Don Winslow - A Long Walk Up the Waterslide

“You do?”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s your problem, Neal,” she said. “You don’t trust people.”

“Occupational hazard,” he answered.

“That’s part of it,” Karen said. “You really don’t trust women.”

Skip the rest of it, Neal thought. I’ve already heard it. How my father never showed up and my mother was a junkie hooker and so I never really had a chance to be a kid and learn to trust and yadda-yadda-yadda. It might be true, but I still have to get up mornings.

“I trust you,” he said, “and you’re a woman. Singular. You get trust combined with collective nouns and you’re right. I don’t trust women, and I don’t trust men, for that matter.”

“You trust Graham.”

True, he thought.

“What about Landis?” he asked her. “He says he never touched her. Do you trust him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s lying,” Karen said.

“And you know this because she’s telling the truth.”

“Right.”

“Try this out,” he said. “Suppose they had an affair, which I agree they probably did. One night he says he wants sex; she says she doesn’t. He thinks she’s playing and forces the issue. To him, it was a game; to her, it was rape. Which is it?”

“Rape.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said.

“It’s just that simple,” she insisted. “The difficult question is, why does Polly have to become Audrey Hepburn before she can be believed?”

“Let me remind you that just this morning all Polly Paget was to you was a Jacuzzi on the deck,” Neal said. “It doesn’t make us all that different from the newspapers, the magazines, or the TV shows. We all have an economic interest in that commodity known as Polly Paget, who is now asleep on the bed in our study.”

“Ouch,” Karen answered. She snuggled up a little tighter. “You’re right, but she’s still a person, and I like her.”

“So do you want her to be Polly Paget and lose or Audrey Hepburn and win?”

Karen thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “I want her to win.”

So do I, Neal thought. At least I think I do. The question is, how?

Walter Withers was asleep in the chair when Gloria’s phone rang.

She kicked his ankle and said, “Hey, Sam Spade, wake up.”

Withers came to and looked at his watch.

Three o’clock in the morning, he thought. How long have I been out?

He heard Gloria say she’d accept the charges.

“Is that you?” Gloria said a couple of seconds later.

“Sorry I’m calling so late,” Polly whispered, “but I had to wait until they went to sleep. Did I wake you up?”

“I was having a nightcap,” Gloria said. She motioned Withers to stay still in his chair. “How are you? Where are you?”

“I’m in the middle of freaking nowhere with some English teacher and his girlfriend. She’s nice, but he’s kind of a grouchy nerd. He’s supposed to teach me how to talk.”

“Honey, that’s the last thing you need.” Gloria laughed.

“Talk right, I mean, so I sound like a lady.”

“Well, la-di-da,” Gloria said. “Who set you up with these people?”

“My lawyers. And it’s supposed to be a top secret kind of thing, so don’t tell anyone. I just had to call you because I’m lonely and I’m scared.”

“Scared? Sweetie, of what?” Gloria asked.

“It’s just so weird. This place is so, you know, out there.”

“Out where?” Gloria asked.

Yes, Withers thought. Out where?

“Austin, it’s called.”

Withers heard Gloria say, “You’re in Texas!”

“I don’t think so,” Polly answered. “I think we’re still in Nevada. We are, because they had a slot machine in the gas station. Gloria, I can’t stay on the phone for long. I just wanted to hear your voice and tell you where I am in case something happens to me.”

“Honey, why should anything happen to you?” Gloria asked.

“I gotta go, Gloria,” Polly whispered.

“You have a phone number?”

“Yeah, hold on.” Polly read the number off the phone. “But hang up if anyone but me answers. No one is supposed to know I’m here.”

“I got it, kid,” Gloria said. “Take care of yourself. I love you.

“Love you, too,” Polly said.

Gloria set down the receiver and looked at Walter. He was rumpled and bleary-eyed. His old Brooks Brothers suit was wrinkled and his shirt was stained. He was an old-school gentleman in a world that didn’t have much use for old-school gentlemen.

“She’s in Austin, Nevada, sport,” Gloria said. “Wherever that is.”

Withers groped for the briefcase at his feet, set it on his lap, and fumbled with the combination lock. When he got it open, he counted out five thousand dollars and handed it to Gloria.

“Are you going to offer me a nightcap?” he asked.

“Yeah, at the Blarney Stone. You can beat closing time if you get a cab now,” she said. “Put it on my tab.”

Withers pulled himself out of the chair.

“It’s been a lovely evening, my dear,” he said.

She found a scrap of paper by the phone, wrote “Austin, Nevada” and Polly’s phone number on it, and stuck it in his pocket.

“In case you forget,” she said. “And Walter, take care of that money. Stay away from the bookies.”

“Gloria,” he said with some surprise, “you have maternal instincts.”

She pushed him out the door.

When she heard the elevator door open and close, she picked up the phone.

A tired male voice answered. “It’s about time.”

“She’s in Austin, Nevada.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“How would I know? Get a map.”

“Did you send your boy on his way?”

“I did my job, knuckle-dragger,” Gloria snapped. “Do yours.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Gloria cradled the phone in her neck and poured herself a drink. “And tell your boss this settles my debt. The account is closed.”

“Well, that’s between you and him.”

“Just tell him.”

Gloria hung up the phone. She sat down on the sofa and knocked back the drink. It would be tough getting to sleep tonight, tougher than usual. Maybe she should have let Walter stay. But he was lousy in bed, lousier when he was drinking, and he was always drinking these days.

You’ve been going at it pretty hard yourself, kiddo, she thought. Especially since Joey Foglio bought out your debt from Sammy Black. You knew even then that something bad was going to happen.

Chick nudged Sammy Black awake and pointed across the street at Walter Withers getting into a taxi.

“About time,” Sammy said. They’d been sitting in the car on Fifty-seventh since following Withers back from the Plaza.

“You think he got lucky?” Chick smirked.

“Walter never gets lucky.”

Chick smiled at him.

“What?” Sammy asked.

“Aren’t you going to say, ‘Follow that cab’?”

“Drive the car.”

Sammy had confidence in Chick’s ability to follow the cab. Helen Keller could follow Walter Withers at three in the morning. All she’d need would be directions to the Blarney Stone.

“Don’t get too close,” Sammy said as Chick turned left on Third Avenue, behind the cab.

“You slammed her a few times, didn’t you?” Chick asked.

“Who?”

“Gloria.”

“No,” Sammy lied. “I wouldn’t have if I could have, which I could, because she owed me a bundle.”

“Why did Joey Beans want the book on her, anyway? He wanted to slam her?”

“I don’t know; I didn’t ask,” Sammy said. “When someone big as Joey Foglio-and don’t you ever call him Joey Beans again-reaches out all the way from Texas and wants to buy a piece of your book, you sell, not ask. Here we are.”