Afterburn

by Colin Harrison

  "Yes, number one."

  "No fuck-ups."

  "Yes."

  "You understand the word fuck-ups?"

  "Fuck-ups. Fuck-ups." Lo smiled. "Very bad."

  "Yes. You are a strong man," Charlie said.

  "I think you are very strong. Too much strong for me."

  "No, no." Give him face, Charlie thought. This is what he wants from the gweilo, along with the cash. "I pay you thirty thousand now and twenty-five thousand when the job is done. Six weeks."

  "No, no."

  "What, then?"

  Lo punched in 40,000. "Now. So we can do very number-one job." Then he cleared the calculator and punched in 15,000. "Six weeks. U.S. dollar."

  Charlie looked at Lo's face. Old enough to have been a soldier thirty years prior. The Chinese military had helped North Vietnam with almost everything. Much scaffolding required, of course, ha-ha. He held out his hand. "Forty thousand U.S. now. Fifteen thousand in six weeks, when the job is done."

  Lo shook his hand vigorously. "Yes, good."

  Twenty envelopes rested in his coat pockets, each with five thousand dollars inside. The manager at the Peace Hotel had nodded at Charlie's request for cash, and merely added the funds and a small fee to the hotel bill. Charlie pulled out eight of the envelopes and handed them to Lo. In the dimness, Lo glanced into each, counting the hundred-dollar bills with a brisk flicking of his fingers that suggested he'd handled quite a bit of yuan in his time. No one on the street could see, and the driver was busy in the noise of the traffic. "Good," exclaimed Lo. "Six weeks. Job finished very good."

  Charlie nodded.

  Lo slipped the envelopes into his coat and hollered at the driver, who pulled over. Without a backward look at Charlie, Lo leapt into the street, disappearing quickly into the crowds. A Chinese among Chinese. Impossible to follow, gone. The motorcycle rickshaw jolted forward into the chaos of traffic, and already it was so dark that the men squatting in the street repairing bicycle tires next to the filth that ran in the gutters did not see the American businessman jangling through Shanghai's gloom. Okay, Ellie, he thought, I'm coming home, fast as I can.

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  Pioneer Hotel

  341 Broome Street, Chinatown, Manhattan

  September 27, 1999

  SHE'D TOLD THEM her name was Bettina Bedford, but they didn't care. They took her cash through the bulletproof Plexiglas and slid a key back to her. For five days she'd waited for a knock on the door, for Tony Verducci's people to find her. Meanwhile, she'd studied her new cell.

  Every surface of the room was painted battleship gray. No windows, the smell of insecticide. The kind of place where the next place might be nowhere. Outside her door, ruined old men glided past, alert to her presence, uncertain of their opportunity. One poured a handful of pennies from palm to palm, another whistled a broken piece of a forgotten tune. Lingering footfalls and inappropriate smiles. Don't talk to anyone, she reminded herself. Just lay low. She did some sit-ups out of boredom, she read the framed fire escape instructions on the back of the door. She looked for a broom in the closet, found only an empty red bucket with fire stenciled on the side. She made her bed, she listened to a man weeping in the next room, she flossed her teeth, she got her period, a relief to her, then washed her underwear in the tiny sink with a bar of soap. Killing time so they can't kill me. Mostly she slept, and the more she slept, the more tired she felt. Once or twice she ventured outside long enough to buy a bag of food and the newspaper. She tried being interested in the editorials but felt too anxious to concentrate. I am nobody, she told herself, I am alone.

  After finding the photo of Rick, she'd hurriedly packed a bag, including the black dress, peeked out the front of her apartment building, seen no one, which meant nothing, since she'd seen no one before. At three in the morning it was hard to see who was sitting in the cars along the block. She'd needed to chance it and she had, running along the street until she came to the avenue and hailed a cab. She'd had the driver drop her at the Jim-Jack, where she knocked frantically on the door until the night porter heard her. She bribed him with twenty dollars to let her spend the rest of the night in the storeroom, where she fashioned a bed out of four fifty-pound bags of sugar and lay down, unable to sleep. The next morning, she quit, collected her back pay in cash, $93.56, and took another cab downtown.

