Jonathan Franzen - The Twenty-Seventh City - A Novel

“You’ve been getting the money, haven’t you?”

“It’s Singh again. Isn’t it.”

“I hardly see Singh.”

“Well. It’s your life.”

“I said I hardly see him. I don’t know what your problem is.”

“You can tell me. I’ve reconciled myself.”

“I asked if you’d been getting the money.”

“Some money, yes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You’ve been clearing a hundred twenty percent and the rate is climbing. He sends you photocopies of every—”

“Photocopies, yes.”

“Send Karam back here if you don’t believe me.”

“I will. You can be sure I will. And I do hope you’re more civil to him this time.”

“Ho. I wasn’t civil.”

“Karam isn’t one to complain, but I had the impression. His feelings were hurt. He’s a sensitive man, Essie. Very tender where you’re concerned. Like a father. I understand that Singh was violent. I’m not surprised. But you’re thirty-five years old now. There comes a time.”

“It’s over between Singh and me, Maman. He’s leaving in a month and I doubt I’ll ever see him again.”

“All the more reason to watch him. I was given to understand a hundred percent was a minimum figure. I was sure you’d do better.”

“Singh isn’t stealing your money. No one cares about your money. No one’s as greedy as you are.”

“Nor as naïve as you. Think about that.”

“You make two-twenty on every dollar you spent in September. The exchange rates are good. As for the taxes, well, I warned you. Don’t think you’re the only one getting taxed. I’m having enough trouble with—”

“Karam will be with you next week. If you warn Singh he’s coming I’ll be very unhappy with you. But not surprised. A mother can tell.”

“I will remind you I’ve known Singh for nineteen years.”

“A mother can tell.”

Who’s Singh? Norris asked.

Dunno. Dozen Thinghth on our litht and fifty aliathes .

What’s the money?

Thupposedly Asha’s, actually the mother’s .

Anything we can nail her for?

Not yet .

Jammu left the lights on in her office, ducked into the bathroom, and changed into long pants and a leather patrolman’s jacket. She pinned her hair and put on a cap, pulling down the bill. Operatives of Pokorny had been following her movements — General Norris had enough wealth to fund an army of spies — and she had to be more careful now. She crossed the walkbridge to the Police Academy, exited onto Spruce, and got in the unmarked Plymouth that Rollie Smith had left at the curb for her. It was a good thing she didn’t need to make surprise inspections often. She drove for twenty minutes before she was sure she wasn’t being tailed. Then she crossed the Mississippi on the MLK Bridge and entered East St. Louis, Illinois.

East St. Louis was a small-scale version of the South Bronx, of Watts, of North Philly. These cratered streets three miles east of the Arch would have been a menace or a social issue for people in St. Louis if they weren’t protected by a wide river and a state line. Singh had done well to imprison Barbara Probst in his loft here. The town was a black hole in the local cosmos, a place so poor and vicious that even organized crime stayed away. No one would expect a finicky psychopath like John Nissing to take his pretty hostage to an area where stepping out of one’s car — where even letting up on the gas pedal — invited death. Jammu parked by the rear loading dock of the warehouse and walked quickly to the door. Asha had given her a set of keys. On the top floor she unlocked a steel door and, to make sure Singh didn’t shoot her by mistake, whistled a fragment of an old drinking song:

Then she went in.

Singh did not look up from the papers spread around him on the floor. He was punching with a single finger, rustically, on the keyboard of a calculator. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said.

“My mother thinks you’re skimming some of her profits.”

“How is the dear old woman?”

“Bhandari’s coming to do another audit next week.”

“Interesting that you warn me.”

She sighed. “I appreciate your doing all this for me.”

“Not at all, not at all.” He drew a red line through a column of figures and stood. “You came to view the merchandise?”

“Yes.”

He opened a door and they passed through an empty room. “The word is mum,” he whispered. He parted a set of curtains to reveal the door. Jammu looked up at the peephole, which was set near the top. Singh went away. He returned with a small stepladder with pads of grooved black rubber. She climbed it and peered into the last room.

It was also empty, or nearly so, its walls and floor and ceiling curving together in the peephole’s optics like the skin of a bubble. The woman and the mattress appeared to cling, suspended, to the floor. She lay on her stomach reading in the light of a dim lamp. Her hair hung loose and overgrown and shaded the rest of her body from the light. Jammu could just barely make out the legs extending to the foot of the bed, the cable connecting her ankle to the wall. But the face was unmistakable. This was Martin’s wife. Jammu had heard her and heard about her as a free person moving through St. Louis. Now she might have been a butterfly tickling Jammu’s palms. Jammu wanted to crush her. Your husband doesn’t love you. Your daughter doesn’t need you. Your Nissing’s an old fairy. She couldn’t remember why she’d objected to the kidnapping. She hated to think of letting Barbara go, of throwing away a thing bought at such a price. She didn’t see how she could survive without moments such as this, without total control. Who are you? This was Martin’s question. When she was with him she forgot the answer, but she remembered now. Barbara glanced up from her book and gazed at the door.

Satisfied, Jammu stepped off the ladder and crossed the room again. Singh followed. “Exactly as advertised,” he said, shutting the second door. “Safe and sound.”

“I know she’s safe. As long as the release goes smoothly.”

“Quite.” He hovered at the outside door, waiting for her to leave.

“It will go smoothly.”

“Should.”

“You’re still a psychopath.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not ready to leave, you know.”

“Oh.” He walked to the middle of the room and sat down on the floor. “You make it with Probst yet?”

Jammu entered the kitchenette. “What do you have to drink here?”

“Tap water. Tang.”

“Aren’t we pure these days.” She put one of his clove cigarettes between her lips and leaned over the gas stove. “Do you find him attractive, Singh?” she said in a conciliatory voice, dragging.

“No, ma’am. You ought to know by now.”

“I can’t always tell.”

“As a rule—”

“You’ve been slack with your abstracts lately,” she said. “I don’t want to see any itineraries. I want it all digested.”

“What’s to digest? Use a plate for the ashes, please. It’s become rather Heisenbergian. The more we take away from Probst, the fewer gauges we have of what’s happening. He talks to almost no one. He has no friends. Except you, of course, as I’m sure you are aware and will exploit. But since we’ve yanked most of the bugs, it’s probably just as well. The phone taps help, but the quality has been terrible since I cut the amperage. This Pokorny needs to have another accident arranged. Bombay would have been the ideal place for it. It was a mistake not to have Bhise follow through. Have you considered—”

“Not this close to Billerica. Anyway, Pokorny’s replaceable.”