Faces of the Gone: A Mystery (25 page)

She came to me in the middle of the night, waking me without a sound. At first, I couldn’t even be sure what was happening. I  was on Tina’s couch, but it was almost as if the couch were somewhere else. The living room of my boyhood home in Millburn? The mess hall at the summer camp I went to as a kid? I was still groggy, confused.

But it was definitely Tina’s couch. It had to be, because it was Tina on top of me. She had changed into the black cocktail dress, the one with the keyhole neckline she wore the other night. I could feel her entire body pressing against mine with an urgency that didn’t seem real.

I tried to get my bearings but there was no time. Tina was demanding every last ounce of my attention. Her eyes were huge and sparkling. It was like nothing else existed but her face, her hips, her hair, her breasts. It was all perfect, all mine to explore, admire, and enjoy.

How had it happened? There had been no seduction that I remembered, no soft music, low lighting, or sloppy drinking. But I guess I knew it was never going to happen the conventional way with Tina. It was going to be her show, done in her way, fitting her schedule.

So, yes, it was happening in the small hours of morning, with her more or less attacking me while I slept. I had no memory of waking up nor of any conversation. Tina never gave me the chance to deny her. Not that I would have. I was just the innocent bystander in her not-so-innocent scheme, allowing her to dictate the action. I almost felt detached from it, watching it all happen from somewhere high above.

But then suddenly I was back in my body and it was time to take control. My mouth began exploring the soft spot where her neck and shoulders met. My hand caressed the curve from her hip to her breast. The keyhole dress slipped away and we were soon one.

It was incredible, the kind of incredible you almost never got the first time with a new partner. There was no awkwardness, no fumbling, no slowing down to make sure everyone was okay. It was just two bodies fitting perfectly into each other and nothing to interfere with the pleasure.

And then I went to finish and . . . couldn’t. I kept at it, thinking I would feel the release any second. But it didn’t happen. I increased my pace, then slowed it, then increased it again. Still nothing. And then I started smelling . . . bacon? And pancakes?

It was Saturday morning. Tina was nowhere near me and apparently never had been.
I tried to sit up but then immediately lay back down. I needed time to get my bearings and give the throbbing in my pants time to subside. I tried to recap how my Friday night ended: after deciding there was nothing more to be learned at Ludlow Street, I returned to the office and picked up a key from Tina, then went back to her place and fell asleep so quickly I’m not sure I was even aware of closing my eyes. The next thing I knew, it was morning.
So why did I feel so crappy? Let’s see: I’d slept in the clothes I had been wearing for two days; I could carry everything I currently owned in my back pocket; my last three meals had consisted of a bagel, Pop-Tarts, and two slices of pizza; and my sources kept getting bombed, burned, and killed.
Yeah, that would do it. I looked at the clock on Tina’s cable box. It was 9:18. I might have gone right back to sleep except for what had woken me up in the first place—a smell that had wafted in from the kitchen and worked its way up my nose, making my olfactory system convince the rest of me life was worthwhile after all.
Pancakes.
And bacon.
I suddenly found the strength to stand and wobble into the kitchen, where Tina was building a stack of pancakes that could have sated three hungry truckers.
“I think I’m in love with you,” I said.
“Since you’re the first man to say that to me this morning, I’ll let you eat some of this with me.”
Tina had her hair up in a ponytail. She was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and not a hint of makeup. And she looked absolutely slammin’. (“Slammin’ ” is a word I heard from one of the kids answering the phones at work—apparently it’s a good thing). Most women could summon the right mix of hairspray, makeup, and clingy clothing to look good in a club on a Friday night. It was the true beauty who looked just as good over pancakes the next morning. Tina was one of those.
“Thanks for putting that extra blanket on me last night,” I said.
“No problem. You were drooling a little bit. It was pretty cute.”
She had that morning’s paper sitting on the island in the middle of the kitchen. We had splashed the ongoing Ludlow Street story all over A1, and the layout people had done a nice job tiling together three photos: the Stop-In Go-Go dancers (all appropriately clad, of course) outside their scorched home; the remains of Booker T Building Five, shot from the top of one of  the other buildings so you had a cool bird’s-eye feel; and the  sheet-draped body of Rashan Reeves with his sneakers sticking out.
Underneath were two articles: the nonbylined story of all the blitzed buildings that Tommy and Hays had done; and the late-breaking account of Rashan’s murder, with my byline on it.
I was proud of the whole thing. Sometimes we pussed out and pulled our punches on stories like this. It was part of the endless battle that rages in newsrooms across the country, pitting those who worried we would offend readers if our words and images were too graphic against those who felt we were obligated to show the world as it really existed. I was naturally part of the latter camp: a newspaper existed to tell the news, not sugarcoat it.
Our camp was often outvoted. But not this time. “This looks
great,
” I said.
“Thanks.”
“Your doing?”
“Once the murder happened, I took the night editor’s prerogative to rip up the front page and start from scratch,” Tina said. “I’m sure I’ll take some flack for it on Monday, but I think it looks great, too.”
“Thanks for using my byline.”
“Peterson told me what you said. I wasn’t going to do it, but Peterson fought for you. He pointed out it wasn’t going to do more harm—this creep knows who you are already. And it might even do some good, if people in the community realize you’re the guy on this story and they call you with more information.”
I nodded and waited for more, but she was done. I debated telling Tina about the dream I just had, mostly because it was so vivid I couldn’t get it out of my mind. But, really, how do you start that conversation?
So, Tina, I had this dream where you raped me last night
. . .
Nope. Not happening. Instead we dove into her stack of pancakes together, dividing the paper then switching sections when we were done with them.
After a leisurely half hour, she got up from her side of the table and came around behind me, placing a pair of warm hands on my shoulders. She began massaging, and I allowed myself to go limp.
“This is amazing,” I murmured as she spent a few minutes working on several days’ worth of adhesions.
Then she leaned over and, with her lips inches from my earlobe, said, “So what do you say we stay in and lay on the couch together watching movies until we get hungry enough to go out for an absurdly large steak? My treat.”
“Ordinarily, that would sound heavenly,” I began.
“But . . .” she interjected, sighing and standing up, releasing my shoulders from her grasp.
“But I’ve got a story to follow.”

