JM01 - Black Maps (28 page)

“I’m the boss, I just pretend to work,” Jane said, distractedly. She was looking at the bruising along the side of my face and the cut above my ear. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said.

“Have you seen a doctor?” she repeated.

“Yes, and I got a clean bill of health,” I answered. “No broken bones, no concussion, didn’t even need any stitches. Just a cracked rib. Not bad, all things considered.”

“What happened?” she asked, still examining my face. She reached up and, very lightly, touched my left cheek. It was an unconscious gesture on her part and completely unexpected. I felt the delicate contact of her fingertips like an electrical surge, and I flinched in surprise. She withdrew them quickly. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

“No . . . no, it’s okay.” I shook my head.
That
hurt.

“So, what happened?” she asked again.

“Workplace injury,” I said

“Nice workplace. Do you need anything? From the drugstore, or the market?”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” She nodded but continued to frown.

“Well, if you do . . .” She reached into her tiny black purse and pulled out a business card and a pen and wrote quickly. “My office number is the same as Lauren’s; my home number is on the back. Give a call.” She handed me the card, and then she was gone. I got on the elevator and pushed 4. I looked at Jane’s card on the way up. Her writing was precise and angular, like the writing on a blueprint. Her fragrance lingered faintly.

I hadn’t seen Jane since Thanksgiving, when we’d shared the ride home. She’d sat wrapped in a big, black coat in the back of the cab, and I’d watched the play of light and shadow over her face as we rolled through the quiet streets. She hadn’t said much, but when she did speak, her soft voice had sounded close, as if her lips were at my ear. Heat seemed to emanate from her, like a kind of perfume.

Jane’s cell phone had chirped just as the cab slowed in front of our building, and it had startled us both. She’d answered, and listened in silence for a few moments. When she did speak, it was in Chinese. I didn’t understand a word of it, but I saw tightness in her face and heard frustration and annoyance in her voice. She’d switched to English at the end.

“Look, I’m busy right now. And I don’t know why we keep having this conversation—especially now that the day is over. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She’d snapped the phone shut. I’d seen her to her door, and there’d been a brief, confusing silence before we’d said good night.

I put her card on the kitchen counter, took off my jacket, and winced as muscles slid over my cracked rib. The pain was annoying, but, in truth, I’d gotten off easy. A couple of inches this way or that, a half step here, a half second there, and I would have gotten my ass severely kicked. I’d been lucky, and I knew it. But I wasn’t up to deep contemplation of fate just then. What I needed was a soak, some food, and a lot of sleep.

I ran a bath and stripped off my clothes. My arms and shoulders were already looking like an LA sunset, and my side, around the busted rib, was a purple egg of pain. They’d look worse before they looked better. I eased myself into the tub, and sank down till just my head was above the water. I didn’t come out until I was wrinkled and rubbery and my pain was at a respectable distance.

I pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt and flicked on some lights against the fading day. A couple of calls had gone to voice mail while I was in the tub, and I retrieved the messages. One was from Mike’s secretary, Fran. I’d left Mike a rambling message before I’d gone to St. Vincent’s. Fran had called to tell me he was in court all day, but that he wanted me to meet him for lunch tomorrow, at his place.

The other message was from Clare. Her voice was nearly lost in the traffic sound. “Hi. I’ll be down in your neck of the woods later on. Hope you’re around.” Great.

I made myself a couple of tuna sandwiches and brought them to the table, along with a quart of milk and what was left of a box of Oreos. I was just finishing the Oreos when the intercom squawked. Shit.

“Jesus—did you walk into a bus or something?” Clare stood in the doorway and looked me up and down with some shock. “Look at your arms—and your head.” Her voice was scratchy, as it always was, like she’d just woken up and gargled with Scotch. She took off her long coat and sat on the sofa with her feet together and her coat across her knees. Her pale hair was loose and parted in the middle. It framed her narrow face and made her look more gaunt than usual—her gray eyes larger, and her cheekbones more pronounced. She had on a black sweater with a scooped neck, black jeans, and black brogues. She had diamonds at her ears and on her finger, and her big, steel watch on her wrist. She looked at me some more and winced.

