Richard Greener - The Knowland Retribution

“I’m turning into an addict. Prozac doesn’t do it anymore. I get up at five and swim sixty laps. I have an agitated depression. Exercise doesn’t help. My shrink is useless too. He doesn’t listen. I don’t listen. I dream about getting shot-over and over again-which might be alright, but it never kills me. I can’t even die for a minute.”

Louise Hollingsworth’s eyes were inflamed. She’d been flying apart for weeks. Nothing she wore seemed to match. Her stiff yellow hair was at war with itself. Her high hawk nose and razor mouth had become unattractively mobile. She paced like a neurotic crane. Her thin soprano voice had developed a rasp.

“Every time I leave my apartment. Every time I leave the office. Every time I go anywhere. It’s all I think about. I am decompensating. Nothing is worth this experience. Not all the money you can…”

The meeting had been a bad idea. Getting them all together like this had only reinforced the shared perception of danger. Tom Maloney tried again to offer a drink.

“I’m loaded up with Prozac,” she wailed. “Prozac and whiskey? I don’t think that’s wise.”

“I’ve done it a hundred times. Maybe you can take a nap. You can take a nap right here.”

“Bourbon,” she sniffled. “But not too much.”

The others watched as he fixed her drink and got her to sit in one of the black leather chairs.

Tom was calmer than he’d been in months. In the past few days he’d worked out some ideas. He thought his new thinking might help the others get a grip. But today in Nathan’s office was proving to be the wrong time and place.

From the other end of the room, Nathan watched Louise with momentarily calm contempt. He moved the odd-shaped crystals on his desk as though he were playing chess, a game he never understood.

“What’s with Sherman? Where’s the report?” he asked when Louise was settled. “Didn’t he call you, Tom?”

“He doesn’t call. I got an e-mail.” Louise looked up from her drink. Wesley Pitts in the other black chair grunted curiously.

“He knows who it is,” said Maloney.

“No shit!” said Wes, on his feet, athletic again for a second. He clapped his hands. “He’s going to get him. He’s going to nail his ass.”

“Who is it?” asked Louise. “Anyone we’ve looked at?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom. “He’s a fellow named Leonard Martin.”

“Well that’s great, just great. Why didn’t you call him?” Nathan shouted, no longer calm and composed, out from behind his desk, heading for the other three. “We know the guy. Where is he? What’s the story there?”

“I called him,” Tom replied. “He doesn’t like to talk.”

“ He doesn’t like to talk!” Nathan climbed the register. “Fuck him, he doesn’t like to talk. He works for me!”

“I work for you. We all work for you. Sherman’s an independent. Very independent. When I called him he told me not to do it again. He meant it. That’s how he is, whether we like it or not. He’ll be in touch when he thinks it’s time.”

“What did the e-mail say?” Wesley Pitts’s enthusiasm died. There was a flag on the play.

“Just that he knows who he is.”

“So, where the fuck is this… Leonard Martin?” demanded Nathan.

“He’ll tell us when he’s ready. The entire country wants this guy. Walter Sherman found him.”

“Did he say he ‘found’ him?” Nathan’s anxious face turned shrewd. “Or does he just say he knows who he is?”

“He didn’t say he found him. But it’s only a matter of time. That’s Sherman’s history. That’s why we went to him. He will get the job done.”

Wesley had slumped back into the chair. “Somebody better kill this guy in a hurry. I can think of a couple of guys who will do it for a car.”

Tom Maloney looked at Nathan Stein; they needed to talk. He said, “You two stay here a while. Relax. Unwind. Support each other.”

He led Nathan into the private apartment. Nathan flopped onto the king-sized bed, head on pillow, short leg dangling over the side.

“Why aren’t we dead?” Tom said, looking down.

“Why are you asking me?” Nathan whined.

“There’s a reason for all this,” Tom said. “I want to tell you first, before I talk to the others. I don’t think it’s all that bad.”

“Oh? What’s the good news? Maybe this nutcase won’t boil us in oil before he blows our brains out?”

The grandson of the founder of Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills turned his face into the pillow and sobbed. “He’s gonna kill me because of some shitass meat.”

The sound filled Tom with satisfaction. He heard his voice deepen triumphantly. “We’ll hear from Walter soon enough. But that’s not what I’m talking about.” Tom had already come to the conclusion that Leonard Martin had stopped killing people because there was something else he wanted. He didn’t know what, but felt certain it would be revealed. If Leonard Martin wanted a deal, that was fine with Tom Maloney. Dealing was his life’s work.

“Nathan,” he said. “I strongly suspect we’re as safe as cows in Calcutta.”

St. John

They wound it up at six. Isobel badly wanted to go to the beach. “I am a beach girl, you know,” she laughed. “And you are a beach man, aren’t you?” They changed, jumped into Walter’s open-top Jeep, and took off down the hilly road heading toward the sea.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her girlish enthusiasm bubbling over. “Wheee!” she shouted, smiling, spreading her arms high and wide in the open air as Walter sped down the hill.

“Cinnamon Bay,” he said.

“What a wonderful name,” said Isobel. “Cinnamon Bay.”

There were four beaches, he told her, one after another. Caneel Bay was the first. That’s where the island’s biggest resort was. Then they would pass Hawk’s Nest and Trunk Bay before finally arriving at Cinnamon Bay. Once there, Isobel quickly threw off her long shirt, dropping it at Walter’s feet, and, not looking back, dashed to the water, kicking up sand behind her as she ran. She wore a two-piece black suit with the bottom cut low, very low, and the sides, no bigger than the straps on her blouse, rose high on her hip. Walter felt an unfamiliar stirring, watching her from behind as she raced into the surf. “Oh, shit,” he said to himself, “I can’t stand here like-this.” He pulled off his T-shirt, slipped out of his sandals, and ran after her. He didn’t stop until the cold water covered him above his waist. He had a hard time looking at her and she knew it. She splashed him and he dove headlong into the Caribbean.

Later, Walter offered to throw some steaks on the grill, but at Isobel’s insistence, they went back to Billy’s for dinner.

She’d arrived that morning unnerved and uncertain; the siege with Leonard burdened her, strung her out. When she spoke with Walter on the phone she’d fought against feeling unhinged. Today had dissipated that. She felt a much greater sense of control. She felt that she had a stronger, more subtle grasp of the facts. Her working alliance with Walter made her feel good. It gave her a deeply reassuring groove. And quite aside from that, she’d found a new sense of comfort with herself, some traction on how she felt about her story, some certainty about what to do next. All that and it was still early. She remembered the dishes she’d seen at Billy’s and passed up for a sandwich. She’d promised Ike a drink. She’d been feeling a sexy edge for a while, and she wanted to let it sharpen. A long and promising night lay ahead. She wanted some dinner at Billy’s.

“Back again?” Ike piped up. “I was just on my way out of here, but if you’re ready for that drink, I’m staying.”