Peter Abrahams - Lights Out

“Mr. Messer?” Karen said. No answer. “Doctor?”

She climbed up, bent over him. Messer had a hole in his head too, but in the back. She felt his neck for a pulse. There was none.

Karen knelt by the body bag, found the zipper, pulled it down, shone the pencil flash inside. The body bag was empty.

“Oh, God,” Luanne said. “He got away. He’s free, free, free.” She reached in for the bag, held it to her face.

“Don’t be stupid,” Karen said, moving into the front of the ambulance to call the police.

Luanne wasn’t listening. She was standing by the road, peering into the night for some sign of Willie Boggs, the body bag trailing behind her.

A few hours later they found Willie’s body, singed on the temples, wrists, and ankles from the electrodes, jammed into a locked supplies closet in the prison infirmary. The inmates were rousted and counted. All present, except for the occupant of cell 93 on the third tier of C-Block: Angel Cruz, known as El Rojo. The picture of the boy in the cowboy outfit that had been taped to the wall of C-93 was gone too.

Eddie parked Jack’s car outside 434 Collins Avenue. He remembered the address, remembered word for word the letter that had lain in his locker for almost fifteen years. One third of his accumulated correspondence: not hard to remember.

Wm. P. Brice

Investigation and Security

434 Collins Ave., Miami

Dear Mr. Ed Nye:

As I informed your brother, all our best efforts to locate the individual known as JFK have to this point in time been unsuccessful. Lacking further funds to continue, we are obliged to terminate the investigation.

Four-thirty-four Collins Avenue was a faded-pink office building with a Space Available sign on the roof. Eddie got out of the car, taking the backpack with him. The sky was blue, the sun gold, the air hot. Hot to Eddie, at least, still wearing Jack’s wintertime clothing. He went inside.

The lobby was small and dark. There was a single elevator with graffiti scratched on its steel door, and a black office-directory board with white rubberized letters and numbers, some missing.

Brice and Colon Security, he read, number 417. Eddie took the elevator to the top floor.

“Ring and Enter, Pujar y Entrar ,” was written on a plastic strip taped to the door of 417. Eddie rang and entered.

A brassy-haired receptionist looked up from her magazine. She raised what was left of her eyebrows.

“I’d like to see Mr. Brice,” Eddie said.

“Name?”

“Ed Nye.”

The receptionist picked up her phone. “A Mr. Ed Nye to see you.” Eddie heard a voice on the other end: harsh, loud, metallic. The receptionist hung up and said: “Very last door on your right.”

Eddie went past her, into a short corridor. There were only two doors to choose from; perhaps the receptionist fantasized herself part of a big operation. The first was closed and had “Senor Colon” on the front. The second was open. Eddie walked in.

An old man was sitting with his feet up on his desk. The soles of his shoes were worn; so were the carpet, the desk, his face, his eyes. A white-mesh screen covered his throat.

“Mr. Brice?”

The old man took his feet off the desk, tugged at the mesh screen, and replied. At least, his lips moved and sound came from him, harsh, loud, metallic. Eddie understood none of it.

The old man pointed to the white mesh and spoke again. His mouth, lips, tongue, all moved to shape words, but the sound came from whatever was under the mesh screen. This time Eddie caught most of it. “Sawbones took my larynx, Mr. Nye. Got to listen close.”

Eddie nodded.

“Siddown.”

Eddie sat, laying the backpack on the floor.

“What can I do for you?” the old man said. The voice was amplified, mechanical, like a robot’s; at the same time, there was something disembodied about it, which made Eddie think of the oracle in a book of Greek legends he’d read.

“You’re William Brice?”

“I am.”

“My name’s Ed Nye.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Does it mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“Maybe not,” Eddie said. “It was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Fifteen years. My brother hired you to find someone.”

Brice wore thick glasses. Behind them were little brown eyes that watched Eddie’s face. He inhaled sharply, like a singer getting ready for a hard note. “And did I?” he said.

“No. But I’d like to know how far you got.”

“Why?”

“I’m still looking for him.”

“Your brother should have anything like that. I always send a case summary, win or lose.” Brice took a raspy gulp of air, short of breath, as though the machine in his throat was exhausting his supply.

“I’d like a copy of it,” Eddie said, “if your records go back that far.”

“I got records of every case. Thirty-six years.” Brice sucked in another deep breath. “But I don’t give them away.”

“How much?”

The little brown eyes looked Eddie up and down, as though assessing his net worth. Eddie’s net worth was right there on the floor of Brice’s office: $488,220.

“Fifty bucks,” Brice said.

“Okay.”

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“J. M. Nye. Jack.”

Brice picked up his phone, held the speaker halfway between his throat and his mouth. “Rita? Bring me the file on Jack or J. M. Nye.” He hung up, leaned back in his chair. “So who are you looking for?”

“A drug smuggler from the Bahamas.”

“No shortage of those. What’s special about this one?” Another raspy breath.

“He committed a crime that someone else paid for.”

There was a pause, but brief. “Someone else like you?”

Eddie nodded.

“Thought so. Moment you came in.” The words, amplified and mechanical, had an official sound, like an announcement over a loudspeaker. “How much time did you do?”

“All of it.”

“How much was all.”

“Fifteen years.”

This pause was longer. “That means you just got out.”

“Right.”

“Maybe I could take a gander at the fifty bucks.”

“First we’ll see if you’ve got anything,” Eddie said.

“I got something. I got something on every case.” Brice glanced down at the backpack. “What’s this drug smuggler’s name?”

“Kidd,” said Eddie. “But we didn’t know that at the time. All we knew then was his nickname.”

“What was it?”

“JFK.”

Brice sat straighter in his chair, just a little, and lowered his gaze. His hand went to the desk drawer, opened it, took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, inhaled deeply, blew smoke. Some came through his nose and mouth, some through the white-mesh screen.

“Now do you remember?” Eddie said.

Brice shook his head. “Kind of a funny nickname, that’s all.”

The brassy-haired woman came through the door carrying a file, stopped dead. “God in heaven,” she said. “Look what you’re doing.”

Brice glanced down at the cigarette in his hand, then glared at her. “I got a client in here, Rita.” A blue wisp curled through the mesh screen. She dropped the file on the desk and left without another word.

“Not married, are you?” Brice asked.

“No.”

“Neither’s Rita, soon as her next divorce goes through.” Eddie didn’t respond. Brice opened the file. There was a single sheet of lined yellow notepad paper inside. Handwriting filled the top third. The rest was blank. It didn’t seem like a lot for Mr. Trimble’s thousand dollars.

“That’s it?” Eddie said.