Poisonous Kiss (30 page)

     I stood there clutching the receiver. I didn't see the visitors passing me in the corridor. I didn't see the fat woman behind the counter. All I could see was Celia's face, which became bigger and clearer until it filled my field of vision completely. I'm sorry, she whispered. I loved this goddamn bitch. I hated her! How could she do that to me? How could she use me as a guinea pig for her husband's experiments? How could her voice still be full of love and tenderness? Why did she tell me she loved me?

     "Hi there! Are you all right?"

     My vision cleared slowly. Simone stood in front of me, eyeing me strangely.

     "Should I call a doctor?"

     I shook my head and put the receiver down with unsteady hands. By the time I realized what I was doing I'd already pulled her close to me. I leaned on her shoulder, sobbing idiotically. Nobody stared. They were used to the sight of crying people there. Simone's slender body clung to mine, her small hand soothingly caressed my nape.

     "There, there," she whispered. "It'll be all right."

     But of course. I move away from her and dry my eyes.

     "Thank you," I muttered.

     "It's OK," she said, smiling. "Pat's going to live. She's allowed visitors now. Do you want to see her?"

     I nodded. Simone walked away, without even looking back. She's not the same woman: She's not the one who comforted me a minute ago; she's not the one who had made love to me so feverishly. She gives herself only for a few minutes, or maybe hours, but then she withdraws and presents the face of a friendly stranger.

     A thin woman stood in front of Pat's room. She waved me in. An unfamiliar doctor stood next to the girl's bed. He didn't look at me, or turn his head away from the patient as I stood, hesitating in the door. before walking in. Pat's eyes were wide open. She even produced a vague smile. How did she manage to look beautiful even then? Her shoulder and part of her chest were bandaged, her face was pale, her hair looked lank. But she was beautiful, like a flower sprouting from a hospital bed.

     Her lips moved. I stepped closer and she motioned for me to sit down. It's amazing how we stick to our ingrained gestures. One has to be a gracious hostess, even in a hospital ward, even when only half-alive. I sat on the edge of her bed. The doctor turned and walked toward the door without speaking. He was just entering the hallway when the beeper went off in his pocket.

     "How are you?" An idiotic question. How could she be?

     Pat made a face. When I started to caress her cheek softly she closed her eyes. My fingers trailed up to her temples, I felt the softness of her hair.

     "Why did they want to shoot me?"

     I sighed, exasperated. This was the question
I
wanted to ask
her.

     "Maybe you know something and they want to keep you from telling it."

     She frowned then shook her head. The gesture must have hurt her, because she flinched immediately.

     "OK, but what is it?"

     "They might think you know who Delacroix trusted with the fifty million. Or they think you might figure it out. Did Delacroix have any real friends?"

     "He had some." She began reeling off names. I automatically took notes. A boy from the gang in the Star. A waiter from the bar where Delacroix danced. A couple of well-to-do, middle aged men.

     "No one from Frost's gang?"

     "None that I know of. Maybe. It was none of my business."

     "Do you remember the party you threw? Frost was there with his pals. Some girls. And Delacroix. Didn't he meet anyone special there?"

     "I don't know."

     She started to cry. It was a good day for it. First Celia cried on the phone, then I sobbed on Simone's shoulder, and finally Pat was doing her share of crying. At least she had a reason.

     "Is that why I was shot?"

     I didn't know what to answer. I stayed silent and looked at Pat's pale hands lying on the bed. She closed her eyes. I sat still for a minute, then got up gingerly, so as not to wake her. Why was she shot? Well, honey, because someone out there doesn't care if you're dead or alive. And this is reality, my gorgeous Patricia. No, not the damn fifty million, that's not real—only the virus, the damn virus.

     I closed the door softly as I left the room. It was hard for me to keep from slamming it shut. I felt like raging, raving, breaking something.

