“I’m going to take the tape off now,” he said.
Geiger tried, with thumb and forefinger, to get hold of a corner of the tape beneath the boy’s left ear lobe. Humidity and sweat had saturated the tape and emulsified the glue, and it wouldn’t come loose.
“This is going to hurt.”
The boy gave a grunt that seemed to sap him of the last of his strength, and he wobbled on his feet like a first-time drunk. Geiger took hold of him and guided him a few steps to the couch.
“Sit,” he said, lowering the boy onto the soft maroon leather. “I’m going to get some alcohol-that will help get the tape off. And when I get the tape off, we’ll talk about your mother and father.”
He walked down the hall and into the bathroom. There was a small shower, toilet, and pedestal sink with a face-sized oval mirror above it. He knelt at a chrome serving cart, knees resting on a floor inlaid with a diamond pattern of ash and teak, and reached to the bottom shelf.
It occurred to him that his voice had sounded like an intruder’s. Except for phone calls with Harry and minimal exchanges with the cat, he never had reason to speak at home. The thickness in his head added to the strangeness, producing a tinny sound in his ears that seemed to trail his words like a ship’s wake.
He found the rubbing alcohol, pulled a few tissues from their box, and came back down the hall. “We’ll figure things out. We need to be careful how we-”
He stared at the boy, who lay on the sofa on his side. The quiet breath of sleep ebbed and flowed from his nose.
Geiger went to the back door, unlocked it, and stepped out onto the stoop. The overhead motion-sensor light came on; twenty feet in front of him, a lone insomniac squirrel froze on the grass, primed for catastrophe.
PART TWO
10
The hot needles of the shower lanced Harry’s anxiety like a boil, and helped take him away to a place where his thoughts could catch their breath and he could begin to get a glimpse of the new future.
He had walked home through the narrow, hazy streets of Chinatown and over the Brooklyn Bridge, working up worst-case scenarios. He already had seventy thousand sitting in a safe deposit box. If it came down to it, he’d have no problem selling the apartment. He’d have to do it under the radar, for cash, and most likely through Carmine, so he’d take a hit. But he was up to the minute on the asking or sale price of every two-bedroom brownstone apartment in Brooklyn Heights with a city view, so he was sure he could put another three or four hundred grand in his pocket.
That was scenario number one, based on the premise that he would never work again. He couldn’t imagine himself taking another job. With no current employment record and no references, who would hire him? And what would he do-fix motherboards in a computer shop’s back room? Hawk cyber software online? Drive a cab? No way, but at least he could lead an unemployed, cash-only life for seven or eight years. As far as the government was concerned, Harry Boddicker had ceased to exist. His Con Ed and phone bills were addressed to Thomas Jones. He hadn’t paid taxes in a decade. He could pretty much disappear.
And then there was scenario number two, which added his sister to the equation. Unless she finally gave up her seat on the bizarro bus or the evil bump in his groin murdered him first, in four years she would suck him dry without even knowing he existed.
When Harry had arrived home, the prospect of having to converse with anyone had made him feel nauseous. He woke the nurse, gave her an extra fifty, and shooed her out the door, telling her he’d call tomorrow when he was ready to send Lily back. A peek into the second bedroom, at the end of the hall, revealed Lily asleep on top of the bedcovers in a tucked, fetal position. She’d always slept that way.
Now Harry turned off the shower and stepped out. The Ray Charles greatest hits CD he’d set to “repeat” was halfway through another cycle, and the soul-cleansing voice made him feel a little better. He fought the impulse to fish around in his groin while wiping himself down with one of the oversized Frette towels from Bed Bath amp; Beyond. He smiled wanly-he wouldn’t be spending forty bucks on a towel again-and walked into the living room. He hadn’t turned on the lights when he’d come in, and outside the sunrise was only a hint of the day to come, so he didn’t see the figure on the couch until he was almost in front of it.
“Sit down, Harry.”
Hall’s statement was one-third invitation, two-thirds command, and his voice had the gruff edge of someone dealing with heavy physical pain. As surprised as Harry was, he was equally embarrassed by his nakedness.
“Can I put something on?”
“Sit, Harry. Now. ”
Harry lowered himself into his favorite leather chair. It felt warm and sticky against his bare back, thighs, and ass. As casually as he could, he put his hands in his lap, covering his genitals.
“Your partner is a very strange guy,” Hall said. “Full of surprises.”
“Tell me about it.”
“He made a big mistake, Harry.”
“Yeah. I already told him that.”
“Did he agree with you?”
“Geiger and I don’t have those kinds of conversations.” Harry shifted in his seat, his damp skin making a sucking sound as it pulled away from the leather. “Could I at least have my coat?” He pointed at his sport jacket, which was lying on the couch where he’d tossed it when he’d come home. Hall picked it up and lobbed it to him, and Harry spread it over his lap.
“I want the boy, Harry. Right away.”
“You got your money back. My guess is that’s the best you’re going to do.”
Hall leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. “I don’t care about the money, Harry.” He took a deep breath, his lips spreading in a flat, wincing grimace. His hand went to his sternum and his fingertips gently explored the bruised area. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered. “What’ve you got to drink?”
“Sorry, I don’t drink anymore. Sure wish I did.”
Hall stood up, walked to the window, and stared out at the East River. In the dim light, Harry could see that the back of Hall’s shirt and collar had a long red stain, and the back of his head had a small white patch on it. As Ray Charles finished singing “Georgia,” reflections of the lights on the bridge floated on the water’s surface like globs of golden oil.
“Great voice,” Hall said.
“Sure is.”
“Where are they, Harry?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where does Geiger live?”
“Don’t know that either.”
“You’ve been partners for how long?”
“Eleven years.”
“And you don’t know where he lives?”
“Never been to his place. Like you said-he’s a very strange guy.”
Harry was doing his best to sit very still and keep his tone low-key because he was beginning to feel truly scared. It wasn’t a visceral, heart-in-the-throat fear of imminent violence. But something about Hall, something about the atmosphere in the room, something about everything was slowly heating Harry up, gathering loose doubts and confusion like tinder and stoking the fear inside him.
“Harry, I let you finish your shower because I wanted you relaxed, thinking straight.” Hall turned back to the room. “What’s your read on me, Harry-right now?”
“You’re in a lot of pain?”
“What else?”
“Running out of patience?”
