Richard walked over to his briefcase and removed a thin sheet of paper from a manila folder. He handed it to Paul. It was incredibly flimsy and glossy-a photocopy.
L-
You're dead.
All my love,
R
“This is not very specific,” Paul said. “Sure it's not a prank?"
“No,” said Richard. “We're not. But I'm not ready to take any chances."
“Who's ‘L'?” Paul asked.
“Me,” said Susannah.
“Oh. It's Susannah with an L?"
She scowled. “No. It's a stupid nickname he gave me-Lemondrop. My sweet and sour Lemondrop, he'd always say.” She looked away, covering her face with a tiny balled-up fist.
Richard walked over and sat down to hug her. “Don't worry. Shhh. I'll take care of everything."
“He's going to kill me, Richard."
“No one's going to kill you."
Susannah broke the hug. “You don't know. You don't."
“Shhh. Nothing's going to happen to you."
Susannah resumed the hug, and behind his back, with tears running down her face, smiled. “You're too good to me, Richard."
I couldn't glom a vibe from Paul. He was trying too hard to be his noncommittal, professional self. But I did catch a glimmer of a thought: I can't believe I'm watching this. Or it might have been: I can't believe I'm involved in this. Or, quite possibly: I can't believe a word of this.
“She's lying, you know."
I spun around. The Ghost of Fieldman had been standing in the Brain Hotel lobby, watching the scene with me. He had a Houdini-like knack for sudden appearances. I should have told him to go back to Vegas to start his own show.
“Which part?” I asked. “The rich inventor father? The Greenwich Village artist-rapist? The international hit man?"
“No man named “Winston” ever invented anything for any branch of United States military during the 20th century."
“Maybe the government can keep a few secrets. Even from you."
“Not likely. You want to know what is in the tap water in 1976? What the Air Force really found in Roswell, New Mexico? Why the United States Government invented static cling?"
“Stop,” I said. “Please. I'm only keeping an eye on Paul to make sure he knows what he's doing, then I'm going back to work."
“Ah, your quest for the Nevada crime syndicate. The entity you refer to as ‘The Association.’”
“That's right. Aren't you supposed to be helping me with my quest, Buddha man? Isn't that what you told me back in Henderson?"
“Yes, I did say I was here to help, but not with that particular quest. You are wasting your days with that, Collective. The musical genre known as disco will outlive your ‘Association.’”
“Disco is all over the radio, in case you haven't noticed."
“I am absolutely amazed at how little you absorb, Collective. I'm not sure how your delicate sensibilities are going to survive the Sex Pistols."
I'd had enough. “Stuff it, Fieldman. And stop calling me ‘Collective.’ You make me feel like an accountant."
The Ghost of Fieldman shook his head and faded away.
I rejoined the conversation already in progress. Richard was back from refilling drinks. “Sweetheart, why don't you fill in the gaps-you know, some physical description?"
Paul smiled. “Anything helps."
Susannah caught herself staring at Paul, but recovered nicely. She started to plow through the information as if she were up all night practicing. “Roger is a short guy with a Napoleon complex. Last time I saw him-this was five years ago, now-he had short-cropped hair. Very Italian-looking. I used to go for that sort of thing when I was young."
“Distinguishing features?"
“He had these deep-set eyes. Almost looked like they were black. A wide smile… and an awful limp."
“A genetic marvel,” said Richard, chuckling.
“He was once shot in the knee cap."
Paul asked, “Anything else?"
“He's very nondescript. People used to say he looked like somebody they knew."
Paul studied Susannah, who narrowed her eyes.
“So what can I expect from you, Mr. Paul After?"
“I find your man and have a nice chat with him. Maybe we'll compare dossiers or talk about firearms."
“And what if he doesn't want to have a nice chat?"
“He won't be able to chat with anyone,” Paul said. “Ever again."
Uncomfortable pause. They all looked at each other. It was too much for Richard. He was probably imagining his disbarrment hearings.
“Pardon me,” he said. “I have to visit the boy's room. Please make Paul at home, will you sweetheart?"
With that, Richard left. Susannah decided that making Paul at home entailed standing up, slinking across the carpet and taking a seat next to him.
“Have I ever seen you before, Mr. After?” she asked.
“I wouldn't think so."
“You look familiar."
“I shouldn't. I'm not from around here."
“Neither am I."
She took a drag from her cigarette, then blew smoke. “I suppose people tell you you look like somebody they know all the time."
“Not usually."
She paused. “You're a hard one, aren't you?"
Paul shrugged.
“I like that,” she said. “I honestly do."
Susannah stared at Paul for a while, not sure of how to place him. I tell you, the man was a Grade-A professional. I'm not sure a usual member of Stan Wojciechowski's crack detective team-namely, me-would have been able to face this task unmoved.
She tried a different approach: Big Boss Woman. “How many hours you going to devote to me?"
“As many as it takes."
“That's not an answer, Paul. I enjoy details."
“I enjoy working alone."
“I'll need you whenever Richard's not around. Days mostly, when he's at the firm. And some nights."
“What do you mean, need me?” Paul asked.
As if on cue, Richard returned from the bathroom. “Well, are we happy, Susannah?"
“I'll need a schedule,” she said to him. “I need my freedom."
“Of course,” Richard said. “Paul, you can start being Ms. Winston's guardian angel tomorrow morning. I'll send a car for you."
“Whoah,” Paul said. “What is this? Some kind of fraternity prank? If you want a babysitter, I'll give you the number of my eight-year-old niece in Toledo."
Richard's eyebrows lowered-undoubtedly, his patented kill-a-jury-with-my-sincerity look. “But Mr. After, this is the job. Until you find this madman, she's going to need some protection. She's quite safe here in the hotel-I've seen to that. But I need someone to be with her when she's shopping, or having lunch out in the city, or even walking around Rittenhouse Square."
“How many hours are we talking?” asked Paul, forcing every word out of his lips.
“As much as she needs,” he said.
Paul finished his drink then stood up. “I've heard enough."
Damn! I ran over to the lobby microphone and nailed the button. Easy there, Paul. Take it easy.
“This is a bunch of crap,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but still audible.
“What?” barked Richard.
Hey! I yelled. What the hell are you doing?
Paul stood still for a moment, thinking it over. I'd like to think it was my stern voice that kept him from flipping Richard the bird and storming out of the room. But most likely, Paul realized that without this job, we would be homeless. Brain Hotel and all. He didn't strike me as the type that enjoyed rooting through garbage cans for dinner.
“This tonic,” Paul said. “This tonic is crap."
“But it's Schweppes!” Susannah protested.