by Garbo Norman
But evidently not hard enough, thought Burke, and felt the remembered warmth drain off.
Chapter 11
Burke picked up two messages from his answering service: one from Hank, the other from Lilly. The arrangements were for him to return all calls either three, six, nine or twelve hours from the exact time they were clocked in, depending on his own situation and when the messages were picked up. If he was unable to call back at any of these times, the next twelve hours would then be skipped entirely and the original schedule repeated. In this particular case, Burke was able to call Hank on the six-hour-spot at his designated booth on Forty-eighth Street and Third Avenue.
“I’m afraid I fucked up.” the ex-fighter said without preliminary.
At a public phone in Bloomingdales, Burke felt a familiar coldness in his gut. “How?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I killed a guy. An agent. He said his name was Bishop … Tom Bishop. I didn’t mean to. The damn thing just got away from me.”
“What happened?”
“I was only hying to help, damn it. Pam said it was stupid, and I guess it was. But I was sore as a sonofabitch and had to do something. And I thought I had a terrific idea, I really did. But Max, my old manager, always said I was okay til I started thinking, and the fucker was right. Shit, I don’t believe how it turned out.”
“Just tell me what happened.”
“I even got Pam into it. I been seeing her a lot, even staying over at her place. I mean, she being scared and all. But it’s more than that. We’ve got something going. I don’t know what she sees in a dummy like me, but…” He took a long breath. “Christ, listen to me run off at the mouth. I’m nervous as a cat You should see my goddamned hands shaking.”
“It’s okay. Take your time.”
“What time? I suddenly feel I got no time. Anyway, I got this real bright idea to find out who’s after you and why. I knew Pam had a tail on her, so one night I had her lead the guy past this empty, burned-out building where I was waiting, and I cold-cocked him and dragged him inside. Then I tied him up and blindfolded him. When he came to, I told him I was you and started asking questions.”
The operator came on the line to ask for more money and Burke threw in the change. “Go on,” he said.
“At first I had him fooled. He really believed I was you. And when I slapped him around a little, he said they wanted you for selling out to some people in Beirut Does that make any damned sense?”
“It makes sense. It’s just not true. But that must be the story they’re passing around.”
“I asked where he got the story and he said it came from his .division chief. But when I asked where he got it, and kept pushing for an answer, he figured out I wasn’t you because he said you would have known he didn’t have that kind of info. Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Christ, am I a dummy! I should have had my goddamned brains fixed instead of my face. Who the hell did I think I was, trying to pull something like that — James Bond?”
Burke stared vacantly out at the Bloomingdale shoppers and waited.
“Anyway it didn’t take him long to figure out who I was after that. Even blindfolded. Since Pam led him into the trap, and I was close to Pam, it had to be me. So there I was, right square in the shithouse. But the guy swore he’d forget the whole thing if I cut him loose, and I had to take his word. The only other choice I had was to kill him right there and I wasn’t about to go that route. I’ve played rough all my life but never killed nobody. So I cut him loose. And the second I do, he picks up a brick and swings it at my fucking head. If he’d hit me solid, I’d have been dead right then … brained! But he’s a little off target and just knocks me dizzy. Then he comes at me again and I get lucky in the dark and he misses and I hook an arm around his throat. I’m bleeding like a pig now and close to passing out. And if I go out, I know for sure I don’t wake up. Because this fucker’s out to finish me. So I hang on and hang on while he fights to bust loose. When he finally stops fighting, I go out cold. And when I come to, my arm’s still around the bugger’s throat and he’s dead.”
Burke’s mouth was dry. “Does anyone but Pam know about this?”
“No.”
“You’re sure no one saw you?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do with the body?”
“I left it right there.”
Burke sighed over the wire.
“Some fuck-up, huh?” Hank said flatly.
“You may be all right. When they find the body, they’ll probably just hang it on me. In fact I’m sure they will. Just as I’m sure they blame me for the disappearance of those two men David shot. It’s too bad it happened, but it could be worse.”
“I’ll tell that to Bishop.”
“Stop punishing yourself. It’s done. And from what you told me, you acted in self-defense. Better him than you,”
Hank said nothing.
“Just do me one small favor,” Burke said.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t help me anymore.”
Two hours later, Burke answered Lilly’s call from a booth on West Seventy-second Street. “What’s doing?” he said.
“Nothing. I was just hungry to hear your voice.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Is it so impossible?”
“With you, yes.”
“Are all spies so smart?”
“No. Just me. That’s why I’m in such great shape.”
She laughed. “I’ll bet you could be fun if so many people weren’t trying to kill you.”
He waited.
“I went out to Amagansett with Frank on Sunday.”
“Frank, is it? I can see how much my warnings mean.”
“Aren’t you curious about what happened?”
“I know what happened. You fell madly in love and got laid in front of an open fire.”
