Jervis groaned.
“He’s renting a place just out of town, to be close to the girl.” Jervis appreciated Czanek’s courtesy. He never referred to Sarah by name. It was always “the girl.” Jervis supposed it was a trait of Czanek’s profession to depersonify a lost love. It made it less embarrassing.
“The address is here. It’s about fifteen minutes off campus, a fourth floor apartment, nice place. Lease expires September first.”
Jervis cleared his throat. “You got a schedule on the guy?”
“He works out regular at Brawley’s Gym, ten until three every day. I got a look at the sign in sheet.”
“What else? I need more.”
Czanek had more, plenty more. “He picks the girl up at six every night. They eat out, go shopping, like that. Then he brings her back to his place, or they go to hers.”
Jervis lit another Carlton, finished the first beer, and started the second. Czanek’s three day surveillance was exemplary—it drove Jervis’ despair to new heights. He’d asked for it, though. He’d asked for all of it.
“He’s been in the States two years, got his citizenship right away. Two vehicles in his name, a Porsche 911 and the white van. He buys a lot of stuff for the girl. There’re some Xeroxes of his credit card invoices. He’s a big spender, and…”
“What, Mr. Czanek?”
“There’s one more thing I don’t think you want to know.”
“What?” Jervis repeated. “I’m not paying you to be my shrink.”
Czanek removed some papers from his sports jacket. “These are some additional credit card invoices. Lots of jewelry purchases and restaurant tabs from the same places on the invoices there.”
Jervis looked at the invoices in the folder. They all had recent dates. “What’s the difference between these and the invoices in your hand?”
Czanek hesitated. “The invoices in my hand go back six months.”
Jervis stared.
“Six months, Mr. Tull. I’m sorry to have to tell you that.”
Jervis wanted to die. She’d been dating Wilhelm six months before she even broke up with Jervis. Behind his back for six months. Jervis felt minuscule in his seat, blackened by a shadow more vast than all the broken hearts in the world. He must seem pitiful.
He took out his wallet. “A hundred fifty per day, right?”
“That’s right, plus ex—”
Jervis gave him six hundred. “And keep the retainer for expenses.”
The money disappeared into Czanek’s jacket like magic. He left the folder and invoices on the table. “Thank you very much, Mr. Tull. You have my number in case there’s anything else I can do.”
Anything else. Jervis was staring. “What else do you do?”
Czanek leaned forward. “Let’s just say that my services are not exclusively limited to the parameters of the law.”
Jervis didn’t quite know what to say. What am I thinking?
“I don’t kill people,” Czanek said.
Had that been what Jervis was thinking?
“And I don’t break legs. I’m a P.I., not a thug. Besides, I’d have to be out of my mind to try anything against that meat-rack. However, there are some things I can do that you might be—”
“I want something…close,” Jervis said. “I want—”
Was Czanek smiling? “You want a bug in her place.”
A bug? Jervis wondered. “Keep talking, Mr. Czanek.”
“I got a great little wireless crystal, eight hundred foot range. Only problem is it runs on a battery and the battery only lasts ten days. The crystal costs a hundred bucks, I charge five hundred to put it in and three hundred for each battery change. I’ll only change batteries twice, then I’m out. Too risky.”
Ten days? That was plenty of time. That was his whole life.
“You can find guys who’ll do it cheaper, but not better.”
Jervis nodded. He wasn’t about to go hunting in the PennySaver. “I don’t have a key to her dorm anymore, but I got a funny feeling that you’re not particularly troubled by the inconvenience of locks.”
“Don’t worry about locks. Does she have a burglar alarm?”
“No,” Jervis said.
“Then anything she’s got on her door I go through in two seconds.”
“When’s the soonest you can have it in?”
“Tomorrow night, max.”
Jervis passed him six more hundred dollar bills. “Do it,” he said.
««—»»
Jervis drove half drunk back to campus. His arrangement with Czanek would only lead him to further despair, he realized, yet he looked forward to it, as a masochist looks forward to the whip. It didn’t make sense. Why was he pursuing this?
His driving began to falter. The yellow line looked like a smear to oblivion. His thoughts spoke to him like an alter ego, a secret sharer of despair.
I’m crazy, he thought.
Of course you are, his thoughts answered. You’re an English major; English majors are crazy to begin with. It’s all that existential shit they made you read, all that Sartre and Hegel—what a pile of crap. You took it seriously, Jervis, you thought it would save you. Jesus Christ, you’ve become obsessed with this girl. Private investigators? Bugs? It’s crazy. Your love has made you crazy.
“I know,” Jervis whispered to his id. “I’m crazy, and I still love her. What am I going to do?”
The black thoughts seemed to snicker. Kill them, they said.
“Kill them?”
Kill them. Then kill yourself.
««—»»
Wade’s first day as toilet cleaner proved as expected: shitty. His clothes reeked of mop water; it permeated him. Back in his dorm room, he turned on all the lights and the TV, let the room surround him in familiarity. He sat on the bed with a bottle of Samuel Adams lager, pushing the day and its myriad toilets from his mind. He needed mirth, he needed cheer. The TV picture formed, a cable flick called The Louisiana Swamp Murders. Raving toothless hillbillies chased topless blondes through the bayou with hatchets.
So much for mirth.
At least the day was over. He hit the Play button on his answering machine, hoping more girls had called, or friends, or anyone to make him feel better. Instead…
Beep: “Wade, this is your father. Call home at once.”
Oh, no, Wade thought.
Beep: “Wade, this is your goddamn father. I know you’re there; you’re probably sitting on the fucking bed with a beer right now. Call goddamn home at once or you’ll be goddamned sorry.”
Wade dialed the phone in slow, comatose dread.
“Hi, Dad. This is—”
“I know who it is, goddamn it. What the hell are you trying to pull down there? Three traffic tickets? On your first day back?”
Wade flubbed. “How did you find out about—”
“Dean Saltenstall told me all about it.”
Wade seethed. Why that blue blood no dick piece of garbage! So help me, I’ll— “Dad, I can explain.”
“No, you can’t. There’s no excuse for irresponsible shit like this. You’re supposed to be shaping up, not fucking up.”
“Really, Dad, I—”
“Heed my words, son. You’re at the end of your own rope. One more fuckup and you can start packing for the Army.”
Click.
Nice talking to you too, Wade thought.
There was a knock at the door. Tom entered, dressed for town and bearing a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest. “Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one. Carter walks into the White House groundskeeping office. He’s holding a pile of dogshit in his hands, and he yells, ‘Goddamn it! See what I almost stepped in!’”