His fingers slide around the curve of her neck, around the front to below her jaw. He has a delicate touch that surprises her, like a kind doctor, a combination of professional, learned knowledge and instinctual sensitivity. His index finger travels back up her throat to below her earlobe and probes softly at the hinge of her jaw.
“You clench unconsciously. I would guess that you grind your teeth in your sleep.”
She keeps herself from looking at him. She stares at the Penumbra garage and mumbles, “I don’t sleep.”
“No surprise there,” he says, his fingers moving down soothingly over her Adam’s apple.
“Stop,” she says, but her body stays rigid, her eyes frozen forward, unblinking, then closing up.
She feels him unfasten the first button on her blouse. Her eyes open, but she doesn’t speak. He frees the second button. Her breath starts to come heavier and she makes a loud swallowing noise. The third button comes loose.
And the garage door swings open and Mingo Bouza pulls the Jaguar out into the street and rolls off, headed west.
Lenore shifts the Barracuda into gear and Woo’s hand hesitates for only a second and then falls away from her chest. She waits a moment to give Mingo a safe lead, then pulls out of the alley and begins the tail.
They both stay quiet and Lenore’s glad for this. She leaves four and five car lengths between herself and Mingo. She’d rather risk losing him at a red light than give themselves away. They drive for close to an hour and, for Lenore, that leaves only two possibilities — either Mingo is in love with the Jag and logging time behind the wheel just for the kick, a fairly innocent fix, or Cortez has told him to watch for a tail and he’s making a safety arc, driving a huge circle around the borders of the city.
But if Mingo expects a tail, he’s not doing a thing to lose it. He drives long stretches of speedway — Chin Ave, Hooey Road, William Brown Hill. He keeps at a constant rate of motion. He stays in the same lane for long stretches of time. It makes Lenore more than a little suspicious. She wishes she had the time and appropriate conditions to give this some thought. She wishes she could take a half hit of crank and pump some weight in a dim and deserted gym with the latest underground speed metal playing off a portable Bose and echoing off soundproofed walls. Then the truth would come to her. Her intuition could combine with the limited facts and tell her the most likely answers to the questions Where is Mingo headed? Is he aware of my presence or just stupid? Is this a trap?
Eventually, Mingo winds toward the west side of Quinsigamond and Lenore is unsure of whether or not to feel comfort now that she’s on home turf. Woo stays silent in his seat, possibly sulking over coming so close to what he wants so badly. How far would she have let him go, she wonders, and is hit instantly with a picture of herself, naked and hungry for a little more air, in the cramped backseat of the Barracuda like some high school girl with an encroaching curfew. She puts the picture out of her mind, only with difficulty, by thinking of Vicky in her long black nightgown, swaying like a limp branch up the telephone pole.
Lenore watches Mingo take a left onto Sapir Street and her stomach tightens up. She’s not sure why, but she doesn’t want to consider the possibility that Ike could see her with Woo. The Jaguar slows, pulls into the curb just beyond the post office, and Lenore pulls into the parking lot of a convenience store on the corner of Breton and Sapir. She sinks in her seat and Woo glances at her, then does the same.
Mingo climbs out of the Jag carrying an oxblood briefcase, looks around as he fumbles with the keys to lock the car door. Then he crosses the street with a small jog and heads into the Bach Room. Lenore watches the screen door swing closed and then, absent-mindedly, she begins to rebutton her blouse.
“You play gin rummy?” she asks Woo, still staring at the Bach Room entrance.
“Excuse?” Woo asks, but Lenore ignores him.
“We’ve got to make a couple phone calls,” she says, “and pick up a thermos of black coffee.”
Chapter Eighteen
I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked … This can’t be necessary. I’ve done everything— … No. I’m begging you— … No. Then it’s best left to me.”
Cortez brings the cordless phone down from his mouth to his chest and holds it there for a moment, his eyes closed, his hands trembling. Then he moves the phone away from his body, looks down into the small cradle of illuminated rubber buttons. He pushes on the Open Speaker switch and sets the phone gently down on the fireplace mantel, mouth-grid faced up toward the library ceiling.
He walks over to the black steamer trunk, the only thing left resembling furniture in the whole room. He grabs a leather handle and eases the trunk down until its rests horizontally on the floor. Then he drags it to the center of the room.
There’s a shave-and-a-haircut knock on the library’s double doors. He takes a breath and yells, “Come in, Max.”
The door opens slowly and Max, looking smaller than usual in his green camouflage army clothes, enters with a single step, then stays put.
They stare at each other until Cortez says, “Is it what you expected?”
“It’s a little … empty.”
Cortez smiles. “I don’t like to be crowded. You know that.”
“Yeah, but a chair. A table, maybe.”
“Creature comforts.”
“Yeah, well, ain’t we creatures?”
Cortez laughs. “Right again, Max.”
“I never got what the big thing was with this room. Nobody could go in this one room.”
Cortez hand-motions him to come closer and says, “Well, Max, there always has to be one exception to any freedom. Like the apple in the garden.”
“You know, I only get about half of what you say.”
“I think you’re doing better than Mingo and Jimmy.”
“Big challenge.”
Cortez nods, clears his throat, looks down to the floor.
“So why’d you want me up here now?” Max asks.
Cortez lets out a heavy sigh. He sinks down to sit on the steamer trunk as if it were a bench and he slaps the top of the trunk to indicate that Max should do the same.
“I’ve been giving some thought to your future, Max.”
“My future?”
“I’ve been considering the best avenues for you.”
“Avenues, yeah.”
“I’m very upset with myself, Max. I honestly think I’ve been quite lax in regard to your education.”
“You mean like school?”
“I mean, like, the development of your mind, the forging of a sturdy personal aesthetic.”
“Aesth—”
“We can’t let our origins limit us, Max. We can’t become content with our situations. That leads to decay. Try to remember this always.”
“Was there some errand you needed run? Something from the store?”
“You’ve done very well around the hotel over the past few years, Max. You performed your duties, done all that was asked of you.”
“I don’t do all that much.”
“And in return, I’ve slighted you. But you must know it was never an intentional slight. A man gets involved in business, Max. In the planning, the telescoping, the contingencies. The day-to-day pressures mount. A man begins to forsake the truly important goals. It happens to most men, I think. I had hoped to hold myself to a higher standard.”
“You know, I think Mingo could really use a hand down in the kitchen …”
“Here you are now, already in the midst of adolescence. There’s so much I should have showed you already. I’m sure I’d be appalled with myself if I knew the depth of your ignorance.”