ina excused herself by saying she had an errand to run, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek on her way out. I dawdled over the paper for a little while longer, did the dishes—I’m a supporter of federal You Cook I Clean legislation—then hit the shower.

I stayed in there a long time, letting the hot water erode some of my exhaustion. My thoughts started coming in disconnected bits, like ticker tape floating down from a skyscraper.

I should have someone keeping an eye on Irving Wallace, someone dependable like Tommy. It was possible his movements would give him away as being more than just a government scientist.

I should head into Rashan Reeves’s old hood to see if I could find some of his buddies. Perhaps they would know something useful.

I should work on Hector Alvarez a little more, find some way to get more leverage on him.
I should visit Brenda Bass in the hospital. I didn’t know if she would receive me—or if she was even in condition to receive me—but it seemed like a decent thing to do.
I should pitch some kind of write-through on the whole week-long Ludlow Street saga to the Sunday editor, who would undoubtedly be looking for one.
I should work with Hays to get as complete a background on Irving Wallace as I could.
I should do something to expand my wardrobe, which at the moment consisted of one pair of soiled tan slacks and one extremely wrinkled blue button-down shirt.
I should eat more vegetables.
I should start exercising more.
Finally, I turned the water off. That was enough thoughts, especially when I didn’t know if I’d get the time to do any of them. For all I knew, Irving Wallace had found my Malibu and I was one turn of the key away from being the subject of one of Peterson’s obits.
I stepped out of the shower and had just gotten a towel wrapped around my middle when Tina nudged her way through the door.
“Knock, knock,” she said after it was already open.
“Nothing to see here,” I said.
“Too bad,” she said. Then she lifted up a Banana Republic bag. “I hope I got the sizes right,” she said.
She pulled out a new shirt, slacks, socks, and boxers.
“I take back what I said before,” I said. “I don’t
think
I’m in love with you. I
am
in love with you.”
“Oh, you have no idea how true that is,” Tina said, waving a plastic bag. She pulled out a brush, a razor, deodorant, shaving cream—all the things a boy like me needed to feel fresh scrubbed again.
“You’re the best, Tina. Really. I don’t know what else to say.”
She just stood there, smiling sweetly at me, looking so damn hot. The dream was still fresh in my mind—as was the backrub and the sweet whispering—and I just couldn’t help myself. I gently removed the bags from her hands and pulled her close for the kind of deep, wet kiss that was by now about three days overdue.
But somehow she dodged it, turning my big move into a hug. And it wasn’t a full-body, this-is-about-to- turn-intosomething-good hug. It was strictly shoulders and arms, the kind you’d expect to receive from your girlfriend’s best friend. “A simple ‘thanks’ will do,” she said, giving my towelcovered butt a playful smack as she pulled away.
“Well, thanks,” I said sheepishly.
“Get dressed. You’ve got work to do.”
She left me to shave and inspect my new clothes, an open- collared shirt with enough Lycra in it to give it a little bit of a stretchy feel and pinstriped pants that were, naturally, flat- front.
“How come everyone is always pushing me toward flat- front pants?” I hollered. “What’s wrong with pleats?”