  She had enough money to live three more days. Her other valuables included Rahul the Freak's cell phone, which she hadn't yet used, and Charlie's business card. What's my goal here? she asked herself. To reach my mother. But she didn't know when her mother would be home. She needed money, soon. How safe was it to get another waitressing job? She hadn't used her real name since leaving prison, and still Tony Verducci's people had found her. She didn't even have enough money for a one-way bus ticket to Florida. Plus, she didn't know if her mother was home. And anyway, her mother's bungalow would now be the first place Tony's guys would look for her. They could be there already.

  I'm going crazy here, she thought. I can't just sit around until I have no money. She found the photo of Rick in her bag and examined it again. He looked terrible, but there may have been a flicker of defiance in his face. That was the thing about Rick—he never gave up, never quit, even when he should have. But maybe they'd killed him. Maybe they thought he knew about the boxes she'd taken off the truck on the last job. But of course he didn't. She'd never told him, she'd never told anyone. She looked at the photo one more time and shuddered at the wetness of the wound, at what it would feel like. If they did that to Rick, what would they do to her?

  I need Charlie. She just said it. She didn't want to need him, or anybody, but there it was. He was kind and decent and she'd slept with him once and maybe that counted for something. He'd said he wanted to see her when he returned. If she could hold out until then, perhaps she could explain the situation, or part of it, enough so that he would feel for her. She'd ask him for a little money—a loan—so that she could get out of town for a while. He had more than enough. If it was a matter of sleeping with him again, she'd do it and not think anything of it. I like him, she told herself, I really do.

  In the meantime, perhaps she could sell Rahul the Freak's cell phone. She'd thrown it in her bag, forgotten about it. She clicked it open, pushed a button. It worked, it was on. Maybe Rahul had not noticed that the phone was missing. Or he really had gone to Germany. Or didn't care that she had it. Or was hoping she'd call him. It was much more difficult to trace a call from a cell phone than from a regular one, she knew. All you could get was the general location of the last call. She lay on the bed and listened to the dial tone. She called the weather. She called information. She called her mother. Again, no answer—but when the machine beeped, she had an idea and said, "Mom, I'm sorry to miss you again. I met a fantastic guy I want to talk to you about. I'm meeting him for lunch at one o'clock today at the restaurant in the SoHo Grand. That's this really cool hotel downtown. I bought this great green dress. I'm kind of nervous and excited. I'll call back after lunch and tell you how it went."

  TWO HOURS LATER, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap but not a green dress, she stood at the corner of West Broadway and Grand. The hotel was across the street and down the block. This is just a test, she narrated to herself, a test of the emergency phone-tapping system. If somebody was listening in to her mother's line, maybe this would tell her. It didn't have to be the police; probably wasn't, even. Tony had a way of finding phone repairmen who liked to gamble. A big loan, a bad bet, and they lived in his pocket, performing favors.

  She pulled her cap down. If she knew Tony's men, they would arrive ahead of time and lurk near the entrance. At a quarter to one a rather nice Lincoln pulled up and two big guys in suits got out. She watched as one of them slipped the doorman some money and jerked his head toward the car. That could be them. Probably. The two men went inside.

  She strolled down the street, walked past the car, memorized its license number, picked up a pay phone on the corner, an
d dialed 911. When the emergency operator answered, she said, "There's a blue Lincoln sedan parked in front of the SoHo Grand Hotel and some guys got something out of the trunk, and I happened to be standing there and I saw a bunch of automatic rifles." She repeated the license number and heard the operator keying in her report. "Automatic weapons in a late-model blue Lincoln Town Car," said Christina. "You should check it out."

  She retreated to the café across the street and ordered lunch. In a few minutes a police car nudged up and parked next to the Lincoln, trapping it. Two cops got out, started to examine the car. The doorman, no doubt reconsidering his loyalties, jumped forward, motioned to the hotel. One of the cops said something into his radio. Christina stepped out of the café and drifted south, back to her hotel.

  HER TRICK with Tony intrigued her, and back in the crummy room she locked the door and wondered what she might do next. I assume he's looking for me, she thought. I need time to maneuver. Even just a day or two to figure something out. Perhaps there was a way to frustrate Tony or distract him. Put him off balance. She stood at the mirror, brushing her hair and thinking, and when she was done thinking, she picked up Rahul the Freak's phone.

