Don Winslow - A Cool Breeze on the Underground

Ulrich 823 turned out to be German, so that was no good. Neal hung up as soon as he heard the “Ja?” on the phone. He tried Harris 518. “May I speak to Joe Harris, please?”

The voice was an old woman’s. “I’m sorry, dear, you have the wrong party. Ask at the desk.”

Okeydoke. Let’s give Goldman 712 a spin.

“Hello, may I speak to Mr. Goldman, please?”

“Speaking.” A man’s voice. American. East Coast. Sounds about the right age.

“Mr. Goldman, this is Mr. Panto of Consolidated Limited ringing to confirm our appointment tomorrow morning.”

“I think you have the wrong number.”

“I’m terribly sorry. Is this Mr. Alan Goldman of Schreff and Sons?”

“No, this is Dave Goldman of just plain Goldman. I’m an attorney.”

“I am sorry.”

“That’s okay. Have a good one.” Dave Goldman hung up.

So, Neal thought, I know a few things about Goldman 712. He’s a lawyer, here with his wife, and she isn’t dragging him to any damn philharmonic Thursday night, he doesn’t give a shit who’s going to make opening remarks. Maybe I’ve found my couple. Better take a look at them to make sure.

Nice-looking couple, he thought, which they better be after keeping me waiting an hour and a half in the hallway. Mid-forties, stylish, the wife an uptight brunette who puts in some time at the spa. He’s well built. Black hair just beginning to show a little silver. What used to be called a snappy dresser. Amazingly white teeth, Full range of plastic: AmEx, Diners Club. Good tipper.

He didn’t follow them out of the restaurant, but finished his own meal-an excuse for a hamburger that would have made the boys at Nick’s weep-and read the International Herald Tribune, The Yankees were in first place.

The phone woke him from a pleasant nap. It was only five o’clock and he hadn’t planned to head out until seven or so.

“You haven’t called in for three days,” Ed said.

“No news.”

“Then call and say ‘no news,’” Levine answered. “No progress at all?”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Do better. You have four weeks.”

“Jesus Christ, Ed. You and I both know this is a fool’s errand.”

“Then you’re just the man for the job. Call in.”

Neal got out of bed and stepped into the shower. The cold water woke him up. Four weeks, he thought. A lot can happen in four weeks, Ed.

Ed levine set the phone down.

“Nothing, huh?” asked Rich Lombardi.

“Not yet.”

Lombardi set the case notes back on Levine’s desk. “Might have been too much to ask for, anyway.”

“It was always a long shot.”

Lombardi left the Friends office and went to the nearest phone booth. He had a lot of calls to make. The convention was just around the corner, the Senator was on the short list, and there was so much to make sure of. Title this story The Man Behind the Man.

Allie was stoned out of her gourd.

When Neal made it over to the Earl’s Court flat around eight o’clock, he found her pacing the floor, muttering a semicoherent diatribe against television game shows, particularly British ones where the contestants didn’t win any money worth mentioning.

“No Frigidaires, either. No dinette sets, no living room combinations, washer-dryers. No Toyotas. No trips to Honolulu!”

“C’mon in,” Vanessa said to Neal. “Colin’s not here, though.”

Neal knew that already. He had already placed Colin back in Leicester Square. “Where is he?”

“Taking care of business.”

Spotting Neal, Allie switched gears and launched into an assault on American men, particularly the ones from New York who think they know everything about screwing, but don’t.

“They’re pigs. Pigs! New York boys just want to get into your pants, and then they don’t know what to do there. I hate that!”

Vanessa disappeared into the bathroom.

“And ice cream,” Allie muttered. “You can’t get any decent ice cream in this lousy country. They give you some shit called ice cream, but it isn’t. Neal, did you bring any real ice cream with you?”

“No. Sorry.”

She stepped over to him and looked him in the eyes. “You’re no good, Neal. You know that? No damn good at all.”

She said it with such utter sincerity and then gave him a smile so dazzling that he couldn’t quite believe she was strung out. He couldn’t help liking her. It was almost as if she was aware of herself, making fun of the American bitch for everyone’s entertainment.

“And the weather,” she continued, “it’s too fucking hot. We sang that in school glee club once. ‘It’s too fucking hot, it’s too fucking hot

“?t’s too darn hot.’”

“Yeah, it’s too darn fucking hot. It’s supposed to be foggy and rainy. In all the movies, it’s foggy and rainy. You ever see Sherlock Holmes with a tan? But I haven’t seen any fog or any rain since I got here and that’s weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks and what is Nessa doing to her hair?”

“Shaving half of it off,” Vanessa answered.

Neal looked into the bathroom. Sure as shit, she was shaving half of it off-the left half.

Fascinated, Allie floated into the bathroom. “Why?”

“Bored.”

“May I watch?”

“Sure, love, but you can’t help. You’d slice me to ribbons.”

Allie lay down on the tile floor and played with Vanessa’s falling locks. Neal stood in the doorway.

“Alice,” he asked, “do you have any dates tonight?”

“Do I have any dates tonight? Yes, Troy Donahue is coming over and we’re going to the malt shop. No. Frankie Avalon and I are going to a beach party. He broke up with that bitch with the boobs. Because he loves me. No… Wally Cleaver and I are going to the drive-in and I’m going to teach him how to make a girl happy, except I think he really loves Lumpy Rutherford.

“Do I have any dates tonight? You think you’re Colin’s administrative assistant now? Vice pimp, that’s pretty good. No, I don’t have any dates tonight.”

“It’s okay with me.”

“Oh, goody. Neal, go get us some real ice cream, okay? Some real, real ice cream. Chocolate ice cream. Yummy.”

“I have to talk to Colin.”

“You have to talk with Colin?”

“How does this look?” Vanessa asked them. The left side of her head was bald. The right half was a cascade of magenta locks.

“Hike it,” Neal said. “A lot.”

He turned to leave.

Allie followed him. “I just remembered another song we sang in good old glee club. Wanna hear it?”

You could take her right now, Neal thought. Whisk her off on some excuse and be gone before Vanessa ever thought to ring the phone box… He hurried down the stairs, and could still hear her singing.

“ ‘A precious gem is what you are. You’re Daddy’s bright and shining star…’ ”

He caught the district line train at Earl’s Court, changed to the Piccadilly Line at South Kensington, and rode it to Leicester Square. The long wooden escalator carried him to the street level. He found Colin in the square, standing under the statue of the Earl of Leicester, The inscription on the base read: THERE IS NO DARKNESS BUT

“Hello, rugger,” Colin said. Crisp sat on the ground beside him in his faithful-dog pose.

“How’s business?”

“Buggers are tying up the phone,” Colin answered, pointing to a queue outside the phone box.

“Shout you a pint?”

Colin looked around for a second, then said, “Why not? Crisp, mind the shop, there’s a good lad.”

They walked to a small pub on Floral Street. Neal found a table by the window and brought two pints over.

“I looked for you over at your place earlier,” he said.