IT’S MAYBE 2:00 OR 3:00 AM WHEN I AWAKEN to the smell of Esmée still clinging to the sheets and to the unmistakable sensation of someone’s presence in the apartment. Esmée left hours ago, and though the lights are out and I hear nothing but the sound of the air conditioner cycling, my instincts tell me I’m right. Sliding off of the bed as quietly as I can, I crouch and try to remember where I put my telescoping baton. All right, got it, my inside sportjacket pocket, but where’s the jacket?
Too late for that anyway. Someone’s standing in the doorway of the bedroom, and I don’t know if he sees me or not.
I’m next to an end table, and as quietly as possible I run my hand over it, trying to remember whether there’s anything on it that might be used as a weapon. My hand clasps something oblong, made of stone and weighing a good two and a half kilos.
I’m creeping toward the figure when a flash goes off, the sound of gunfire mostly muffled by a silencer. A moment later my would-be killer flicks on the light switch and reveals himself: Claude Guiteau has come to do his own dirty work, using his own two hands. I’m almost proud of the old boy as I swing my blunt object down over his head. This all takes place in the split second he stands there puzzling over the fact that there’s no corpse in the bed, just a bullet hole in the pillow.
Once down, he’s not completely out. The pistol’s on the floor, though, and for a few slow moments he gazes in blurry puzzlement up at me. Then to my relief, he passes out; I don’t want to hit him again, having realized that I’ve bludgeoned him with a very fine piece of antique jade, another blow to which might snap it.
I set about restraining him and consider my options. What, for example, will happen if I call the cops? Scandal would lead to some really first-rate publicity, which would in no way harm my bankability; but with Claude in prison our project would stall, maybe fatally.
Kill him? Not here, in his own apartment, certainly. It occurs to me that, given his line of work, he might have the kind of enemies who’d pay to see him dead, might even pay to have him handed over alive in order to kill him themselves in some exquisitely horrible and painful manner.
But having the man tortured to death seems unsporting. After all, this attempt on my life would have been instantaneous and quite possibly painless, had he succeeded. I dial Fred, whose business this is whether he knows it or not, and tell him to come over immediately and to be discreet about it. Take a cab and get out a couple of blocks away, I tell him.
“You want to have a story meeting now? At three-fifteen in the morning?”
“Not a story meeting. This is more of a finance meeting. Now get your ass on over here.”
• • •
By the time he arrives I have poor Claude trussed up like a prize steer at a rodeo. In one unlocked drawer in the closet was a plentiful supply of ropes, gags, nipple clips, and so on, something I’ll have to question Esmée about at some future date. For the moment, however, they’re perfect for restraining Claude, who has yet to regain consciousness. When Fred walks into the kitchen he finds Claude unconscious and tightly bound to the chair with a bright sky-blue ball gag stuffed in his mouth.
“Holy shit,” Fred says.
“Yeah. You got any ideas for getting rid of the son of a bitch?”
“Who is he?”
I’d forgotten Fred hadn’t met him yet. “Esmée’s husband.”
His voice rises about an octave. “Our backer?”
“He tried to kill me.”
“What for?”
“I guess he found out I was banging his old lady.”
“Goddamn it.” He raises his hands to his temples and spins around once in disbelief at my carelessness. “Didn’t I warn you not to do that? Shit. You think he’s going to put up the money now?”
I had given that a fair amount of thought while preparing for Fred’s arrival. He wasn’t going to put up any money now, that was for sure. “That’s what you’re here for. You’re the brains of the outfit.”
He stares at Claude for a minute, the cogs rolling in his head, and I feel a sudden burst of confidence in him. Whatever I’ve done, Fred’s the guy who’s going to make it better.
“Happy Friday the thirteenth,” I tell him. “I do have one small suggestion. I know a girl who has access to a meat locker.”
He thinks it over, seems to approve. He’s a smart fellow, cautious and analytical, and if he approves of the idea, I feel certain it’s a sound one.
Maybe, I think, I’m home free. Maybe the curse of the calendar did its damage to Claude rather than to me. I am, after all, a member of a superstitious profession, an avoider of black cats and hats left on the bed and broken mirrors. Perhaps the gods of superstitions have rewarded me for all my years of fidelity.
• • •
Or maybe I’m fucked.