‘What’s wrong? You cold?’
Sharon’s words. In Creed’s mouth. Did he have another virginity to lose? ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just a bit.’
Imagine if he had to take his jacket off. All his insurance would be gone. But Creed had turned away and Jed breathed easier.
‘Do you know who talked to the papers?’ Creed said.
Jed shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘It was your friend,’ Creed said. ‘Your old buddy.’
Jed felt a trap closing. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Vasco Gorelli,’ Creed said. ‘It was Vasco Gorelli talked to the papers.’
‘How do you know?’
Creed traced the outline of his drink with one finger. ‘I put a couple of new vultures on it. You know what those new vultures are like. Keen isn’t the word. They get right down to the bones of things. They tear out the truth. Blood, guts, organs, the lot.’ He paused. ‘Gorelli said he was loyal,’ and he looked across at Jed and his eyes glittered.
Curiously it was Vasco’s advice that Jed remembered now. Be single-pointed. No grey areas. ‘He sold you out.’
‘He lost his nerve,’ Creed said. ‘But you,’ again that glitter in his eyes, ‘you’d do anything for me.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘You’d lie.’
Jed thought of that night at Mitch’s and what he’d said to Sharon. ‘I already have.’
‘You’d steal.’
‘No problem.’ He knew what was coming now. It was like counting down to an explosion. He waited for the blast. He braced himself.
Creed’s hand reached carelessly for his glass of water. ‘You’d kill someone.’
This had to sound right. First a chuckle, then the words, ‘Why? You got someone in mind?’
Creed didn’t lift his eyes from his drink. He was watching that pure water the way you’d watch a fire.
The dread rose through Jed’s body. He had to speak before he drowned in it. But he remembered to use names. He was taping this. He needed names. ‘It’s Vasco,’ he said, ‘isn’t it?’
Still Creed watched his drink. ‘Too obvious.’
Jed tried to think. His mind kept curving away, the way a golf ball curves when it’s sliced or hooked. That beautiful, lazy parabola into somewhere you don’t want to be.
‘Think sideways,’ Creed said. ‘I don’t want to kill Vasco, I just want him,’ and finally he raised his eyes and smiled, and the smile was almost benign. ‘I just want him to pay.’
Jed got it. ‘Vasco’s brother.’
Creed lifted his glass. ‘Congratulations.’
But Jed had to make sure. ‘You want me to kill Vasco’s brother?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t you worry about that. It’s taken care of. It’s nice. Yes,’ and Creed leaned back in his chair, ‘we’re going to send Gorilla a little Christmas present.’
‘You’re going to send him his brother,’ Jed said, ‘dead.’
Creed smirked. ‘Something like that.’
Jed left the apartment at ten to six, the wheels still turning next to his heart. He couldn’t sleep now. He took the service elevator down to the parking-lot and got into his car. As he drove across Moon River Bridge, the day rose over the estuary, the colours you find in the skin of fish: brown and pink and palest blue. He stopped the car at the Baker Park end. Leaving the engine running, he went and leaned on the railings. The metal cool against his palms, his heart still pummelling, he drew the fresh dawn air into his lungs. The wind had blown the surface of the river into streaky lines, stretchmarks on the water’s tired skin. Gulls picked at the mudbanks where once he’d searched for jewellery. He heard a voice call Vasco’s name. It was Vasco’s brother, Francis. The boy behind the door. He turned to face the ocean.
Just before he left, Creed had given him the date. Next Wednesday. Exactly a week from now. And as he leaned against the railings he suddenly tasted it, the moment Creed had planned for him, the moment he’d always longed for, dreaded now, still longed for, and it was burnt sugar, sweet and caustic, on his tongue, it was like the flight of a bird across a window, it was there and it was gone, he couldn’t dwell on it, he couldn’t let the terror in, all he knew was what it would do for him, he knew that it would give him membership, he’d be past the sliding sheet of glass, he’d finally belong.
During the next week he concentrated on his job to the exclusion of all else. He was silent, deferential, precise — the perfect chauffeur. He didn’t need to wire himself. There was nothing being said, nothing to record. This was empty time. He felt close to Creed. Superimposed on him, somehow. Bound. He thought he recognised in Creed qualities that he had himself: the ability to wait and to charge the act of waiting with the current of anticipation, to check and double-check, so that when the waiting was over everything would go like clockwork. He knew that, if he ever told Creed the story of the radios, Creed would understand. It might even be something that Creed already understood, that he’d divined on their first meeting in the Mortlake office. It was something they recognised in each other and shared. It made them, Jed thought with satisfaction, extremely dangerous enemies.
Wednesday came around. When Creed called, Jed was watching a news report about a vulture who’d just been arrested on a murder charge. Apparently he’d brought the corpse in and then tried to claim commission on it.
‘It’s the big night,’ Creed said.
Jed waited.
‘There’s a warehouse in Mangrove. United Paper Products.’ He gave Jed the address. ‘Leave the limousine there. Be back here at nine-thirty. Under the building. We’ll be using your car.’
Jed wondered why Creed was dispensing with the limousine. Too conspicuous, he supposed. And, now he thought about it, he was glad. Using the Chrysler would be to his advantage. No glass partition, much less chance of Creed noticing anything unusual. Jed spent most of the afternoon in the parking-lot, wiring up the back seat.
At nine o’clock he drove to the gas station two blocks south of the hotel. He checked the tyres and the oil, and filled the tank. When he returned to the parking-lot, it was nine-twenty-five. Creed and McGowan were already waiting in front of the elevator doors. McGowan wore the faded blue overalls of a city sanitation man. He was holding a long canvas bag and a cardboard box.
Jed opened the door as usual, even though it was his own car. Habit. He watched McGowan lay the bag flat on the floor.
‘What’s in there?’ he asked.
McGowan grinned. ‘Tools.’
In the car Creed leaned forwards. ‘Gorelli’s brother lives in Los Ilusiones. Housing project on North East 27th. Lives with his girlfriend. You’re going to knock on his door and you’re going to bring him outside and you’re going to put him in the car.’
McGowan handed him a gun. ‘You might need this,’ he said, ‘to persuade him with.’
Jed put the gun in his jacket pocket. Though he hadn’t really looked at it, he was sure it was the same one that had been forced into the tourist’s mouth.
‘Then what happens?’ he said.
‘Then what happens is, we take him for a little ride out to the Crumbles.’ Creed paused. ‘You got that?’
Jed nodded.
He moved off. Past the security guard, up the ramp, out on to the dim street. It was 89 degrees. Clouds hung over the city. There were more of them than there used to be, he was sure of it. It was all the burning that was going on. Sea burials were as popular as ever, but they weren’t cheap. The poor were still being burned. And some of the crematoria were cutting corners. There’d been a thing about it in the paper. They were burning at temperatures of less than 1300 degrees, which meant that dioxyns were being released into the air. Sometimes he looked at the clouds and wondered what percentage ashes they were. Sometimes he wondered how many dead people there were to a cloud. How many dead people came down with the rain.