“You’re right,” Tina called back from the living room. “There’s nothing wrong with pleats—if you’re seventy-two years old and need a little give so your pants won’t rip during a particularly strenuous game of shuffleboard.”
I harrumphed and finished dressing. When I emerged from the bathroom, Tina was seated at the kitchen table, her head in a crossword puzzle. She looked up and gave me a wolf whistle.
“Looking good there, Mr. Ross.”
I gave her a model’s half turn. “Yeah,
GQ
just won’t stop calling.”
“So what’s your plan now that you’re all spiffy?”
I went back to my various shower-stall brainstorms and tried to prioritize. Eating vegetables and exercising came in last. Putting Tommy on Irving Wallace watch and visiting Brenda Bass came first.
“Does Tommy Hernandez work on Saturdays?” I asked.
“Tommy is an intern. He works when I tell him to.”
“Perfect. I was thinking it would be really nice to have a set of eyes on Irving Wallace. Think Tommy is up for a little game of Spy versus Spy?”
“Would you like to make the call or should I?”
“I’ll do it,” I said, pulling out my cell phone and selecting Tommy’s number. It rang five times before a very sleepy- sounding young man picked up.
“Hello?” he said. It wasn’t Tommy. The voice was too deep.
“Hi. Can you put Tommy on?”
The young man was instantly on guard. “And who’s this?” he said, the jealousy oozing through the phone.
“Relax. It’s his boss.”
“Oh,” he said, then I heard him say, “Honey, it’s your boss.”
Tommy picked up. “You’re
not
my boss.”
“Yeah, but I’m with your boss right now, so it’s really the same thing.”
“Does that mean you spent the night?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean you finally did it?”
“None of your business.”
“That’s a ‘no,’ ” Tommy said, clearly disappointed. “How am I ever supposed to become Uncle Tommy to Tina’s baby if you don’t make the honorable move and shag her dirty?”
“No comment,” I said. “And now I’m changing the subject. I need you to do something for me today.”
“Oh, come on,” he whined. “I have plans.”
“Not anymore.”
“But it’s Saaaaturday,” he persisted.
“Yes, and tomorrow is Sunday and the next day is Monday.”
“Is he giving you a tough time?” Tina asked me.
“Of course,” I said.
“Give me the phone,” she said. “Let me show you how an enlightened manager deals with her people.”
I tossed Tina the phone.
“Tommy, stop being a bitch,” she said, waiting briefly for Tommy’s response.
“I don’t care, stop being a bitch,” she said. “And whatever you’re about to say next, I don’t care about that, either. So stop being a bitch. We’re done. Get to work.”
Tina held the phone out for me. “Problem solved,” she said.
“Oh, yeah, that was really inspired leadership there,” I said, walking over and taking it from her. “You learn that from reading a book or did you get it from the sensitivity seminars they make you attend?”
“Hey, it worked,” she said. “You’ve got your spy, don’t you?”
I filled Tommy in on the latest details and how I had come to believe Irving Wallace was the Director. Tommy listened well. As I wound down the conversation, I reminded him to stop in the office and pick up a copy of the police sketch Red had provided, then gave him one last warning.
“Remember to stay hidden,” I said. “I don’t want this guy to make you, because then Tina and I will have to explain to your father why there are all these homosexuals at his son’s funeral.”

left Tina’s apartment with a sisterly kiss on the cheek to speed me on my way. It was like being in middle school all over again, except I no longer felt it was appropriate to drape my arm around her shoulder in a lame attempt to cop a feel.

