low, I couldn't see anything while we circled for thirty minutes in a holding pattern, and the stewardesses strode the aisle pouting, and the pilot made lethargic comments that made me think we were never going to land.
Finally we broke through and made our approach, and then we landed rough and after that everyone was irritable. We surged into the aisle, then stood restlessly like penned-up sheep, waiting for the door to open and grant us our release. The airport was like a madhouse. Many flights were delayed and thousands of people were milling about, sweating, confused, hauling baggage, asking dazed airline employees what was going on. I fought my way out to the ramp where a harassed dispatcher was calling up taxis and loading people in.
The cab I got was a wreck, but I had no choice-it was either take it or go back to the end of the line. It was a bottom-of-the-barrel fleet job, dirty interior, split seats, no air conditioning and one of those plastic dividing screens that make you feel as if you're in a cell. When I asked the driver to turn the radio down, he pretended he couldn't hear. He took off like a rocket, but minutes out of La Guardia he ran into a massive traffic jam. Then, as I watched the meter tick, he inched his way through the fetid sulfurous air. Two hours and forty bucks later, he delivered me to the corner of Nassau and Ann, where the old wino, who made his summer residence there, waved to me as I paid the bastard off.
No break-ins this time, no notes under my door, no further indications of lye attacks. The mutilated murals of Kim were just where I'd left them, there was another message from Scotto expressing annoyance that I hadn't returned his call, but nothing from the guy who'd threatened me.
Perhaps he was waiting for my return.
I pulled out my phone book and looked up the name Adam Rakoubian. Then I dialed his number and got his machine. Rakoubian's voice sounded slimy. He was out for the rest of the day, but he'd be back around ten, he said. I was invited to leave a message, but I declined. I had another idea.
I ordered in some Chinese food, then went into my darkroom and quickly developed my Cleveland roll. By the time the food arrived I had made up prints of Kimberly's letters. And even though the prints were wet, I read them while I ate.
The letters weren't long. In the first she thanked Grace for her support, and for wiring her money. It was off season in Key West, things were slow, but she'd found herself a waitressing job.
'Should tide me over till things calm down up North,' she wrote.
The second letter was far more revealing:
'… no remorse. Tried our best, but we were up against devils.
Who could have predicted the way it turned out and that they'd do that to Shadow? God, I miss her! She took all the heat. As for the others-Adam's a skunk, with a yellow streak down his back. Knew that but didn't factor it in. And shouldn't have underestimated D. One day I'm going to stick it to him and Mrs. ZI You know me, Grace-you know I can hold a grudge. Have fantasies about that. Big bad fantasies. I'll get them both for what they did! I promise you. I will! 'Meantime, here I am, in 'paradise'-remember how we called it that? And being here, at 'the end of the line,' alone, without you, I think of all our happy times. There's a memory around every corner. The walks we,took. The swims. The fishing and all the lying around. Especially that! The smell of Key West aloe on your skin. Remember the Southernmost Tip? Reeling by it at midnight on that crazy motorcycle, then circling back and kissing, then making love on the rocks below. And Mrs. Chang-I looked for her. Seems she moved to Tampa. Just going by her place reminded me of us and all our vows. Well, that's about it for now. I'll call you Sunday night. Take care of yourself. I love you.
Always. Your loving loving K. '
She'd drawn three X's and a little smile beside her name. I put down the still-wet prints, and then I began to shake.
She knew about Rakoubian! 'Adam's a skunk,' she'd written. And who the hell was 'D,' whom she'd so badly underestimated? What had she been up to, and why had she confided everything to Grace? I had been her most recent lover. Why hadn't she written to me?
The answer, of course, was obvious: she and I had had a liaison; she and Grace shared a permanent tattoo. All that lovey-dovey stuff about making love on the rocks in Key West-that tortured me, made me furious and even more determined to track her down.
At 10: 15 I called Rakoubian again. The phone message started, then he broke in live.
'Yes-?' There was a high-pitched whine from the machine.
'Mr. Rakoubian.'
'Let me turn this off.' The whining stopped.
'Still there?'
'Still here, Mr. Rakoubian. I have your name from Sid Walzer. My name's Jim Lynch. I've seen your work in several collections, and I was wondering if I might see you about buying some prints.'
'You're a collector?'
'That's right. The thing is, I'm just passing through town. Leaving very early in the morning. I was hoping we could meet tonight.'
'It's pretty late…'
'I know. Sorry about that. I've been tied up in meetings all day.'
'Tonight, huh? Well, since you know Sid… Look, if you're serious-'
'I'm serious, Mr. Rakoubian. Very serious.'
There was a pause.
'Okay. Come over.' He gave me the address.
'And in case you see something interesting, my suggestion-'
'I know, Mr. Rakoubian. I'll bring my checkbook. Wasn't that what you were going to say?'
It was a typical photo district building, formerly industrial, now converted into studio apartments. You buzzed your way in through the front door, then took a freight elevator up. When you reached your floor, the elevator door slid open, but you still needed a key to unlock the second door that opened onto the corridor.
The normal procedure, when someone knew you were coming, was to unlock that outside elevator door for you, then wait for you in his apartment.
I figured Rakoubian would do just that, but in case he didn't I got ready for him on my way up. I had brought along my oldest Nikon body, an original F model I'd used in Vietnam. It was battered, the brass showed through at the edges, but it could still take a picture. In the elevator I carefully wrapped the strap around my hand. That camera had seen quite a few battles. It was about to see another. When the elevator stopped I stepped out. As I'd anticipated, Rakoubian had already unlocked the outer door, and he'd done even better than that: he'd left his own loft door ajar.
Normally I would have knocked before entering. This time I walked straight in. He was sitting on an overstuffed Chesterfield couch, a pudgy man, maybe ten years older than I, shorter but about the same weight, with thick gray hair and unshaven jaws. As I moved toward him, he started to rise. I could tell by the way his eyes enlarged that he knew who I was, and that he was afraid.
I reached him before he could stand. Then I pushed him back into his seat.
'Dirty Adam's what they call you. Also shithag, scumbag, creep.
Sweat broke out on his upper lip. He stared at me, then opened his mouth to protest. I could smell the fear coming off him, and then I recognized him, knew where I'd seen him before. At that crazy restaurant in Tribeca, the one with the souvenir-shop junk mounted on the pedestals, the place Shadow had taken us-Kim had spoken to him at the bar. I got mad just remembering the way she'd laughed when I'd asked her afterwards who he was.
'Just one of your own, Geoffrey. Another photographer.'
I pulled back my hand and, with the back of my Nikon, hit him hard across the side of his face. He moaned and fell back. Then he tried to smile; he twisted his mouth into this weird kind of grin as if he expected to be hit again.
I looked down at him. I was shocked at what I'd done. His nose was bleeding, the side of his face was cut, and there was blood oozing from his ear. For a moment I was frightened. Had I really done this to another person? But then some new kind of energy had boiled out of me-I was thrilled. The violence, erupting from deep inside, made me feel good about myself, and clean.
Rakoubian was still groggy but he was trying to smile, as if to show me he'd been hit before and the blow I'd just dealt him hadn't been so bad.
So, since he wasn't suffering very much, I hit him again, this time harder than before. His head snapped back,
