taking out the misery of years. She wanted it. She begged for more. Hurt me, she said, tears and mascara streaking the mirror.
I threw her down. I left her there. It felt right.
Had that been me?
I didn’t know.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
I shook my head. Get a grip, I told myself.
I tossed on some clothes. I didn’t take the trouble to look for something clean.
I dragged myself downstairs. She was still there. On the sofa. Her mouth hung open.
I averted my eyes. I didn’t want to see.
53.
I sat in my expensive ergonomic chair. I looked at the phone. It beckoned me. I was receptive to its charms. This was curious. I usually shunned it. I picked it up. I made some phone calls.
I knew from decades on this planet, and hundreds of hours on Sheila’s black leather couch, that when I worked like this, picked up the phone, made calls, it meant the weight was lifting. The serotonins were uptaking, or being inhibited from uptaking, or re-uptaking. Whatever it was they did when they did it right. I didn’t know why. I never did. It was random. But I wasn’t going to complain.
The twins. There was something about them. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I tracked down a guy I knew. A guy who knew a guy who knew the twins. Set up a meet. Hound Dog Bar and Grill. Downtown and dirty. Perfect.
My source was Sammy Quantrill. Former FBI. Made a living tracking stuff down. Maybe a few other things on the side. Things you didn’t want to ask about. Came in handy to know a guy like that. I’d used him before. He didn’t come cheap. But he was usually worth it. The guy he knew was Joey. A club guy. Owned a piece of one or two. Did a little enforcing. Only when needed.
Sammy and Joey were at the bar when I came in.
Sammy and Joey, I thought. They could start a vaudeville act.
Hey Sammy, I said instead. Good to see you.
Sure, he said. Rick, this is Joey.
Pleased to meet you, Joey, I said, extending a hand.
The same I’m sure, said Joey, with a heavy dose of Brooklyn irony. His hand enveloped mine. I admired the pinky ring, the heavy gold bracelet.
I hear you know something about these twins, I said. Ramon and Raul FitzGibbon.
Sure. I know some stuff.
So what you got?
I don’t know a whole lot direct. But I heard stuff. They got some rich daddy. Brought them over from the slums, Mexico City or somewhere, adopted them. They got some classy spread near the Park that Daddy bought them. Some penthouse thing with a huge deck on the roof. Private elevator. Servants. The works. Right next to the Museum.
They do anything for a living?
Joey snorted.
They try, he said. They’re party boys. But Daddy keeps pushing them. Get a job. Do something. Pisses him off. He came from nowhere. Worked his way up. Thinks they should too. He’s a controlling son of a bitch.
Never would have guessed, I said. So what do they do?
They think they’re some kind of designers now.
They ever do any real work? I asked.
One of them set up shop for a while as some kind of investment guy, I heard. Thought he could be a Wall Street type. A smooth operator. Got some old farts to pony up some cash. Got creamed. Lost all the old ladies’ dough. Daddy bailed him out before the lawsuits got started.
Was that Ramon or Raul?
I don’t know. Probably Raul. Ramon’s too stupid to fake it.
What do you know about Ramon?
Ramon I know from around. Got a vicious gun habit. He collects them. Lugers from World War II. M1s. Uzis. Whatever. Worth a shit-pile, the collection. Thinks he’s some kind of a cowboy. Took some survival course down in South Carolina somewhere, off in the hills. Thinks he’s a tough guy now. Started up some security outfit. Far as I know, Daddy’s his only client, though. Everybody else knows he’s too stupid to spit and shit at the same time.
So, FitzGibbon hadn’t made it up. He really was Security.
It seemed like there was always just enough truth going around to make me doubt my doubts.
54.
When I got back to the office I started a set of four-by-six file cards. On each one I meticulously wrote one and only one piece of information. I cataloged them by verifiability. One pile of substantiated facts – FitzGibbon had adopted Mexican twins. One for facts for which there was some evidence – there were some trusts, exact terms and consequences to be verified. A pile of hearsay only – Ramon’s gun collection. A pile of suppositions contradicted by other evidence – life made sense. A stack of wild speculations – anything made sense. I put a different-colored sticker on each card, depending on the category. The stickers were removable, so something could easily be shifted from one category to another.
It took me hours. I felt good. I hadn’t been so organized in years. I usually delegated this kind of work. Relied on my guys to tell me what was important. But this was different. Everything was slippery. Evanescent. Changeable. I had to be on top of it all. And anyway, I couldn’t trust anybody with it. I thought about Warwick’s reaction if he knew I’d listed his major client, and the firm’s, as a potential suspect in a murder case.
When I’d assembled the cards I tacked them on the wall in descending order of certitude. I stood back. Gazed at my creation.
Didn’t tell me a thing.
I needed to clear my head.
I logged on to the poker site.
I rarely played poker in the office. Warwick had his tentacles everywhere. He’d find out. Give me shit. But I was starting not to care. I’d take the chance.
I played aggressive but selective. I got into the zone. I felt the power. Life was good. There was a future. I went to a high no-limit table. I put it all on a pair of Sixes.
Doyle Brunson, twice world champion, believes in ESP. Now, I don’t believe in ESP, really. But then, there have been times. There have been times when I just knew. I just knew, with the certainty that foments revolution, that the next card out was going to be a Six. Make my trips. Three Sixes. Take their money.
It happened. Two thousand bucks in a nanosecond.
Yes, life was good.
I logged off. Sat back. It took wisdom, I told myself, to step away. Take your wad. Sit back. Enjoy it. Play later. This went against the sages’ advice. When you quit or when you stayed made no difference, they said. Take the long-term view. It’s a lifetime gig, my man. The next hand has as much potential as the last. No more, no less. It’s like flipping coins. A hundred heads come up, two, three, five hundred. What are the odds of heads coming up again? Fifty-fifty. Just like always.
I didn’t believe it.
I understood it. I could not refute it. I just didn’t believe it.
Dorita stuck her head in the door.
