Chris Mooney - World Without End

Boston was home.

If you missed it so much, then why were you so anxious to leave? a voice asked.

A large black man turned the corner. He glided up the corridor with a cool, easy rhythm, the solidity of his three-hundred-pound presence, his six-foot-eight frame and the slow, methodical deliberation of his movements giving him the aura of Darth Vader. People moved out of the way and turned their heads and gawked, their eyes guarded and nervous.

Jackson Booker lumbered on and chewed his gum, oblivious or not caring, Conway never knew which.

Conway remained seated. Book was dressed completely in black: the stylish overcoat, trendy suit and shoes, even the hip sunglasses all of it by Versace. His shaved head gleamed in the overhead fluorescent light, the muscles along his jaw flexing as he methodically worked the gum. He had been a football star at the University of New Hampshire, but two bum knees had prevented him from being drafted to the NFL.

"You with Puff Daddy?" Conway said, grinning.

"It's P-Diddy. Can't you honkys get anything right?" His words, like his movements, glided on their own rhythm, his voice deep and sleepy: an edgy Barry White.

"Sorry I'm late," Booker said.

"Old cracker held me up at the security gate."

"Guy probably thought you were a master criminal."

Book blew a pink bubble, popped it.

"You think?"

"You definitely give off that vibe."

"And here I was thinking I was the CEO of a highly successful global security agency." Book shifted the wad of bubble gum to the other side of his mouth.

"The wake's not until four. It's just after noon. Let's go grab lunch."

"I'm not real hungry."

"Then you can come with me and watch what I eat. You and I need to talk."

The Oak Room, located inside the prestigious Copley Fairmont Hotel, was a dimly lit bar that reminded Conway of the kind of enormous library found inside a Newport mansion. The high mahogany walls were decorated with various paintings, the maroon carpet stamped with what appeared to be family crests. In the center of the room was a piano, played at night while you dined on the upper level that offered window views of the beautifully lit city.

The bar was at half capacity when the maitre d' seated Booker and Conway in the corner, near the tall pane window overlooking St. James Street and the red carpet that led up to the hotel entrance. Booker ordered a Poland Springs with a lime; Conway went straight for the gin and tonic. He sat with his back to the window, the November sun warm on his back. He had already polished off one drink and had asked for another. He declined lunch.

"Going liquid this early is a bad idea, bro," Booker said after the waiter had left.

"I had something to eat on the plane."

Booker leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and popped cashews one at a time into his mouth. The car ride had been quiet, the death of their friend lay between them. Conway didn't want to talk. What he really wanted was to be left alone and get drunk.

"How's Austin?" Booker asked after a moment. His coat was off but his sunglasses were still on.

"Hot and humid. During the summer, it gets so bad you have to stay inside. Everyone has air conditioning."

"You hate the heat."

"You get used to it."

"Praxis must be laying down some serious benjamins."

"I do okay," Conway said, knowing where the discussion was headed.

"These alpha-gee ks I got working for me, they don't like to collaborate, they don't like to ask questions, they all want to be the top dog but lack social skills. You got all the skills and can speak their language."

"Why do I have a feeling you're about to offer me a job again?"

"You know all of the tech-talk, you come in and wrangle the nerd herd, do some security work, and put that kenpo training of yours into action. A lot of the boys I got are big but they're not second-degree black belts."

"Playing bodyguard to overpriced movie stars when they come into town?"

"You rather stay in Texas and sweat your balls off?"

"Austin's nice. I enjoy it."

"You think you can enjoy making one fifty large?"

"You don't work with or for close friends. It's a rule."

"You've used that one on me before. You going say no again, be creative, come up with some new material."

"Why you want me so bad? There are dozens of guys out there who have more technical experience than I do."

"Besides my wife, I trust two people on this planet," Booker said.

"I'm about to bury one, and the other is sitting across from me."

Conway didn't know what to say; intimate, touchy-feely conversations like this made him nervous. He polished off his gin and tonic. A good buzz was coming; he could feel it building, warm and comforting.

Drink all you want, Steve. Nothing's going to change the fact that John Riley's dead.

He wanted to shut the voice up. Drown it with alcohol. Conway signaled the waiter and ordered another. Booker turned his head to the side, as if he had had enough of this particular conversation, and for several minutes watched the two elderly women a few tables over share a pot of tea and a club sandwich. A couple of older men were here dressed in suits. Conway wondered if Angel Eyes was in the room or somewhere close, watching them.

The waiter came by with a fresh drink. Conway waited until the man disappeared and then said, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"JR.'s girlfriend," Book said.

"I didn't think Miranda was still in the picture."

"Not Miranda, Renee Kaufrnann. She works with him at that Internet startup in Cambridge."

"The name doesn't ring a bell." Which didn't surprise him. Since his arrival in Austin, he had been consumed with working on Dixon and creating the trap to catch Angel Eyes. Conway's efforts at keeping in touch were lackluster at best. Lots of e-mails and some phone calls with just some quick hellos, but nothing of substance.

"JR. said he was thinking of getting married. I think he may have picked out a ring," Booker said.

"At least that's what he told me."

"How's she taking it?"

"Don't know. She's disappeared."

Conway stared at the chunks of ice floating in the tall glass.

"She was supposed to return from Amsterdam two days ago," Book said.

"Renee hasn't been back to work, and she hasn't been back to her apartment."

Conway felt a spasm in his stomach. Angel Eyes has her. He's going to use her as a bargaining chip. Now her life is on the chopping block. (because of you) "The autopsy report confirmed that it was OD."

"You told me that over the phone," Conway said, his voice hoarse. When he returned from his meeting with Bouchard on Mount Bon-nell, he had come back to the condo and saw the single blink of the red light on the answering machine and in the darkness listened to Booker's message to call immediately. Book said it was an OD, then explained how JR. got a little too heavily into alcohol and coke after the death of his mother, the driving accident that could have resulted in his death, Booker's intervention, and Riley's treatment at the celebrity detox unit in Tuscon. All of it shocked Conway. He had no idea.

"What I didn't tell you was that it was cocaine and rat poison," Booker said.

Conway nodded and kept his eyes blank.

"And I didn't tell where JR. shot up," Booker said.

"The needle mark was on his neck. That's a last resort for a junkie.

You got no veins left, you try the neck. JR. didn't have any tracks on his arms, never did. He wasn't a junkie."

Conway was quiet, the truth about how Riley really died burning across his skin. He wanted to unburden himself of it and couldn't.

"JR- liked to snort it, always rubbing his nose, telling me he's got allergies in the winter. Mirror and the dollar bill, that's how he liked to get high," Booker said.