CORTEZ: There’s a certain savvy needed in these endeavors, a definite, innate self-discipline, belief in standards. There’s an instinct that’s needed, Mr. Rourke, and I’m not entirely sure it’s the type of thing that can be learned. In this, it’s like a very useful form of grace.
ROURKE: Jesus. Just talk to me like a human for once.
CORTEZ: For instance, regarding my little package—
ROURKE: I said — didn’t you hear me? — I said, what package?
CORTEZ: —you have to know how serious to take such a thing. You have to innately know from the very moment that you smell the stink, that you see the dismembered remains, the tiny parasites moving in and out of the host, you must be hit with understanding in that instant. You must know that this is very simply a symbol, a literal suggestion, a method of effective and concise communication, that it delivers a very important message in the most dramatic and instantaneous and lasting of ways. It’s a work of art, Mr. Rourke. A thousand words, as the saying goes.
[Whistling noise from Rourke]
CORTEZ: And your reaction must be astute. You must know how to gauge your response. To take the message seriously enough to correct any aberrant behavior, but not so seriously that you rupture the whole relationship.
ROURKE: You can be an infuriating guy. Has this ever been said to you? Has anyone, maybe in passing, made this remark? You get a person’s juices going, you know? You bring me to the edge of saying shit, I don’t want to … like “talk normal, you fucking beaner.” You see, there you go. I said it. It’s out. Can’t suck the words back in. They’re out there and you heard them.
CORTEZ: Racial slurs have very little meaning to me, Mr. Rourke. Meaningless. No meaning. In this instance, it doesn’t even apply. My understanding is that “beaner” refers to a Mexican, or more likely, a Mexican-American. I’m an Argentine. Born in Brussels, to be honest.
ROURKE: Oh, for Christ sake …
CORTEZ: You say you didn’t receive my package. I’m left with a choice as to whether to believe you or not.
ROURKE: What was in the package?
CORTEZ: It’s no longer pertinent. You weren’t sorting yesterday?
ROURKE: Bitch put me on a route. I’m telling you, luck is not with us.
There’s a pause and Lenore starts to wonder if the tap’s been discovered.
CORTEZ: My assistant said you were a bit uncooperative during his visit.
ROURKE: Guy’s a freaking comedian.
CORTEZ: You continue to dispute our claim?
ROURKE: Look, mister, the sample I gave to your man had three units—
CORTEZ: Unfortunately, only two units arrived in the Park. I paid for three sample units.
ROURKE: I sent three. There were three. Think about this, why would I screw you before the main buy? Think about this. I got my neck so far out now. Think about my position for just one freaking second, okay? I’m in midair here. No one wants to be visible. I’ve got a producer whose name I don’t know, won’t show his face. I’ve got a purchaser who wants me to do all my talking to his goddamn funny-guy driver, for Christ sake.
CORTEZ: This is pointless. We’ve all got problems, Mr. Rourke.
ROURKE: I’ve fronted money. I’ve taken some risks here. You know, my own people don’t have some banker friend in the Caribbean they can tap with a WATS line, okay? These people sold their cars, mortgaged houses—
CORTEZ: You saying I should be sympathetic because the broker in this transaction is an ill-equipped amateur. This is what you’re saying. I should show mercy and patience and ignore my instinct because you’re still trying to learn a new trade. I think you’ve made a huge mistake, Mr. Rourke—
ROURKE: All right, listen, forget it, we’ll kick back on the missing unit, even though for all I know your driver Bozo—
CORTEZ: Bouza.
ROURKE: Bouza, Bouza, for all we know he lifted a Q. Okay, forget it. Everything’s still on. Everything’s perfect. It’s all set to go.
CORTEZ: My confidence is shaken, Mr. Rourke …
ROURKE: You’ve got to be kidding me here. You’re pulling my chain here, right? I talked to the Paraclete this morning. This A.M. He’s ready. Everything is packaged. The whole wad. Your final offer is still A-OK. We just need a time and a place.
CORTEZ: You spoke to him?
ROURKE: I swear to you he called this morning. At my place. Like four A.M.
CORTEZ: The Paraclete? Himself?
ROURKE: Yeah … Well, his people. You got people. I’ve got people. Of course, he’s got people. His main guy called. Guy with authority. Speaks for the Paraclete. You got Bozo—
CORTEZ: Bouza.
ROURKE: Right, right.
CORTEZ: He’s agreed that I name the spot?
ROURKE: He could be happier. But he’ll live with it.
CORTEZ: Fine. We’ll go with his original location.
ROURKE: Okay. I know right where you mean.
CORTEZ: Is two A.M. agreeable?
ROURKE: Couldn’t be better. Could not be any better.
CORTEZ: I’ll be deducting the cost of the third sample from the payout. There won’t be a problem with this?
ROURKE: I’ll cover it. It’ll come out of my commission. Off the top. Everyone’ll be happy.
CORTEZ: Then I’ll see you, Mr. Rourke.
ROURKE: Done.
There’s one hang-up click, a pause, then a second click. Lenore waits a beat, then shuts off the recorder and removes the head-phones.
Woo stares at her and she holds the headphones out to him, indicating that he can listen to a replay if he wants. He shrugs, but takes the headphones, puts them on, and spends several seconds adjusting their placement on his head. Lenore rewinds the tape for him and when the counter numbers fall back to zero, she hits the Play button.
Then she steps back and leans up against one of the brick walls and watches Woo’s face closely as he listens. She’s not sure what she’s looking for, but she knows it’s important that she watch. Possibly, some look will kick in at the eyes, or the whole head will shake upon hearing something significant. She knows she’s being ridiculously greedy. She’s gotten every piece of information she needs in one call. She’s gotten Cortez as a buyer. She’s gotten someone named Mr. Rourke as a broker. She’s gotten someone named the Paraclete as the producer. She’s gotten the time of the transaction. But she wants more. This doesn’t surprise her. She knows, no matter what she came away with from the tap, no matter how wise and prepared she emerged from the cellar, she would want more.
Woo’s face gives her nothing. He sits in a rigid schoolboy position, eyes straight ahead, focused on brick and mortar, lips primly together. He’s even got his hands folded on the table in front of him. He’s a blank sheet.
There’s nothing to read.
Chapter Twenty
Ike feels as if he’s in a high school play, maybe a drama club production of Twelve Angry Men, done in the gym, a hundred parents trying to get comfortable on the wooden bleachers. He feels like he’s missed every rehearsal since the play was cast, but they’ve kept him in the role anyway. Now it’s opening night and he doesn’t know a line. He can’t even seem to find a script.
Eva knows her role. She’s a born actress. She walked into the locker room like it was any other day. She read routes and names off her clipboard. She told Rourke if he had a problem to spit it out. She stared Wilson down in seconds and walked back to her office like her mind was already on requisition forms for a new bulletin board in the rental box area.
Ike’s having more trouble being convincing. When Bromberg tossed him the first insult of the day — something about dogs on his route running from him — he just froze and stammered until he felt like he would choke. Wilson got a real kick out of this, spitting out a laugh and slapping Rourke’s shoulder, but Rourke just stared at Ike without a word, then squatted down to retie his boots.