BIGGER FISH
It was 5:36. Almost there. Jordan checked the electrophoresis gel. Electrophoresis was used to separate DNA fragments by their length. There was a light band, then the dark clump of the bulk of the strands, then another faint band. He separated out the two aberrant clusters and added the remainder to his sample. Done. He took a sterile swab from its paper wrapper and smeared it across the depression in the sample plate before dropping it into one of the plastic evidence bags Dennis had left him. There was enough left for two more Q-tips, so he prepared and bagged those, as well.
When Dennis arrived just after six, Jordan was asleep, slumped against the wall with the three evidence bags in his lap. Dennis shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Wakey, wakey, Doc. Time to go.” He took the three plastic bags. “This it?”
“That’s it.” Jordan nodded.
* * *
Dennis dropped him off just as the sun rose. Jordan stumbled up the stairs. He pulled the drapes and fell fully clothed onto the bed.
* * *
When he awoke it was dark again. Almost 8:30 at night. He’d slept almost fourteen hours. He felt empty, empty in the most literal sense. He remembered doing a fast once when Stephanie had been trying to lose the last ten pounds of baby weight after Haden was born. He had joined in a show of emotional support. After three days of nothing but lemonade with cayenne and maple syrup he had felt the same sort of hallucinogenic clarity he felt now. Everything seemed overly sharp and yet disconnected; it was like trying to navigate the world through a microscope.
He took a long shower. The shower, in the French fashion, was a handheld in the bath.
There was no curtain so Jordan sat cross-legged in the deep, narrow tub. He put the drain stopper in so the tub gradually filled.
When it was full he turned off the tap and lay back in the gray water with everything but his knees and head immersed. The sound of occasional drops from the faucet reverberated loudly over the distant bustle of the city.
When the bath cooled to room temperature he pulled the stopper. The retreating water clung to his skin, reluctantly yielding his body to the air. When, with a slurp, the last of the bath drained, Jordan unsteadily got to his feet and took a clean towel off the stack.
He brushed his teeth. The man looking back in the mirror seemed unfamiliar. He had a set to his jaw and force in his gaze that Jordan didn’t recognize. He was thinner as well, and harder. As he got dressed, his stomach gurgled hollowly. He had to eat. He pulled on a white ribbed sweater and his blue peacoat and headed out.
* * *
“Mike, it’s Julie. Listen to me, whatever you’re into, drop it. That 202 is government. I couldn’t get any more specific and that’s a bad sign. Could be CIA, or NSA, or it could be some off-the-books thing, but whatever it is, it’s not something you want to mess with. Let it go. Take care of yourself. I’ll see you around.”
Herron played the message again, then deleted it. What did that mean? Did it change the story or just mean Prenn hung out with a better class of hitters? Curiouser and curiouser.
* * *
“Ça va, Yanqui?”
“Ça va, con,” Jordan said as he slid into his seat. Gitanes laughed quietly but didn’t look up from his paper. Jordan’s favorite waitress, Virginie, was working and dropped a basket of sliced baguette and a carafe of wine as she whisked by. The dinner rush was in full swing at Le Pré.
Jordan peeled open a butter packet and slathered a slice of bread. It was the best thing he could ever remember having eaten. He emptied the basket in minutes.
Virginie laughed when she returned with a plate of boeuf chasseur, a rich stew with mushrooms and carrots. “You are hungry tonight?”
He nodded and dove in. It was as if he had never eaten before. She brought a fresh basket of bread and he sopped up the last drops of juice from the plate. He had finished the carafe of wine, as well. Any hesitation he might have had about drinking within minutes of waking up was quickly overcome by context.
The immediate needs sated, Jordan pushed back his chair and sighed deeply. Gitanes was studying him over the top of his paper. Jordan shrugged with a smile and said, “That was fucking good.” His eyes felt as though they were open unnaturally wide.
Virginie cleared away the empty dishes and said, “Dessert, monsieur?”
“Sure,” Jordan said.
“Et mon calva, Virginie,” Gitanes added.
She returned with two small snifters and a nearly empty bottle of calvados. She poured the glasses and left the bottle. “Santé,” Gitanes said, raising his snifter and giving the clear eau-de-vie a quick swirl.
“Cheers,” Jordan returned. The spirit was narrow and hot at first; turpentine sprang to mind. But then it mellowed as the warmth radiated throughout Jordan’s body. Virginie put down a steaming slice of tarte tatin topped with a mound of crème fraîche. As Jordan ate, his companion launched into one of his incomprehensible recitations. Jordan nodded when it seemed appropriate but otherwise let the old man’s monologue flow into the sea of muddled eddies and currents that filled the restaurant.
It was getting late. The rush had passed, though most of the tables were still occupied with groups lingering over dessert or drink. Jordan’s companion, who seemed completely unaffected by the alcohol, waved to Virginie and shouted, “Absinthe, chérie!” She made a disapproving face but brought the bottle.
Jordan shook his head. “No, I’ve seen this movie. It didn’t end well.”
Gitanes paid no attention but poured a shot in each of their empty glasses. Then he balanced his fork over one and put a sugar cube on it. He slowly trickled water from the little pitcher so it ran over the sugar and into the glass, blooming in a milky cloud. He pushed the glass to Jordan and repeated the process with his own. They tipped their glasses and drank. A flood of memories rose up all at once, threatening to overwhelm his newfound sense of well-being.
“Let me tell you a story,” Jordan said. “I was drinking this shit a couple of weeks ago in Tokyo...” Could it have only been a couple of weeks? He felt that he had died and been reborn at least twice since that night.
“I ended up almost sleeping with this child prostitute. And then I ran.” Jordan glanced up. The old man was fumbling with the pack of cigarettes. He finally shook one out and tamped it against the crystal of his watch. Jordan picked up the Zippo on the table and lit it. Gitanes nodded thanks and sat back, staring off into the middle distance, no doubt lost in his own memories.
“I should back up,” Jordan went on. “I told you my family thinks I’m dead, right? I was a biologist once upon a time. Hard to believe, I know. My partner, my best friend, screwed me over. He wanted me gone. I think mostly so he could fuck my wife. Shakespeare, isn’t it? And I walked right into it.”
Over the next hour, as the customers drifted out of Le Pré aux Clercs, Jordan relived every moment of the past six months. “And last night,” he said, “last night I put the message in the bottle and threw it into the sea. But no one will ever find it because I am dead.” His head lolled forward into his hands and his shoulders began to shake. He couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying.
Gitanes spoke. It took a moment for Jordan to realize he was speaking English. “After the first glass you see things as you wish they were, after the second you see things as they are not. Finally you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world.” Jordan looked up; the old man was turning the empty absinthe bottle in his weathered hands. “Oscar Wilde, I think.”