“That is ugly. Does it hurt?”

“Only when I breathe.” I lowered myself into a chair across from her. It was a deep one, and getting out would not be fun.

“It’s nothing serious, right? You’ll be okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. She shook her head slightly, then she looked away, out the windows. She fiddled with her watch, turning it around on her slim wrist. Her shoulders were stiff. She looked like she was waiting outside the principal’s office.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” she said, still looking out the windows.

“Couple of weeks,” I said. Clare took a deep breath.

“Last time . . . Jesus . . . you really caught me off guard.” I nodded a little, but didn’t say anything. I had a sense of where this was going, and I didn’t want to get in the way. Clare stumbled on. “I thought we were more or less on the same page, you know, and then . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “Anyway, you got me thinking about our . . . about this whole situation. That maybe it’s not the healthiest thing in the world for me—or for you, either. You know what I mean?” She paused for a moment. Her eyes flicked back over my face and arms, and then to the windows again. “My timing’s for shit, isn’t it?” she said.

We were quiet for a while. It was nearly dark now, and the pinkish city glow was rising from the streets. Clare hadn’t surprised me. Without knowing why, or thinking about it much, I’d breached the etiquette of adultery. And probably scared her into who knew what kind of paranoid imaginings.
Fatal Attraction . . .
boiled bunnies, maybe. If anything, I was surprised she’d come to say it in person. But I wasn’t sure exactly how to respond. Expressing profound relief might be honest, but probably not polite. I decided less was more.

“I understand, Clare.” I nodded. “And I think you’re probably right.” She relaxed visibly and smiled. It was easier for her to look at me now.

“I’m glad,” she said with relief. Then she pursed her lips. “Don’t get me wrong, it was flattering and all. But I don’t think it had very much to do with me, you know?” I nodded. We were quiet again. Then Clare looked at her watch and sighed and stood up.

“I have this thing in the Village. I should get going,” she said. “No, don’t get up.” She gave me a peck on the cheek. It didn’t hurt much. “Take care of yourself, John. Maybe I’ll see you around.” She slipped on her coat. She was at the door when she stopped and turned, looking thoughtful again. “You know, you should maybe think about Prozac or something, Johnny. Seriously. I mean, you’re a lot of fun in the sack but . . . you’re not a lot of
fun
—you know? You should be a happier person.” And then she left. It was the most intimate conversation we’d ever had.

I sat there, thinking about the drugs that might make me a happier person, until my eyes were closing and my chin was dropping on my chest.

It was late the next morning when I heaved myself out of bed and hobbled into the kitchen. I drank most of a quart of orange juice and leafed through the paper until I couldn’t take it anymore. Then I hobbled into the shower and stayed there for a while. My bruises had darkened overnight, and the pain had localized around them and become more intense. The shower helped, but only a little. I shaved carefully, and then dressed slowly in jeans and a black corduroy shirt. It was nearly eleven when I pulled my jacket on and headed for the door. And then I stopped.

Pissing people off is part of the job, and so is all the jawing about payback. I’d heard it plenty of times before Trautmann’s little speech. Usually, it was just talk. Usually. No matter how familiar, though, the feeling that someone might be out there nursing a grudge and making a plan was nasty all the same. Mostly, it’s a background unease, like a low-grade hangover, or too much coffee, a prickly mix of skittish, wary, and angry. But a car backfiring, or glass breaking, or something moving too quick and too close, can bring it to the edge of your teeth, and set your heart pounding.

I was pretty certain that Trautmann was a psycho; but I was equally sure that he was not an idiot. I hoped that the not-idiot part would win out over the psycho part, and that Trautmann would lay low. But I couldn’t count on it. I clipped the Glock in its holster behind my back and went out.

It was another cold, gray day, and the clouds looked heavy. I stood on the steps of my building and scanned the block. I saw nothing that made me nervous, but if Trautmann did things right, there wouldn’t be anything to see. Better safe than sorry, I figured.

