Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

A man of about Wyatt’s height, maybe ten or twelve years older-Wyatt had trouble guessing the ages of older people who weren’t yet old-wearing small oval eyeglasses with expensive-looking frames.

“No,” Wyatt said.

“Visiting one of the tenants?” the man said.

Wyatt shrugged. It was none of this guy’s business. The guy shifted the garment bag on his shoulder impatiently. A soft leather garment bag, also expensive-looking, and on the side a sticker:

CHECK ROOM, HOTEL DYNASTY, HONG KONG.

“The reason I ask,” the man said, “is that I happen to own this building and I’ve spent a lot of time and money making it safe for my tenants.”

“Your name’s Van?” Maybe not the smartest move-maybe no move at all would have been smarter-but the question just came out on its own.

The man put down his suitcase. “That’s what some people call me. Who are you?”

Wyatt felt his chin tilting up. “A friend of Greer Torrance’s,” he said.

Van’s face flushed slightly. “What kind of friend?”

“That’s for her to say.”

“Is it?” Van said. He looked down his nose at Wyatt and said, “Fine.” Then he ran his finger down the row of buzzers and jabbed it at Greer’s. No answer. Van turned to him. “Your friend Greer, whatever kind of friend she happens to be, doesn’t seem to be in at the moment, so I can’t see you’ve got any reason to be hanging around my door.” He turned the key and let himself in, shoving the suitcase along with his foot, then banging the door closed with his elbow. Wyatt jabbed his own finger at Greer’s buzzer and kept it there. He thought he heard it sounding up above.

Wyatt backed away from the door, right under the water pouring from the mouth of the stone creature, soaking his head. He ran to the Mustang, water dripping down the back of his neck, and jumped inside. Looking up, he saw Van watching him from Greer’s front window. He overcame any stupid impulses, like giving him the finger, but he didn’t drive off until Van backed away from the window. Owned the goddamn building: a few gaps in his understanding of Greer began filling themselves in.

Wyatt headed for the bowling alley. Any chance she’d be there? Probably not, but where else could he look? He was almost there when his phone rang.

UNKNOWN CALLER. Wyatt answered on the first ring.

“Wyatt? Sonny here. Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No.”

“Good,” Sonny said. “I’d hate to be intrusive. The thing is I’m available at visiting time today.” Wyatt was trying to think how to respond when Sonny continued, “And I understand you’re back in town.”

The back of Wyatt’s neck, already wet, now felt cold as well. “How do you know that?”

“I just do.”

“But I’m asking you how.” Was he being followed somehow? Wyatt looked around, saw normal-looking traffic moving in normal-looking ways.

“It’s nothing nefarious,” Sonny said. “Why don’t I explain in person?”

Wyatt walked through the metal detector. “Arms up for the corrections officer, please.” Wyatt raised his arms, got wanded. A CO led him down the corridor. The cement floor was still wet, or wet again. “Never gets old, for some reason,” the CO said, “plugging the toilets.” They stepped around the slowly spreading pools; the smell couldn’t be avoided.

The visiting room was empty. Wyatt took a plastic seat in the same row he’d occupied before. He read the visiting room notice about what not to wear and what not to do, and counted the video cameras-nine. He heard a clang, distant and muffled, and felt a faint vibration in the floor.

The inmate door opened and Sonny came through, followed by the big female CO with the dreadlocks. Sonny was dressed as before in spotless unwrinkled khakis. The CO glanced at Wyatt, then sat at the end of the row against the opposite wall, as far from them as she could be. Sonny smiled and sat next to Wyatt. He looked rested and relaxed, and somehow stronger than before; maybe the first time Wyatt hadn’t really noticed how Sonny’s muscles stretched his shirt. There wasn’t a hint of gray in his dark hair, and the few lines on his face were shallow and very fine, hardly visible at all.

“Hi, Wyatt,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

“How did you know I was in Silver City?” Wyatt said.

“Direct and to the point-I’m getting the idea that’s your style,” Sonny said, his smile still there, just not as broad. “The answer is Bert told me.”

Meaning Greer must have told Bert, and therefore Greer had to have been up in her apartment the whole time he was outside at the buzzer. Was there another explanation? Not that Wyatt could see. “So what’s wrong with her?” he said.

“Not quite following you,” Sonny said.

“You told me something was wrong,” Wyatt began, then lowered his voice. “Something you couldn’t talk about on the phone.” He glanced at the CO. She was gazing off into space. Wyatt felt a moment of anger, directed at himself. Why had he lowered his voice? He wasn’t a criminal, had done nothing wrong, didn’t need to get stealthy in front of someone in a uniform.

Sonny turned to the CO, raised his voice. “All phone conversations are recorded, right, Taneeka?”

Taneeka nodded. “In and out.”

“Which is why it’s best not to discuss a lot of personal details on the phone,” Sonny said.

“I sure as hell wouldn’t,” said Taneeka. She unwrapped a stick of gum.

Sonny nodded, turned back to Wyatt. Wyatt felt lost, and stupid, too. “No need to feel stupid,” Sonny said, lowering his voice down to normal volume. “How can you be expected to know our little ways? The point-all according to Bert, of course-is that Greer got a bit upset when you ditched her someplace, never did get the precise details. Where was it, again?”

“Millerville,” Wyatt said. “And I didn’t ditch her. Is she okay?”

Sonny nodded. “As it turned out.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t have all the details,” Sonny said. “Something about hitchhiking and being picked up by the wrong kind of driver. Always a danger with a looker like Greer.” Looker? Wyatt didn’t like that, wasn’t sure why. “But she managed to extricate herself from the situation,” Sonny said, “no harm done.”

“I never meant anything like that to-she jumped, for God’s sake, and I looked all over for her and everything.”

“I’m sure you did-no need to blame yourself,” Sonny said. He waved his hand, as though dismissing the whole topic and asked, “What did you think of Millerville?”

Wyatt shrugged.

“Yeah-that’s the way I feel about the place myself.”

Wyatt laughed, couldn’t help it. Sonny laughed, too. They laughed together. Tears appeared in Sonny’s eyes.

Taneeka looked over. “Hey, Sonny, what’s the joke?”

Sonny wiped the corner of one eye with his sleeve. “Wouldn’t know where to begin,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” Taneeka nodded. Something in her tone and in that nod gave Wyatt the idea she respected Sonny, possibly even admired him. She went back to gazing into space and chewing her gum.

“I met this newspaper guy in Millerville,” Wyatt said. “An old guy-he covered the trial.”

“Why are you doing this?” Sonny’s voice had softened.

“Because there are so many questions.”

Wyatt waited for Sonny to ask what they were, but he did not. Instead his voice softened even more and he said, “I don’t want you asking them. I don’t want you getting into any of it.”

“Why not?”

Sonny sat back, folded his hands in his lap. “I’m content,” he said.

Wyatt glanced around the horrible room. “Content about what?”