Still, between breakfast, the shower, and my new clothes, I felt like I had been reinvented. On the way to my car, I stopped at a flower shop and picked out an arrangement in a simple glass vase. The card I selected had a blank space for my own individual message. I wrote in neat script, “My sincerest apologies. Carter Ross.”

Upon arriving at University Hospital, a sprawling, ever- expanding complex of buildings in the middle of Newark, I wandered around for twenty minutes before finding the burn unit. I asked at the nurse’s station for Brenda Bass, and was pointed to a room just down the hall. I’m sure if they’d known I was with the newspaper, they would have thrown a fit. But I wasn’t really there as a reporter. I was just another guy clutching flowers, looking for a sick person I cared about.

I walked softly into the room. Miss B was lying still with her eyes closed. The lower half of her face was covered in a mask connected to an oxygen tank. She was breathing on her own, though I thought I heard some raggedness with each inhalation. A bag of fluids hung to her left, slowly dripping into her through an IV in her arm. Other than that, she appeared quite peaceful. I didn’t see any burns, any gauze, any sign of trauma.

Tynesha, who had been asleep in a chair pulled next to the bed, stirred as I entered. I wasn’t sure what to expect from her, given the way she had received me outside the Stop- In Go-Go.

But it seemed her bedside vigil had taken some of the spite out of her. Or at least she didn’t immediately move to claw out my eyeballs.

“Hi,” I said cautiously.
“Hi,” she said. There was no anger in her voice, just fatigue. “I came to drop these off,” I said, and placed the vase down

Tynesha grasped it, turning it over.
“You’re apologizing?” she said.
“I owe her at least that much,” I said. “I owe it to you, too.

I . . . Look, I had no idea this was going to happen. To say I feel awful about it wouldn’t even be a start. I wish I could go back to Monday and have myself hit by a bus. I just . . .”

I let my voice trail off. She turned toward the window and gazed out, maybe so she wouldn’t have to look at me. She was wearing what appeared to be borrowed clothes—sweatpants with a nonmatching sweatshirt. Her hair was matted and I guessed she had spent the night in that chair. Her eyes, which were brown without the aid of the amber contact lenses, had dark smudges underneath them.

“I shouldn’t have been so rough on you yesterday,” she said.
“I had it coming. Believe me, I did.”
“Yeah, you did,” she said, smiling slightly for the first time, and we left it at that. Miss B made a ragged, gasping noise, then quieted.
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
“Not good. The doctors say her lungs are, like, melting or something. Maybe it starts getting better or maybe it don’t. They say there ain’t much they can do.”
“Is she going to make it?”
“They don’t know. They say she’s holding on for now but they don’t know how bad it’ll get. They said sometimes it looks like someone ain’t going to make it and they do, but sometimes someone who looks like they’re going to make it don’t.”
Tynesha shook her head and continued. “I don’t think these doctors know what the hell they’re talking about. Half the time they talk to me like I’m stupid. The other half the time I feel stupid ’cause I don’t know what they’re saying.”
“Are they giving her any drugs or anything?” I asked.
“Just painkillers.”
“Has she been awake?”
“Not since I been here.”
“It’s probably better that way,” I said.
We watched Miss B breathe for a minute or so. I had written about enough fires to know what was going on inside her. All the delicate mechanisms that normally kept the lungs clear of junk were failing and the congestion was building up. If it stabilized in time, she’d pull through. If not, she would drown in her own fluids.
“Wanda’s funeral was supposed to be today,” Tynesha said, breaking our silence. “We told ’em to hold off for a few days. The family decided Miss B wouldn’t want to miss her daughter’s funeral.”
Or maybe, I thought grimly, the family was thinking the funeral might have to become a double feature.
“So you’ve been here all night?” I said. Tynesha nodded.
“I hope you don’t take it the wrong way when I say you look like you could use some breakfast and a change of clothes,” I said.
“Ain’t got no clothes to change into. They all burnt up.”
“Yeah, mine, too,” I said. “But I had a guardian angel buy me a new outfit this morning. How about I do the same for you?”
Tynesha looked at Miss B, frowning.
“I don’t think I should leave her,” she said.
“Tynesha,” I said, “I really don’t think she’s going anywhere.”