I wandered aimlessly for a few blocks, always against the flow of traffic, and still saw nothing. I headed for the subway station at Fourteenth Street and Seventh Avenue, where I caught a 3 train up to 42nd Street. I got on the shuttle at 42nd and rode it across to Grand Central. I walked upstairs, through the restored majesty of the train station, through crowds and noise that were nearly rush-hour strength, and down the long corridor to the north exit. At 48th and Park I hit daylight again. By then I was reasonably sure that only about a zillion Christmas shoppers accompanied me, and they were no more hostile than usual. I walked the rest of the way to Mike’s place.

Mike’s building is on East End Avenue, a broad, redbrick prewar that faces Carl Schurz Park and the East River. It has white stone trim, a long, green awning, and a wood-paneled lobby with a wide fireplace. A fire was burning briskly in it when I arrived. The doorman greeted me by name and tactfully ignored my damaged face. He called upstairs and sent me through to the elevators. I got out on eleven. Mike’s door was ajar.

“In here,” he called. I walked through the book-lined entrance foyer, down a book-lined hallway, and into the kitchen. It was a long room, with white cabinets, stone counters, and steel appliances. At the far end was a windowed breakfast nook with a steel-topped table and wooden chairs. Paula Metz sat at the table, drinking coffee and sorting through mail. She wore a black T-shirt, and snug jeans on her long legs. Her bare feet were propped on another chair, and her thick, dark blond hair was tied back. Mike stood at a counter, slicing bagels. He looked vaguely academic in khakis and a gray sweater.

“Jesus, Michael, he looks like shit. You didn’t say he looked like shit.” Paula brushed a ribbon of hair from her cheek with long fingers, and wrinkled her face in a sympathetic wince.

“He neglected to mention it in his message,” Mike said. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty much like shit,” I said. I crossed the room, pecked Paula on the cheek, pulled off my jacket, and took a seat. Paula noticed the gun and raised her eyebrows.

“A little paranoid today?” she asked.

“Appropriately vigilant,” I said.

At rest, Paula’s face is too medieval looking to be usual-pretty— it’s too pale and bony, and too long in the nose; the brown eyes are shadowed and too narrow, the brows too heavy, and the wide mouth is naturally downturned. But set in motion, animated by a keen interest in people, a wry sense of humor, and an intellect that made her the youngest name partner in the city’s biggest patent law firm, her features lose their severity, and Paula is lovely. She sighed and drained her coffee mug.

“I hope he’s giving you danger pay for this,” she said.

“Danger pay? I’m just grateful he’s feeding me lunch,” I said. Paula rose and took a mug from a cabinet and filled it with coffee from a carafe on the counter. She passed it to me and leaned her hips against the counter next to Mike. He’d finished with the bagels and now was taking strips of smoked salmon from a white paper package and laying them on a platter.

“Well, he’s good at that. And I hope you brought a few friends, ’cause there’s enough here for ten,” Paula said, and she was right. Besides the bagels and salmon, Mike had laid out a basket of muffins, a bowl of fruit salad, a plate of sliced onions and tomatoes, and a pitcher of orange juice.

“You always say John could use some meat on his bones,” Mike said.

“You too,” Paula said, and pinched him gently at the beltline. “I also say he could use a girlfriend. You got that covered yet?”

“First things first, honey,” Mike said, and took some plates from a cabinet. Paula put some salmon and tomatoes on one and refilled her coffee mug.

“Well, much as I enjoy eavesdropping on your sordid business, I have to go into an actual courtroom next week, so I’m going down the hall to pretend to work. Eat hearty,” she said, and she left.

Mike loaded up a plate. “Let’s sit in the dining room,” he said.

I took some of everything and followed him in. The dining room was square and cream colored, with wide windows that looked out onto the park and the river. The walls were hung with colored illustrations of fruits and vegetables, and in the center of the room was a round oak table covered with a white cloth.