The Man With No Time

“He didn't say where he was, but he's alive. Just said not to worry about anything, the simp. So naturally, we've all stopped worrying. I'm not going to tell you where Pansy is. Suppose these sadists catch you?”

“That's a nice thought. Horace's call certainly cheered you up.”

“It did, really it did. But I didn't know about Mrs. Summerson then.”

“You still don't,” I said.

“No, that's right. And I'm not going to believe anything bad until I absolutely have to.” She looked down at her slender hands. The ring I'd given her to wear on the third finger of her left hand was now on the right, where it had been for years, ever since I'd abandoned the best of my potential futures. “Anyway, it wasn't just Horace's call. I got to thinking about you, running around and sticking your big thick neck out, and all because of me. And I realized I've been pretty awful, worrying about everybody except you, and I just thought. .”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I just thought we might get drunk together and listen to some music and laugh a little, and maybe when I got drunk, I could tell you how much I love you for everything you've done.”

Tran got up. “Toilet,” he said. He was gone.

“This doesn't mean we don't have a zillion problems,” Eleanor continued. “God knows we've got a zillion problems.”

There was nothing easy for us to say, and she filled the silence with a kiss, breaking me into small pieces inside. I could smell the faint yeasty fragrance of her skin. I rose and put my arms around her and we stood together like slow dancers when the music has stopped.

“I'll get the corkscrew,” she said, stepping back, “and you get that boy out of the toilet, and we'll drink for a while. And then, if you don't plan to sleep on the couch again, I'd like to stay here tonight.”

“He'll stay in the toilet indefinitely, if you'd like to change the sequence.”

“I'm going to need longer than indefinitely,” she said. “Women love heroes.”

I looked at her good face, her kind face, the face I'd made sad so often. “Eleanor,” I said, “there's someone in the bedroom.”

She stiffened.

“Not like that,” I said. “Come see.” I led her across the living room and through the door, and she gazed down at the bundled figure on the bed. “One of Charlie's,” I said. “And don't feel sorry for him.”

“They know he's missing?” she asked, sounding worried.

“I'm thinking about that. It just means we have to move fast.”

The bathroom door opened, and Tran came out. “Sweetie?” Eleanor said to him. “Guess what. Tonight you get the bed.”

16

Snow on the Water

At seven the next morning adrenaline snapped me awake and I eased myself out from under Eleanor's outstretched arm. Halfway off the couch, I stopped and looked down at her sleeping face. She lay on her back, black, straight strands of hair fanning over the smooth planes of her skin and down toward the secret hollows of her throat, where it blossomed outward to meet the fragile wings of her collarbones. I knew if I kissed her I'd wake her, so I saved the kiss for later and trudged to the phone to get myself a boat.

Toting the phone outside, I first called Dexter. He sounded bleary and whiskey-bogged, but he brightened marginally when I gave him Tiffle's address.

“The white guy?”

“The very man.”

“And do what?”

“Watch,” I said. “Take notes. I want to know especially about young Chinese women going in and out.”

“Follow them?”

“No. Just stay there and keep track. I want descriptions, okay?”

“I the guy,” he said again before he hung up.

I needed a boat, and I knew only one boat jock. Before I called him, I tiptoed inside, started some coffee, and went into the living room to kiss the smooth skin of Eleanor's wrist. She emitted a sound that was an entirely new combination of consonants, heavy on h and s, and I headed back outside, trailing the phone, and called Norman Stillman at home.

I’d worked for Stillman once. He produced the kinds of shows that gave American television a bad name throughout the first, second, and third worlds and used the proceeds from the shows to buy yachts, no less, but he had one redeeming quality: He was greedy.

“Norman,” I said, after giving him a moment to pant into the phone while he got his bearings. Norman was rich. Norman got up when Norman wanted to get up. “Norman, this is Simeon Grist. I need a boat.”

“The Queen Mary,” he said grumpily. “She's just sitting there.”

“I need it tonight,” I said.

“Something in it for me?”

“Um, the grunion,” I said. Norman didn't believe in anything he got easily. “They'll make a great show. Why do they run when they're scheduled to run? I mean, how do fish-fish, Norman, develop such a keen sense of time? Not to mention-are you listening, Norman-how do fish run?”

“Fuck you,” Norman Stillman grumbled. “The grunion won't run for weeks.”

“You got me, Norman. Okay, so it's not the grunion. How do you feel about slavery?”

“Great,” Norman said, sitting up and going mumph with the effort. “Always a hot topic. You mean, white slavery?”

“Not exactly.”

“Aaahh,” he said, losing interest. Norman still thought everybody was white.

“And millions of dollar,” I added.

“Better,” he said. “But I don't know.”

“Prostitutes,” I said.

“This is exclusive, right?”

'I’ll have to tell the cops,' I said. “And maybe the radio guys.” They could get on the air immediately. Norman's daily show, a national confessional for the sins of the middle class, taped a week in advance of its air date.

“Radio,” Norman said scornfully. “Who cares? But no TV, right?”

“The boat.”

He figured for a long moment, probably doing subtraction on his bedsheet. “It's not going to get bullet holes in it or anything, is it?”

“Not a chance,” I said with wholly spurious conviction. “It's a milk run.”

“Pick me up a quart,” Norman said, and then wheezed into the phone. “Nobody delivers these days.” He wheezed again, and I recognized it as a laugh. I'd never heard Norman make a joke before, and it made me wonder briefly whether I'd misjudged him. Maybe he was human.

“I'll need a driver for the boat,” I said.

A new wheeze. “A skipper, not a driver. Boats got skippers. Gonna cost a thousand. Who pays?”

“If you decide you don't want the story, I do.”

“What if you get killed?”

“For Christ's sake, Norman, take a chance.” He didn't leap at it. “Would I be doing this if I were going to get killed?”

“You get killed,” Norman said, “the thousand'll be on your conscience.”

“How do I get the boat?”