  Tony was unlisted on Long Island, which was no surprise. She called the Archdiocese of New York, said she was a long-lost cousin of Mrs. Tony Verducci and their aunt was dying, did the church office have a number? Needed to reach her urgently. They looked up Mrs. Verducci. No number, but here's the address. She called up the local fire department, gave Tony's address, and said she smelled gas, please come immediately. Next she dialed the main office of the region's top three cement companies and asked the president's name, saying she represented a new golf club in Locust Valley seeking to recruit members: May we send him an invitation? Got the three names. Next she called up one of the mob restaurants a few blocks away in Little Italy and made a reservation for each man. Said, Please bill it to Tony Verducci, and hung up. She didn't know who was whose enemy but the restaurant's manager would. Next she called the Staten Island offices of Paul Bocca, CPA. She was relaying a message from Tony, she said. The photos of your brother, Rick, came out great. Very sharp. Please call back right away. Wait, which number should we use? asked the secretary. Do you have the right home number? asked Christina. I don't know, let me check. The secretary consulted her records and repeated a number, which Christina wrote down. One of Tony's "public" numbers, probably. Yes, that's right, she said.

  Next, standing in front of the mirror and inspecting the pores of her nose, she called the regional office of the IRS, got the name of a field agent, Mr. Zacks. You could never reach these people directly, of course; all you could do was leave a message, which she did. She was calling on behalf of Paul Bocca, CPA, who represented Tony Verducci, she said. Mr. Verducci would like to discuss a tax amnesty request, please call us at this number—the same number that the Bocca secretary had provided. Next she called that number, Tony's number, and said she was calling from the office of Mr. Zacks, IRS field agent, and understood from Mr. Bocca's office that you would like to come in and discuss your tax amnesty situation. Please call soon, and here is the number.

  Having fun here, Christina told herself. Next she called a funeral home on the North Shore, near Tony. We've had a death in the family, she said quietly. She gave the home address that the Archdiocese had provided. Please send over your people, ring the bell, and wait outside. Absolutely, came the somber voice, we're on our way.

  She walked around the room thinking. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough for Tony. Next she called the regional office of the FBI and left a message with an Agent Doughty saying that she was Tony's daughter and that he was depressed and possibly suicidal and she thought he might be willing to discuss some things. She hung up and looked through her bag for her lip gloss. She found it and put some on. Next she called Paul Bocca's office back and with a different voice—impersonating her mother, in fact—said she was calling from the FBI. Please contact Agent Doughty at your earliest convenience. She left Agent Doughty's number and extension.

  She called the number on Charlie's business card and reached his secretary.

  "May I ask your name?" the woman asked.

  "Melissa Williams."

  "Yes, Ms. Williams, Mr. Ravich arrived back yesterday."

  A surprise. "I thought his trip was going to be longer."

  "We all did," came the professionally warm response. "But sometimes the meetings go very well and things are expedited . . . He's left me instructions that if you called, to please tell you that your meeting with him is scheduled for seven o'clock this evening at the Pierre. Our corporate suite is available there if you need it. Mr. Ravich will call up from the lobby. Are you flying in?"

  "Yes," responded Christina.

  "Very good. I'll send a car to meet your plane."

  "Oh, please, don't bother," Christina said. "I'll get into town on my own, although I appreciate the offer. I'll check in about six?"

  "Just pick up your key at the desk," said the secretary. "It's billed to us."

  "Right," said Christina nervously.

  "Mr. Ravich will call up from the lobby at seven," repeated the bright voice.

  "Thank you," she said. Thank you, thank you.

  She had one cigarette left. I can't wait to smoke it, she thought. I love cigarettes, they make me so happy. First she'd try her mother again. She clicked Rahul the Freak's phone back on and punched in her mother's number. She pictured the two phones ringing inside the pink bungalow, her mother in trim slacks and sweater putting on her glasses to answer the phone. The kind of silly thing her mother did. She waited four rings, until the machine came on, and she hung up. Out again. A trip? Maybe her mother was sick. She could be in the hospital, even. Mrs. Mehta next door would know; they were in and out of each other's yard every day. She called information, got the number, and dialed. It occurred to her that Tony would have no reason to bug a neighbor's phone. "Mrs. Mehta," she said when the woman answered, "this is Christina Welles calling. I was wondering about my mother."

