't it, Nick?”

  “That’s it,” I said. Climbing into the car. “That, indeed, is it.”

  I picked up the mobile phone, punched the numbers of the Chief Director’s residence.

  “Who you calling?” Paul asked.

  “Grace Wingate.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Wheels within wheels,” I said mysteriously. I tried to wink. Both eyes closed at the same time.

  Mrs. Wingate wasn’t at home. They refused to tell me where I might reach her.

  “That reporter,” I said to Paul. “Herb Bailey. What outfit does he work for?”

  “Federal Syndicate.”

  “Right,” I said. “Make another note on the new energizer.' Negative memory effect.”

  I finally got through to Herb Bailey and asked him if he could discover the whereabouts of the Chief Director’s wife.

  “I probably could,” he said. “Why should I?”

  “Because I will then give you the scoop of a lifetime, Scoop,” I said.

  “Are you drunk?” he demanded.

  “Of course I’m not drunk. Do me a favor, Herb. And I have got something for you.”

  “Fat chance,” he grumbled. But he left the line open, was gone a few minutes, finally returned. “The Society Desk says she’s scheduled to visit a school for retarded clones this afternoon. It’s in Chevy Chase. The New Hope School.”

  “Thanks, Herb,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  “What’s the something you’ve got for me? You running away with the Chief Director’s wife? She’s a prime cut.”

  “No,” I said shortly. Displeased. “It’s something else. If I give it to you, can I join the Anonymous Sources club?”

  “Sure.”

  “Keep an eye on the Department of Bliss for the next few days,” I told him. “Big shakeup due.”

  “No kidding?” he said. Interested now. “How big?” “Enormous,” I said, and hung up.

  “Was that wise?” Paul asked.

  “The Washington game.” I shrugged. “Besides, I’m tired of being wise. I think I’ll be foolish awhile. You better drive. In my manic mood, I’ll be worse than you. I want to go to the New Hope School for Retarded Clones in Chevy Chase.”

  “She’s there?”

  “Yes. Visiting. Not enrolled.”

  “Should I wait for you?”

  “No. You go back to the Hospice. Make a copy of that film in case of accidental erasure. And better make Instox copies of the records Roach gave me. In the briefcase. You never can tell. ...” “Now you’re tracking,” Paul said. “Where are you going after you see Grace Wingate?”

  “Things to do,” I said. “Worlds to conquer. I may not be back to the Hospice until tomorrow.”

  “When are you going to see the Chief Director?”

  “Also tomorrow,” I said. “It’s all in the Tomorrow File.”

  As we drove off we heard, via Roach’s broken arm, a toilet flush. By the time Paul had located and delivered me to the New Hope School for Retarded Clones, in Chevy Chase, the giddy effects of the methylphenidate had evaporated, leaving dregs of vague anxieties and dim terrors. A year was ending. A century would soon end. I shivered inside my silverized zipsuit. I should have worn my topcoat; the wind was a knife.

  There were three limousines parked at the curb. Black zipsuits stood near the cars. They inspected me coldly. Apparently I didn’t look like a potential assassin; they allowed me to walk up the brick path and enter the school. The exterior was white enameled tiles. It looked like a subway station turned inside out.

  I asked for the Chief Director’s wife. I was told she was completing her tour and would be out soon. I waited patiently, staring at children’s crayon drawings taped to the walls, wondering how old the “children” were.

  She came out eventually, surrounded by a retinue of Administrative Assistants, social secretaries, guards, a few reporters, photographers.

  I stood, took a step forward. She prepared to exit, glanced up. Startled. Then the fading smile grew again. She came over to me, hand outstretched. We stroked palms. I had the impression of rigidity beneath cool softness.

  “Nick!” she said. With pleasure. I thought. “What are you doing here?”

  “I must speak to you a few minutes,” I murmured. “Alone. Before you get in your car. It’s important. Anywhere we can go?” Lips tightened, paled. She was wearing a smooth helmet of white felt. It covered her ears. Her hair was tucked up, out of sight. The wide-collared natural wool coat, simple as a smock, left the long stem of her neck exposed.

  “There’s an outdoor playground,” she said. Tentatively. “Around to the side. I think it’s empty now. All the—ah, children are inside. We could go there. But only for a few minutes. We have another stop to make. At an orphanage. They’re expecting us.” “The playground sounds fine,” I said. “It won’t take long.” She went back to speak to her assistants. They looked at me doubtfully. But eventually they all filed out ahead of us. Then she led the way around a curved walk to a small, fenced playground.

  We sat apart on a slatted bench. I glanced about. Already there was a black zipsuit at each of the playground’s three gates. They were all regarding us gravely. For the first time I realized the full import, and danger, of what I was doing: a public tete-a-tete with the wife of the most powerful man in the US Government. “Have things changed between you and your husband?” “No,” she said shortly. “If anything, they’re worse. We had an argument last night. Screaming. I cried. I’m so ashamed. And
ashamed of bothering you with my problems.”

  She tried to smile.

  “It’s still . . . her?”

  “Yes. Nick, I don’t know what she’s done to him. He can’t break loose. I think he wants to. Really. But she seems to have him under some kind of—of a spell. I know how foolish that must sound.”

  “No, no. Not foolish at all.”

  I spoke mechanically. I was computing. I had assumed Chief Director Michael Wingate was merely a victim of Angela’s sexual expertise. But her ownership of an illicit bordello opened another can of worms. It would not be difficult for Angela to share the private rooms of the Sexual Congress. What a leverage that evidence might give her! Over the Chief Director, Congressmen, journalists, lobbyists, Public Service executives, judges—the whole political bestiary of Washington, D.C. She had murdered; blackmail was within her ken.

  “How did it end?” I asked. “The argument?”

  “It didn’t end. It will go on and on. Until our marriage ends. I know.”

  “No,” I said positively. “That’s not going to happen. Take a gamble?”

  Lids raised. Dark, somber eyes stared into mine.

  “A gamble?” she said. Smiled suddenly. “What odds?”

  “Long,” I admitted. “But it’s my gamble as well as yours. I’m taking it.”

  She stared at me a long moment. Once again her features ran that curious gamut of emotions; perplexity to sympathy to pity to . . . what?

  “All right,” she said. Stiffening her back. “What is it?”

  “Here is what you must do ...” I started. Coaching her. Nicholas Bennington Stanislavski Flair.

  She must go to her husband that very evening. She must present him with an ultimatum. No, not an ultimatum exactly, but a declaration of her intent. Either he would agree never to see Angela Berri again, or she, Grace Wingate, would simply leave him. Pack up and walk out. I told her exactly how to conduct herself during the meeting: state her resolve, make no threats about adverse public relations, speak quietly in a firm, dignified tone, wear something sexy. But subtle. Keep the interview as short as possible. Speak her piece, tell him the decision was his to make, she loved him and wanted to continue as his wife. And he must decide within twenty-four hours. That was most important. Within twenty-four hours.