office but he stood in the doorway and blocked me, kept hurling abuse. I threatened to scream. He smiled and said go ahead, by tomorrow all of Palm Beach would know. Sherry would know. The moment I stepped out the door, he’d call her, tell her how I’d lied to her. That broke me. I knew it would be the final straw between us. I begged him not to tell, begged him to have pity. He smiled, went back behind his desk and lit another pipe. Just sat there puffing and looking at me as if I were trash. I was whimpering like a baby. Finally, he said he’d reconsider on condition that I be honest from now on- completely
“What exactly did you tell him?”
“That the father was unknown, the mother a tart who’d fancied herself an actress. That she’d died soon after the baby was born.”
“You still didn’t tell him about Sharon.”
“No, no.”
“You weren’t worried Sherry would tell him?”
“How could she tell him something she didn’t know? It was out of her head- I’m sure of that because she never mentioned it, and when she was angry she threw everything else in my face.”
“What if she chanced to open up an old Blue Book?”
She shook her head. “She didn’t like books, didn’t read- never learned to read well. Some sort of blockage the tutors couldn’t break through.”
“But Kruse found out anyway. How?”
“I have no idea.”
But I did: a college Careers Day, spotting his former patient. Discovering it wasn’t his former patient at all, but a carbon copy, mirror-imaged…
She was saying, “He bled me for years, the monster. I hope he’s writhing in eternal hellfire.”
“Why didn’t brother Billy fix that for you?”
“I… I don’t know. I told Billy. He always told me to have patience.”
She turned away from me. I doled out more martini but she didn’t drink it, just held her glass and straightened her posture. Her eyes closed and her breathing got shallow. A boozehound’s tolerance, but it wouldn’t be long before she passed out. I was phrasing my next question for maximum impact when the door swung open.
Two men stepped into the sun-room. The first was Cyril Trapp in white polo shirt, pressed designer jeans, Topsiders, and black Members Only jacket. California Casual betrayed by the tension in his white- blotched face and the blue steel revolver in his right hand.
The second man kept his hands in his pockets as he examined the room with the practiced eye of a pit boss. Older, mid-sixties, tall and wide- big bones padded with hard fat. He wore a doeskin-colored western suit, brown silk shirt, string tie gathered by a large smoky-topaz clasp, peanut-butter-colored lizard boots, and a straw cowboy hat. His skin tone matched the boots. Forty pounds heavier than Trapp, but the same hatchet jaw and thin lips. His eyes settled on me. His stare was that of a naturalist studying some rare but hideous specimen.
“Mr. Hummel,” I said. “How are things in Vegas?”
He didn’t answer, just moved his lips the way denture wearers do.
“Shut up,” said Trapp, pointing the gun at my face. “Put your hands behind your head and don’t move.”
“Friends of yours?” I said to Hope Blalock. She shook her head. Her eyes were electric with fear.
“We’re here to help you, ma’am,” said Hummel. His voice was badlands
Ramey came in, all spotless black serge and starched white. “It’s all right, madam,” he said. “Everything’s in order.” He looked at me with tight fury and I knew who’d called in the goon squad.
Trapp stepped forward, waved the revolver. “Get those hands behind you.”
I didn’t move fast enough to suit him, and the weapon was pressed hard under my nose.
Hope Blalock gasped. Ramey went to her side.
Trapp put a little more weight behind the gun. Looking at all that metal crossed my eyes. I tightened reflexively. Trapp leaned harder.
Royal Hummel said, “Easy.” He came around behind me. I heard a ratchet slip, felt cold metal around my wrists.
“Not too tight, son?”
“Perfect.
“Shut the fuck up,” said Trapp.
Hope Blalock winced.
Hummel said, “Easy, C.T.,” and patted the back of my neck. His touch bothered me more than the gun. “Close your eyes, son,” he said, and I obeyed. The pressure of the revolver was replaced by something tight and elastic around my head. Banding my eyes so tight I couldn’t open them. Strong hands gripped me under my arms. I was lifted so that only my shoe tips touched the floor, propelled forward like a kite in a headwind.
It was a very big house. They dragged me for a long time before I heard a door open, felt hot air on my face.
Trapp started laughing.
“What?” said his uncle, stretching the word to two syllables.
“How we got this joker. Fucking butler did it.”
33
They searched me, confiscated my watch, keys, and wallet, and put me in a vehicle that smelled brand-new.
“Settle down, son,” said Hummel, easing me into the backseat and removing the cuffs. He slammed the door. I heard him go around to the front; then the engine started- muted, as if my ears were stuffed.
I peeled back an inch of blindfold and inspected the interior: blackened windows that let in only hints of light. A black glass partition sealing off the rear compartment. A cell lined in gray vinyl- rock-hard bench seats, nylon carpeting, cloth roof. No dome light. No ornamentation at all, not a clue to make or model. The plain- wrap styling of a midsize economy American sedan- a bottom-of-the-line Dodge, Ford, or Olds, but with a twist: no door handles. No ashtrays or seat belts. No metal at all.
I ran my hands over the doors, trying to find some hidden latch. Nothing. A hard rap on the partition brought no response. San Quentin on wheels.
We began to move. I peeled off the blindfold. Heavy-duty black elastic, no label. It already stank of the fear in my sweat. I heard the spatter of gravel, muted like the ignition. Soundproofing.
I pressed my face to the window, saw only my reflection in the darkened glass. I didn’t like the way I looked.
We picked up speed. I sensed it the way you sense acceleration in an elevator- a pit-of-the- stomach lurch. Cut off from the world, I had only my fear to listen to; I might have been in a crypt.
A sudden turn made me slide across the seat. When the car straightened, I kicked the door, then karate-kicked it hard. No give. I pounded the windows until my hands hurt, attacked the partition. Not even a hint of vibration.
I knew then that I’d be there as long as they wanted me to. My chest went tight. Any road noise the soundproofing let in was blotted out by the pounding of my heart.
They’d robbed me sensorily; the key was to regain my bearings. I searched for mental signposts; the only thing left was time. But no watch.
I began counting. One thousand one. One thousand two. Settled back for the ride.
