Mark Smith - The Inquisitor

“Can I put something on?”

“Sit, Harry. Now. ”

Harry lowered himself into his favorite leather chair. It felt warm and sticky against his bare back, thighs, and ass. As casually as he could, he put his hands in his lap, covering his genitals.

“Your partner is a very strange guy,” Hall said. “Full of surprises.”

“Tell me about it.”

“He made a big mistake, Harry.”

“Yeah. I already told him that.”

“Did he agree with you?”

“Geiger and I don’t have those kinds of conversations.” Harry shifted in his seat, his damp skin making a sucking sound as it pulled away from the leather. “Could I at least have my coat?” He pointed at his sport jacket, which was lying on the couch where he’d tossed it when he’d come home. Hall picked it up and lobbed it to him, and Harry spread it over his lap.

“I want the boy, Harry. Right away.”

“You got your money back. My guess is that’s the best you’re going to do.”

Hall leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. “I don’t care about the money, Harry.” He took a deep breath, his lips spreading in a flat, wincing grimace. His hand went to his sternum and his fingertips gently explored the bruised area. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered. “What’ve you got to drink?”

“Sorry, I don’t drink anymore. Sure wish I did.”

Hall stood up, walked to the window, and stared out at the East River. In the dim light, Harry could see that the back of Hall’s shirt and collar had a long red stain, and the back of his head had a small white patch on it. As Ray Charles finished singing “Georgia,” reflections of the lights on the bridge floated on the water’s surface like globs of golden oil.

“Great voice,” Hall said.

“Sure is.”

“Where are they, Harry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where does Geiger live?”

“Don’t know that either.”

“You’ve been partners for how long?”

“Eleven years.”

“And you don’t know where he lives?”

“Never been to his place. Like you said-he’s a very strange guy.”

Harry was doing his best to sit very still and keep his tone low-key because he was beginning to feel truly scared. It wasn’t a visceral, heart-in-the-throat fear of imminent violence. But something about Hall, something about the atmosphere in the room, something about everything was slowly heating Harry up, gathering loose doubts and confusion like tinder and stoking the fear inside him.

“Harry, I let you finish your shower because I wanted you relaxed, thinking straight.” Hall turned back to the room. “What’s your read on me, Harry-right now?”

“You’re in a lot of pain?”

“What else?”

“Running out of patience?”

“Bull’s-eye. Now…” Hall went into his pants pocket and took out Harry’s cell phone. “I’ve checked your cell-there are no sends or receiveds on it.”

“It’s programmed that way.”

“Whatever, but I need you to call Geiger right now-and tell him that if he doesn’t get the kid back to me asap, you’re going to have a real bad time of it. Maybe I’ll even take you to Dalton. Think you can do that?”

Harry felt a quick bubble of panic rise up, but then he found himself biting his tongue to keep from laughing. He didn’t doubt Hall’s sincerity, but the accoutrements to this little drama-his ridiculous nakedness, Ray Charles’s doleful voice, the summer dawn reaching the river-all conspired to decorate the horror of the moment in a tacky wrapping that smacked of parody. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that fate was playing his last moments on earth for laughs.

Harry took a breath and collected himself. “Geiger won’t pick up,” he said. “He told me not to call him and said he’d call me if he needed to. Even if I left a message and told him what you plan on doing, I don’t think that would change his plans, whatever they are. And I wouldn’t call him anyway.”

“No? You’re not just stringing this out?”

“Nope. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

As Ray Charles belted the second chorus of “Hit the Road, Jack”- “and don’t you come back no more, no more” — Hall whirled around and marched toward the glowing red lights of the stereo equipment. He grabbed the CD player, ripped it loose, and hurled it against the wall. The housing shattered into pieces and the music died.

“I hate that fucking song,” Hall muttered.

“Me, too. Thanks.”

Hall came back to the couch and grunted softly as he settled into the cushions. Harry stared at the gun in Hall’s belt holster. Harry had a gun, too-a. 32-caliber Beretta Tomcat with a seven-shot clip that he kept in a holster attached to the underside of his desk. He’d bought the gun last year through Carmine, after he’d heard about a series of break-ins a block away. He’d never fired it and had only taken it out of the holster a few times to clean it, per Carmine’s strict instructions.

“The thirty-five grand is in my van, Harry. Take the money and make the call.”

“Nah. It wouldn’t last me very long-I’ve got some expensive obligations.”

“Don’t we all,” said Hall. He sighed, flipped Harry’s cell phone open, and punched some buttons. Harry heard it ring once, and then someone answered.

“Come up,” Hall said, and snapped the phone closed.

Harry’s gaze strayed to the monitor on the desk. The Jackson Pollock screen saver glowed with a close-up of black and red blobs on a tawny surface. It looked like a NASA photo of an alien terrain. He wished he were there-he was certain that on Mars or Venus there were no trained killers waiting for a phone call to come up the stairs and put a bullet in his skull.

Hall looked at him and shook his head. “You’d go down this road for Geiger and a kid you don’t even know?”

“It’s got nothing to do with them, Mr. Hall, or whatever your name really is.”

Harry wondered whether his neighbor was home. He shared the brownstone with a garrulous commodities broker who owned the bottom floor; they’d kibitzed on the sidewalk a while ago, and the guy had mentioned that he was taking the wife to Europe for part of the summer, but Harry couldn’t remember when. If they were downstairs and Harry started screaming, they might very well hear him. But as soon as the idea occurred to him, he knew he wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t going out like a jerk, even if he’d spent too much of his life being one. For a second, he was back in Central Park, drunk in the mindless night, lying on the ground spitting blood and teeth while the muggers stood over him and asked yet again, “Gonna give us the fucking ATM code?” He’d looked up at them and said, “Something’s happening here but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?” They’d gone back to work with their boots, and then Geiger had come along…

The front door swung open. Harry and Hall turned in unison to see a tall silhouette in the dark hallway.

“No go?” a man asked.

Harry knew the voice, recognized it the way you catch a glimpse of a familiar face in a crowd but can’t remember the context of your association.

“No go,” said Hall.

As the silhouette started into the apartment, Hall reached to the side table and turned on the lamp.

“Jesus,” said Harry, the word pulled from him slowly.

The panhandler he’d given twenty dollars to on Ludlow Street stood scowling at him.

“Harry,” Hall said, “this is Ray.”

“Hi, Ray,” said Harry.

“There’s a woman asleep in the back room,” Hall said to Ray. “Go get her.”

Electric itches of dread scurried across Harry’s palms. He’d forgotten about Lily.

Ray tromped toward the second bedroom and Hall turned back to Harry. “She your wife or your girlfriend?”