“I like that,” announced Gurney, pointing at it as though his benediction were a form of triage that saved it from the trash bin.
Ballston seemed vaguely relieved by the approval but no less confused.
“Guy’s a fucking faggot,” Gurney explained, “but his shit is worth a lot.”
Ballston made a hideous attempt at a grin. He cleared his throat but couldn’t seem to think of anything to say.
Gurney turned toward him, adjusting his sunglasses. “So, Jordan, you collect a lot of fag art?”
Ballston swallowed, sniffled, twitched. “Not really.”
“Not really? That’s very interesting. So where can we sit down and have a little talk?” From the trial-and-error experience of countless interrogations, Gurney had come to appreciate the unsettling effect of casual non sequiturs.
“Uh…” Ballston looked around him as though he were in someone else’s house. “In there?” He extended his arm cautiously toward a broad archway that led to an elegant, antique-furnished living room. “We could sit in there.”
“Wherever you’re comfortable, Jordan. We’ll sit down. Relax. Have a conversation.”
Ballston led the way stiffly to a pair of white-brocaded armchairs on opposite sides of a baroque card table. “Here?”
“Sure,” said Gurney. “Very nice table.” His expression contradicted the compliment. He sat down and watched Ballston do the same.
The man crossed his legs awkwardly, hesitated, uncrossed them, sniffled.
Gurney smiled. “Coke got you by the balls, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“Not my concern.”
A long silence passed between them.
Ballston cleared his throat. It sounded dry. “So you… you said on the phone you’re a cop?”
“Right. I did say that. You got a good memory. Very important, a good memory.”
“That doesn’t look like a cop’s car out there.”
“Course not. I’m undercover, you know? Actually, I’m retired.”
“You always ride with bodyguards?”
“Bodyguards? What bodyguards? Why would I need bodyguards? Some friends gave me a ride, that’s all.”
“Friends?”
“Yeah. Friends.” Gurney sat back, stretching his neck from side to side, letting his gaze drift around the room. It was a room that could be on the cover of
Finally the man asked in a low voice, “Is there a particular problem?”
“You tell me.”
“Something must have brought you here… a specific concern.”
“You’re under a lot of pressure. Stress, you know?”
Ballston’s face tightened. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Gurney shrugged. “Stress is a terrible thing. It makes people… unpredictable.”
The tightness in Ballston’s face spread through his body. “I assure you the situation here will be resolved.”
“There’s a lot of different ways things get resolved.”
“I assure you that the situation will be resolved in a favorable way.”
“Favorable to who?”
“To… everyone concerned.”
“Suppose everyone’s interests don’t line up the same way.”
“I assure you that won’t be a problem.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.” Gurney gazed lazily at the big pampered pig of a man across from him, allowing just enough of his disgust to seep through. “You see, Jordan, I’m a problem solver. But I got enough of them on my plate. I don’t want to be distracted by a new one. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
Ballston’s voice was breaking. “There… won’t… be… any… new… problems.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The problem this time was a freak one-in-a-million accident!”
Gurney shrugged. “That’s the way you see it, huh?”
“A fucking burglar, for shit sake! A fucking burglar who just happened to break in on exactly the wrong fucking night, the one fucking night that fucking cunt was in the fucking freezer!”
“So it was, like, a coincidence?”
“Of course it was a fucking coincidence! What else could it be?”
“I don’t know, Jordan. Only time anything ever went wrong, huh? Only time? You sure about that?”
“Absolutely!”
Gurney went back to stretching his neck slowly from side to side. “Too much fucking tension in this business. You ever try that yoga shit?”
“What?”
“You remember the Maharishi? What a fuckin’ hand job.”
“Who?”
“Before your time. I forget what a young man you are. So tell me, Jordan. How do we know nothing’s going to pop up and surprise us?”
Ballston blinked, sniffled, started to smile with jerky little movements of his lips.
“Did I ask a funny question?”
Ballston’s breathing became as jerky as his facial tics. Then his whole torso began to shake, and a series of sharp staccato sounds burst from his throat.
He was laughing. Horribly.
Gurney waited for the bizarre fit to subside. “You want to let me in on the joke?”
Gurney waited, didn’t know what else to say or do. He remembered the wisdom an undercover partner had once shared with him:
“Sorry,” said Ballston. “No offense. But it’s such a funny image. Popping up! Two headless bodies, popping up out of the fucking ocean halfway to the fucking Bahamas! Shit, that is a picture!”
Gurney studied the fingernails on his right hand, then buffed their glossy surface on his jeans.
Ballston’s exhilaration faded.
“So you’re telling me everything’s under control?” asked Gurney, still buffing.
“Completely.”
Gurney nodded slowly. “So why am I still concerned?” When Ballston just stared at him, he continued. “Couple of things. Small questions. I’m sure you got good answers. First, suppose I was really a cop, or working for the cops. How the fuck do you know I’m not wired?”
Ballston smiled, looked relieved. “You see that thing on the credenza that looks like a DVD player? See the little green light? That would be a red light if there was any kind of recording or transmitting equipment operating anywhere in this room. It’s very reliable.”
“Good. I like reliable things. Reliable people.”
“Are you suggesting I’m not reliable?”
“How the fuck do you know I’m not a cop? How the fuck do you know that I’m not a cop who came here to find out exactly what you just told me with all that giggly crap, you fucking moron?”
Ballston looked like a rotten little boy who’d been slapped in the face. The ugly shock was replaced by an uglier