“Jesus, what a smartass spy.” She giggled. “But you got the order reversed.”
“Only because I’m old-fashioned. I’m still saddled with the crazy notion that love should come at least fifteen minutes before lovemaking. But what the hell. At least you remembered his name.”
“Why are you being so nasty?”
“Because you scare hell out of me with what you’re trying to do and I don’t know how to stop you.”
“I told you not to worry.”
“That only makes me worry more.”
“Listen,” she said and her voice changed slightly. “Just listen a minute. Frank told me some things. He said he’s not really a detective investigating Stern’s murder, but an intelligence agent looking for you. He also said he has no idea why you’re wanted, but that it happens all the time when politics change, and he even feels kind of sorry for you.”
“And he told you all this because you’re such a terrific lay?”
“God, you can be a miserable bastard.”
“Lilly, this is heavy stuff. Don’t fool with it.”
“He told me this because he believes I don’t know where you are, he cares about me a little; and he hates the idea of having lied to me. Is that really so impossible to believe?.”
Burke left that one alone.
“But something else happened last night,” she said. “When I came home from the theatre, there were two other men waiting for me in my apartment. One was black, the other white, and they called each other Waldo and Kevin. They said they didn’t believe any of the answers I’d given Frank and wanted to question me themselves. They made like a real comedy team, except they weren’t very funny and got even less funny as they went along.”
“What did they ask?”
“When did I last see you? And how I get in touch with you when I want to talk?”
“How did you answer?”
“According to the script. I said I hadn’t seen you since the hospital, and wouldn’t know how to reach you even if I wanted to — which I don’t.”
“And then?”
“Th
en they really started getting nasty. First they made me take off my blouse because they said they wanted to see my beautiful new tits. Then they showed me a darling little electric-shock machine they had in an attache case.”
“Oh, Christ,” said Burke and ground out his cigarette against the glass of the booth.
“At first I was scared half to death. But then I figured if they really meant to use that thing they’d have bound and gagged me, which they hadn’t. There are very thin walls in my building, and one scream can bring half the tenants out into the halls. But I .was real pleased with myself for staying cool enough to think that clearly. Anyway, it was around this time that Frank came in like the Seventh Cavalry and really gave it to those apes. When he finally finished with them, there was blood all over my carpet, but it was all theirs and I loved every drop.” She paused and the wire hung dead for a moment. “So what do you think of that, Mr. Smartass Spy?”
“I’m sorry you had to go through it all.”
“Never mind that. What do you think of my Franky now?”
Burke hesitated, but had no choice. “Maybe you can get him a part in your play. He seems to be an exceptional actor.”
“You cynical son of a bitch! Don’t you believe in anything?”
“I’m afraid it’s an old ploy, Lilly. Every security outfit in the world uses it. It even has a name. It’s called the Good Cop and the Bad Cop. The bad cop abuses the suspect, and the good cop rescues and protects him. Then the suspect feels he has a friend in the good cop and confides in him. It’s all a performance. You’re an actress, Lilly. You know how convincing a good performance can be.”
“I know this was no performance. And you don’t know Frank Harkevy. If you did, you’d realize how idiotic you sound.”
Burke was silent.
“I’m telling you I saw him knock them down then kick their heads in. There was real blood on the carpet. You can’t fake real blood.”
“Please. Try not to take this so personally. Your Frank is just doing his job. It probably has nothing to do with how he feels about you. You’re beautiful and lovable and I’m sure he’s crazy about you. I just want you to know that things are rarely as they seem in this business.”
“Oh, fuck you!” she said and hung up.
There were no messages from David.
Chapter 12
It was late, after 1:00 A.M., but Burke was still in the studio, working at his easel. This was not his usual hour for painting, but tonight he was very much in need of the composure he never failed to find in simply working a brush on canvas. The touch, the feel, the smells, the sense of dominion over at least this small, two-dimensional illusion were inevitably soothing. Once he had fantasized, had even expected much more from his painting, had felt it nourish a hard core of integrity within him that believed regardless of whatever else he did, his paintings would add to his worth, would demonstrate what he had learned of life and living, would move people with his insights, exalt them with his visions of beauty. His paintings, he had hoped, would scream of the injustices of society, the anguish of loneliness, the futility of hate, the need for love, the tragedy of the loss of wonder. But that had been a long time ago. At moments like this, he was willing to settle for it as a tranquillizer.
Three days had passed since his last meeting with the old.
man. He had heard nothing and it was beginning to disturb him. He had set out a beautiful piece of bait, dangled an authentic, top-priority code number in front of them, and had not even got a nibble. In their place he would have responded within twenty-four hours. It made no sense. Unless, he had been wrong about Millang being involved.
