Adrian McKinty - Hidden River

“Alex, what about you?” John asked.

“Not too bad, mate,” I told him.

Areea smiled at me. She was always here now. Before her job, after her job.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Hi,” I said.

John took the bag of bagels, split it open, and toasted three of them.

“Where’s Pat?” I asked.

“He’s putting his face on.”

Pat always spent at least an hour getting his appearance into some kind of shape for the day ahead. There were sores to be covered, a beard to be shaved extremely carefully, there was rubbing alcohol and pancake to be applied to his skin.

“I’ll just take a half, John,” I said as I went into the bedroom to boil my heroin and shoot up.

“Ok, pal,” he said. He didn’t ask where I’d been all night, or what was going on. This was one of John’s good qualities.

I found a clear track of vein, injected myself, lay down on the bed.

“Did you fall asleep?” Areea asked a couple of hours later.

“Yeah,” I said.

John gave me a look and shook his head. “You’re running late,” he said, “and your bagel’s freezing.”

“Where’s Pat now?” I asked him.

“He’s not feeling well,” John said.

“No?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go visit him.”

I walked down the hall to Pat’s. I was a bit late, but I had to ask him something.

He was wrapped in a blanket in the living room, sipping raw gin from a pint glass. His face drawn, tired.

“Get you anything, mate?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Listen, I’ve got a question. It can wait if you’re not up to it,” I said.

“Fire away. I’m better than I look.”

“Where does Cherry Creek go?”

“The river or the shopping mall?” he asked, stroking his stubble, his dead cheeks.

“The river. How could a shopping mall go anywhere?”

“It meets the South Platte at Confluence Park.”

“And then what?” I asked.

“Platte, Missouri, Mississippi, Gulf of Mexico.”

“Shit, ok, I see.”

“Why you wanna know?”

“Oh, nothing, just curious.”

“You wanna know anything else, sip of gin or a martini?”

“Nah, I have to go, actually.”

“Don’t think of fishing there or anything, just a couple of feet deep, best of times.”

“Ok, Pat, I have to head. Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“No.”

“Gotta go to work,” I said apologetically.

“Sure,” he said. “Oh, nearly forgot, last night I got a call about you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, some Native American dude from the Denver Police Department called up, wanted to know if I had anyone stay over with me on the night of June twenty-second. Maybe two Mexican, Australian, or Irish guys.”

“Shit, and what did you say?”

“I said nope, said I used to take paying guests but it wasn’t worth the hassle anymore.”

“And what did he do?”

“He thanked me, said it was just a routine inquiry, and hung up.”

“His name was Redhorse, right?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Pat said.

“Did the right thing, Pat, he’s looking for us since—”

Pat put up his hand to stop me. His eyes cold, certain.

“I don’t want to know,” he said. “The best thing is if I know nothing.”

“Ok. Probably best if you don’t tell John, either,” I said.

Pat’s eyes widened, but then he nodded and I said goodbye. I’d forgotten all about Redhorse. Or, if not forgotten, I had put him out of my mind. If I had any sense at all, I’d see that now was the time to quit, to get out of town. But I was so close. So close. And the hook was deeper than ever. She was deeper….

Incredibly, at the CAW offices Charles was there, looking a bit bleary-eyed but showered, his hair gelled back, wearing a fresh linen suit, white shirt, and tie.

“Alexander,” he said with a big grin, “you like cigars?”

“You had a baby?” I asked.

“Sort of,” he said, laughing. “I gave my first public speech last night.”

“How did it go?” I asked.

“Very well. Here,” he said and give me a silver tube.

Charles explained that he’d given the speech to a packed hall in Aspen, made lots of contacts, and then driven back this morning. He had even met Newt Gingrich and Senator Dole. He said that giving a speech wasn’t that much different from lecturing, or presenting a brief, or doing a rap at a door, except that you had to read off a Teleprompter, which took some getting used to.

“Wow, that’s cool, did you write the speech?” I asked.

“Robert and I wrote it. Robert wanted to come and, of course, Amber wanted to come, but, I don’t know, I thought it might be easier if I was there on my own. Amber tells me you escorted her to that play she’s been going on about.”

I nodded. He smiled. There he was. Together, tall, confident, just the sort of person who gets elected to Congress, whose past indiscretions are swept under a rug, never to see the light of day, the sort of fucker who pops up on a vice presidential ticket five years from now. I don’t know what kind of a person Maggie Prestwick was, but I’ll bet she was worth ten of Charles. Victoria Patawasti, I know, was worth a hundred.

“Come on, we’re having a meeting, everyone’s invited, including the campaigners,” he said.

“How democratic,” I muttered.

The meeting was just a pep rally for Charles. He talked about his speech and the conference, how he’d met half a dozen senators, congressmen, and governors. He told us that we should all be ready to see some big changes in CAW in the coming months. CAW was going to be adopted by influential people within the GOP as a counterweight to Greenpeace and the Sierra Club, who were firmly in the Democratic camp. It would mean more money, more work, more potential for growth. He didn’t mention August 6, but he was itching to, I could see that.

My eyes flitted down the table to Amber. Dressed in burgundy slacks and a tight silk cream sweater, her hair piled under a beret, it was a look I hadn’t seen her pull off before. She resembled Faye Dunaway in one of those films from the seventies. She mustn’t have had time to fix her hair before Charles had unexpectedly shown up. That would have been fun if he’d appeared even sooner, interesting seeing her talk her way out of that one. Would Charles’s violent streak extend also to the killing of his wife and her lover in their marital bed? No, a bit too clichéd for him. It would not serve his future self.

The meeting broke up, and although Amber looked nervy, I needed to speak to her. I pushed through the crowd.

“Nice hat,” I said, just as Abe bumped into her, making her spill her tea.

“What?” she said, glaring at Abe.

“Sorry,” Abe said, chastened.

“Forget it,” Amber said, recovering her poise and giving me a nod.

“What did you say, Alex?” she asked.

“I like your chapeau,” I said.

“Thank you, Alexander.”

“You look like Faye Dunaway,” I said.

“Faye Dunaway?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t she always play the villainess?”

“No, I don’t think so. She was the victim in Chinatown .”

“Well, that’s not good either,” she said with a tight smile.

“Hey, it was cool about Charles, wasn’t it, apparently he was a big hit,” I said.

“He was, I really should have been there, it was selfish of me to go to the play,” she said almost to herself.

“But you would have put him off,” I said.

“Yes, that’s what he said,” she muttered.

“Next time, maybe he’ll want all of us there, as his confidence grows,” I said.

“Perhaps,” she said, and looked at me for the first time. Abe, Robert, and Charles began laughing at something. I took the opportunity to lead Amber to the windows at the far side of the room. I kept my eye on the trio behind us. Maybe we were looking at the gray clouds, debating the possibility of rain. Denver needed rain badly.