     I avoided looking at people, I walked along the corridor with my head lowered, my eyes averted. No Simone, no nice nurse for me now. The pay phone drew me like a magnet, I slowed my pace. "You couldn't have found a worse time for calling…Martin's unwell…" I walked on past the phone.

     I was going to get the bastard who shot Pat, and I was going to beat the living shit out of him. I was going to get Frost—and heaven help him if he tried to resist arrest. I was going to find Celia and…

     Beat her? Take her in my arms and beg her to leave Baruch and stay with me forever? Or both?

     I wanted to make up my mind but nothing was clear. All I knew was that I had to see Celia.

     I didn't want to think of her. I tried to concentrate on something simpler, more tangible: I would get the bastard who shot Patricia. I had to try to think it over—where to go first, who to interrogate first. I tried to concentrate on the names Pat gave me but they didn't mean anything. They were just names of people, one of whom I might meet and beat into a bloody pulp tonight. I was overwhelmed by a sadistic urge to hit something, shatter and kill. I reminded myself that I hadn't always been like this.

     This thought just brought me back to Celia, who had a hand in my transformation. Cursing violently, I started the car and took off with a screech of my tires.

Dark shaded panes of glass line a long narrow, tunnel-like entryway. Eight-by-ten color photos are on display near the door: A singer with her hair dyed red and a mike in her hand stands in front of blurred, applauding figures seated at round night-club tables; a woman dancing with a man in faux-Spanish costume. His black trousers are ridiculously tight and his vest shows off his flat stomach and strong arms. Victor Delacroix.

     The glassed-in entrance swallows Arany. It's a safe, private place, in between the street and the bar. The outside world has disappeared and no one can see him, so he can afford to relax for a second. He leans against the wall and lets his head droop. Then he straightens, pushes the thick, glass-paned door open and finds himself in a different world. A woman clad in shining dress and a fragile smile welcomes him. The fee is considerably higher, and the place is more elegant, than he anticipated. Arany feels out of place in his jeans, T-shirt and the light blue, rumpled denim jacket that's supposed to conceal his guns. He's packed his service revolver and another gun, too. The one that's untraceable, so he can kill someone with it and then throw it away. Ericsson shouldn't have given him that gun. He shouldn't have accepted it.

     He finds it strange that he's admitted to the club. But there aren't to many customers, so they probably can't be too choosy. The interior of the bar is dim, the mirrors, mounted at an angle behind the counter reflect blue, purple and pink lights that make Arany look slightly better dressed than he really is.

     He finds a place at a table and orders whiskey. The waiter is an older man, smartly dressed, with a long pointy nose a weak chin and red hair. His face reminds Arany of a fox. It seems unlikely that this is the waiter Pat mentioned, Delacroix's friend. The drink is weak and leaves an aftertaste he can't place. A woman at the next table is imbibing some odd looking liquid through a straw. Her slit skirt shows a great deal more of her legs than is modest, but her companion, a bigheaded man with a moustache, doesn't seem to care. He drinks a decorously poured beer, with a perfect head-of-foam, while he stares at the empty stage. There's only one couple dancing on the floor. They hold each other tight and do an old-fashioned step. The background music is rap, quick-paced and harsh, but they aren't fazed. They share a melody of their own.

     A pretty, dark-haired barmaid catches Arany's eyes for a second, then turns away, bored. Arany sits back in his soft seat and crosses his legs. He should have come here with Celia. They could have cuddled up in a booth, he would have ordered some brightcolored cocktail for her and held her hand under the table. They would have watched the dance show, and the fluid moves would have reminded them of the sex they were going to have when they got home.

     He glances at his watch. What is she doing now? What would she say if he called her now?

     He swallows the last gulp of his drink and signals the waiter. The man takes his time walking to his table. His dark trousers sport an immaculate crease, his shoes are highly polished.

     "Why did you come here?" he asks abruptly.

     Arany is caught off guard. He doesn't know which of his answers would be more appropriate. The waiter's eyes are tired. Close up, he looks sad and old, his face worn with experience.