  "Your mother?"

  "Yes," she said anxiously. "Where is she?"

  "She's fine, dear. I saw her a day or two ago. Well, maybe it's been a week. She might be on one of her little expeditions, you know."

  "But how's my mother doing?"

  "I think she's rather well, Christina. She's been riding her bicycle quite a bit."

  "Is my dad's old car still out back in the garage?"

  "What?"

  "My dad's old blue Mustang, in the garage."

  "Oh, I think she sold that."

  "What?" Christina gasped.

  "Your mother put an ad in the paper, and a man came and said he would take it."

  "He took away the car?" Christina cried. "He bought it?"

  "He showed up with a tow truck an hour later. Your mother and I were out front."

  "What about the stuff in the car, the boxes and everything?"

  "I can't be sure, but . . . well, I can, yes, I was standing there. She told him to take all of it."

  "Oh no."

  "It was just parts your father collected, wasn't it? Cans of oil and whatever else, I think."

  "You're sure, Mrs. Mehta?"

  "Yes."

  "Really completely sure?"

  "Why, yes, I believe I am."

  She thanked Mrs. Mehta and hung up, feeling sick. She lit the last cigarette, but her hands shook. The cigarette fell to the floor and smoked there. All I have left is Charlie, she thought, a date tonight with Charlie.

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  Vista del Mar Retirement Village

  Princeton, New Jersey

  September 27, 1999

  NOT A BAD PLACE TO DIE! Charlie thought, inspecting the golf greens. An eightyish couple walking along the smooth black asphalt gave hearty, vitamin-commercial waves as he rolled past in the Lexus. "See?" said Ellie from the passenger seat. "It's really very nice. I've been wanting to show you for so long, Charlie. All these old trees, and the split
-rail fences?" She gazed out the window with such sweet hope that the last of his bitterness melted. She was nearly finished decorating the house. Two dozen bushes and flowering trees would arrive the next morning, holes already dug, a bag of fertilizer hunched next to each, the last of the furniture coming the next afternoon. Ellie would spend the night to be sure everything went smoothly. So far, she'd done a perfect job. He was shocked, almost, by how much she'd completed. No doubt thinking that Julia would succeed at getting pregnant. Making a place where a grandchild could run around. Grandchild, grandchildren. She'd thought of everything. The sprinkler system had digital controls in the garage. She'd specified a high-speed buried-cable hookup, up to ten phone lines if he wanted. Zoned heating, automatic lights that went on when you entered a room, off when you left. A security system so artificially intelligent that it almost read your mind. She'd outfitted him with a beautiful office, too, a deep leather armchair, a lamp, a lovely Oriental in front of the fireplace. On the desk, a new computer, powerful enough to download Teknetrix data. No wonder she'd kept showing him the brochure, loosening him up, preparing him for the idea, so that it was a pleasure, not a shock. The house had beds and linen and dishes. And stationery with the new address, in his desk drawer. And stamps and pens and paper clips. And toothpaste and dishwashing cleanser and a supply of all their medications in the bathroom. And a phone with autodial numbers already programmed. And a complete set of golf clubs in the garage. He'd pulled out the driver, given it a swing in the front yard. His back felt like a dream. He'd prepared the stinky Chinese tea twice a day for three days straight. Stuff worked perfectly, made him feel loose and warm, even a little warm down there, too, a sort of volunteer half-tumescence. Anytime you need me, I'll be ready, ready for Melissa tonight, you old dog. The tea may have been mildly euphoric, too. Somebody could make a mint off this stuff—the pharmaceutical companies were probably working on it. He'd pay quite a bit, if necessary. If he didn't get the tea on time, his head would hurt. Some kind of herbal stimulant in it. So what if it was a little addictive? He had enough of the dry, crackly powder to last one more day, and had left an order with the concierge at the Peace Hotel for more to be made and sent to him. He'd lost a little weight, too. Heart beating slightly faster? Hard to tell. No one really understood those Chinese herbs. Certainly he felt like he had more energy. Ellie had seen it while he swung the club, smiled at the way he cut the air with it, assumed he was happy about the house. Mentioned the new golf shoes waiting for him in his closet. You had to hand it to her, you really did.