He left the apartment at exactly 2:00 A.M., took a crosstown bus through Central Park, and got off at Lexington Avenue and Seventy-second Street. He walked up Lexington and turned west on Seventy-fourth Street, past the converted brownstone where Angela lived, to Park Avenue. He knew there would be no watchers at this hour, but old habit made him check anyway. Then walking back to Angela’s house, he quickly picked open the locks on the iron-grilled front door and the glass vestibule door behind it A short hallway led to the rear apartment; he moved silently down it, listening for possible sounds. He heard none. Along with his other concerns, he feared frightening her half to death. At the moment his own pulse beat was much too fast and none too steady, bringing a pain that stabbed him exactly between the shoulder blades. It climaxed, faded, and went away, leaving him breathing heavily in the red-papered-hallway in front of Angela’s door.
In preparation he had been here for a dry run late that afternoon while Angela was at work. He wanted no fumbling at the locks, no sound that might waken her. And he had taken still another precaution. He had made certain the tall man with the moustache would not be spending the night. That was one contingency he was not about to gamble on. As far as it was possible to prepare for such things, he had prepared. Burke drew air into his lungs and let it out in a burning exhaust. No surprises here. He had expected to feel no differently. The thing was, it made no sense, was totally without logic. There was absolutely no reason for him to be here, other than the single reason that had finally brought him. He wanted to be here. He was tired of being sensible, tired of acting rationally, tired of hours, days, and months based solely on the logic of survival. Finally, there had to be something more — even if it was only the ability of the soul to take foolish risks in the pursuit of love.
So just let me love her, he thought, and he put his hands to work on the more practical matter of unsealing her locks.
The door swung open and he carefully closed it behind him. Inside, it was totally black, but he knew the apartment’s layout from his afternoon visit and felt his way toward the bedroom. For an instant, he had the impression of moving through a dark, airless tunnel and sensed a remembered brightness go out of him, much as the death of a friend carried off some small piece of you. Then he touched the edge of an open door and was in the same room with her.
Pausing, he heard her breathing and recalled a thousand nights he had lain beside her, hearing the same soft, regular sound. A faint, almost phosphorescent glow came through the barred rear window and he saw the outlines of her body on the bed. But then all the old uncertainties rallied and came back to hit him; he was afraid to make a move. What he might want was one thing, but this sort of romantic foolishness was beyond belief. She thinks you’re dead, man — dead. And even when you were alive to her, she left you. Remember? What in God’s name makes you think she’ll care for you any more as a latter-day Lazarus? And then, of course, there was always that other possibility, the one that said she did not really believe him dead and was letting them use her as bait. Which, if true, would be the ultimate irony. Cupid’s poisoned arrows. But he knew if he allowed himself to believe that, there would be little good left for him in anything and he would be tasting bile for the rest of his days. Nevertheless, there were any number of lies they might have told her about him, and everyone, even she, carried their own small demons.
He knelt on the rug beside her bed.
She slept curled on her right side, facing him, her arms under the covers. As gently as possible, he slipped one hand behind her head on the pillow, placed his other hand over her mouth and leaned lightly across her body. Her eyes opened and her body stirred, then stiffened as she came out of sleep in a rush. She managed a muffled gasp. That was all.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, not whispering, but wanting her to hear and recognize his natural voice. “It’s me, Richard. I’m not dead. Please. Don’t be frightened.”
Above his hand, her eyes stared wildly. Not knowing how much she was able to see in the darkness, he said, “My face is different. I had to change my face. But I’m not dead. It’s still me. My voice is still the same. Don’t you recognize my voice?”
Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth. His throat ached and his palms felt clammy. Her mouth was open but she made no sound. She just lay there, staring up at him. Not knowing what to do, how to reassu
re her, he stroked her hair, her face. Emotion blinded him. Wiping his eyes, he said “It’s me,” and kept saying it. “It’s me … it’s me …”
Her mouth moved. She tried twice to speak and could not.
“Richard?” It was the faintest of whispers, as if she feared that anything louder would awaken her if she were asleep and dreaming, or get her committed if she were awake and overheard.
“It’s me … it’s me.”
“Is it really you?”
“Don’t you know my voice?”
“But you’re dead,” she said. Then she gasped a little and began to weep. She covered her face with her hands and wept silently, her body shaking beneath the covers.
Burke knelt on the rug and watched her. The last time we were together, he thought, we fought and she was also crying. Now here we are three years later, with all sorts of things behind us, including my own death and resurrection, and she’s crying again.
“Tony told me you were dead,” she wept.
“He had to.”
“How could you let him do that to me?”
“Things happened. I was in trouble. It was the only reasonably safe way for me to go on living.” He was silent for a moment. “Besides… considering… I didn’t think it would really matter that much to you.”
“You didn’t think… ?” She gasped again, working for control. “I loved you.”
“You also left and divorced me.”