     "What do you want here?" the waiter says again.

     Arany pushes his empty glass towards him.

     "Another whiskey, please. A real one this time."

     The waiter stands mutely, then nods. He doesn't take the empty glass away. He walks with brisk steps, his skinny figure blends with the dim interior only to appear again in the lights behind the bar. The dark haired girl glances at Arany, then turns away again. Arany watches the dancing couple, who stop and go back to their table still holding hands. A dyed blonde sits at the table next to the counter, looking bored.

     It was a damn good question. Why had he come here?

     He'd started off chasing Frost, the ex-jailbird who's handy with a knife. The brutal, unfeeling killer. What lead him from Frost to Victor Delacroix, the elegant dancer, bank robber and killer? Had they simply known each other or did they also work together?

     A dark-suited, slim figure takes shape in the dimness of the bar. There's a thick tumbler on the tray he carries. Arany contemplates the parts of the figure materializing slowly—the shoes are made of soft leather and they aren't polished like the others were. The trousers seem tighter and there's no trace of the crease in them. He looks up, and now he sees the face as well. He sees dark brown hair, slicked back with gel, thick, soft lips, a foolish, young face. The boy doesn't look at him. He puts down the glass on the table and deposits the empty one on his tray. He is turning away when Arany's voice stops him.

     "When does the floor-show start?"

     Now the boy looks at him and his features immediately twist into a look of fear and hatred. His lips agape, his eyes lacking comprehension he gasps.

     "You?!" he whispers chokingly. He mutters something inaudible, then turns and rushes to the bar. Arany sees his rounded, girlish rump leaning across the counter. Arany turns away. He's positive that this kid didn't pick up fifty million. Who could Delacroix trust with so much money? A friend? A lover? A relative?

     Ericsson had told him about the interrogation of Delacroix's brother: A carpenter who lives hundreds of miles away, in some small town. He has two kids and a steady local business. He hadn't the faintest about what his brother was up to. He'd been working all day and saw the news on television in the evening.

     They talked to the parents and friends of the boys he had killed, too. The police had been informed that both had been nice kids, that the parents knew nothing of their plans, that some of them reckoned they weren't shot by Delacroix, but the police. Poor Victor was shot only to cover up for police brutality. The interrogating team had put up with its share of the sorrow and abuse of parents. They had questioned drunkard fathers, bitter mothers, confused siblings and tearful girlfriends. A whole team of cops was assigned to the job of finding out who else was working with Delacroix.

     Why is it, Arany wonders, that I want to find this mystery person instead of letting the investigating team handle it? He glances toward the blonde sitting at the corner table. The woman turns toward him at the same time, and her painted lips draw into a slow smile. Arany toys with his glass. The loud, pulsating music stops abruptly, then the invisible DJ starts a new number. The blonde gets up, she slowly smoothes her skirt. Her crimson nails emphasize the paleness of her thighs.

     The older, fox-faced waiter passes by. He doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down, he simply looks at the woman. Arany can't see anything, but the man must have managed to convey a silent message because the woman sinks back into her chair and carefully avoids Arany's eyes.

     Arany takes a swallow from his drink. It was just as bad as the previous one. He signals the waiter. The old guy stops at his table and looks down on him with a hint of smile in the corners of his lips.

     "How well did you know him?" Arany asks.

     "He worked here." The old eyes, sparkling with cunning, look down on him.

     "Are you sorry for him?"

     The waiter straightens his bow-tie absentmindedly. He turns towards the stage as if he expected to see Delacroix there.

     "What do you want to hear? He was twenty-four, a kid. If you want me to say I'm not sorry, I'll say so. Shall I? All right, I don't give a damn about him."

     "The other two boys weren't any older and Delacroix shot from a window. Don't you feel sorry for them?"

     The old man leans closer. His posture is deferential, his voice soft.