Джон Гришэм - The Rooster Bar

The more Mark paced, the more confused he became. Procrastination seemed like a safe strategy, at least for the moment, and he decided to stick with the lie and see how the afternoon unfolded.

Noon came and went with Gordy still semi-comatose. Mark quietly cleaned the kitchen and hauled three bags of garbage to the dumpster. He washed the dishes, dried them, and put them away. He swept the floors and tidied up the mess around Gordy’s work space on the dining table. He tried to rearrange the furniture but could not do it without making noise. He spent a lot of time staring at the wall and trying to understand the connections linking the companies, firms, and players in Hinds Rackley’s empire. It was an impressive conspiracy, and Gordy had spent hours piecing it together. But was his research accurate? In his unhinged state, was he capable of thinking clearly?

With his cell phone, Mark searched the web and read everything he could find about bipolar disorder and depression. There was a lot to read. Around three, he heard noises in the bedroom and peeked in. The water was running in the bathroom; Gordy was finally in the shower. Half an hour later, he stepped into the den, freshly scrubbed and shaved with his thick blond hair as handsome as always. He was wearing jeans and a sweater. He looked at Mark and said, “I’m hungry.”

“Great,” Mark said with a smile. They walked a few blocks to a favorite deli and ordered sandwiches and coffee. Conversation was muted, almost nonexistent. Gordy didn’t want to talk and Mark left him alone. Gordy picked at his BLT, finally removed the bread, and ate the bacon with his fingers. They drank coffee as fast as the waitress could pour it, and the caffeine seemed to revive Gordy.

With a mouth full of chips, he said, “I feel better now, Mark, thanks.”

“Great. Let’s finish up and go see your doctor.”

“No, it’s not necessary, Mark, I feel fine now.”

“The doctor, Gordy, or therapist or whatever the hell he or she is. You think you’re okay now, but this will pass.”

“The therapist is a joke, can’t stand the guy.”

The waitress poured more coffee. Gordy finished his chips and shoved his plate away. He sipped from his cup and avoided eye contact. Mark finally said, “You want to talk about the DUI?”

“Not really. Let’s go for a walk. I need some fresh air.”

“Great idea.”

Mark paid with a credit card and they left the diner. They drifted through Dupont Circle and headed west on M Street. The temperature was up and the sky was clear; not a bad day for a long walk. They crossed Rock Creek and entered Georgetown, where they walked with the crowds along Wisconsin Avenue and stopped occasionally to look at shopwindows. In a used-book store, they browsed through the sports section. Gordy had played football and lacrosse at Washington and Lee and would always be the superjock.

Whatever he was thinking he kept to himself. He seemed relaxed and smiled from time to time, but he was not the old Gordy. His cockiness and usual smart-ass banter were absent. He was troubled, and rightfully so, and Mark missed the quips and cynical observations that were so common. When the wind picked up late in the afternoon, they ducked into a coffee shop for a latte. Bunched around a small table, Mark tried again to engage him, but Gordy was in another world. When he went to the restroom, Mark sent a text to Todd and Zola with an update. He also sent one to Brenda, saying Gordy was slightly better but now he had infected both Mark and Todd. All three were now sick as dogs and taking care of one another in Gordy’s apartment. The flu was highly contagious and raging through D.C.; best if she stayed away.

As they were leaving the coffee shop, Gordy said he wanted to walk along the Potomac River. They crossed M Street on Wisconsin and drifted down to the Georgetown Waterfront, a modern development of high-end shops and restaurants and cafés that, in nice weather, would be packed with students and tourists sitting outdoors enjoying the sun. But in the dead of winter there wasn’t much foot traffic. Standing on the boardwalk beside the frigid Potomac, Gordy seemed to enjoy the views. To their right was the Key Bridge linking Georgetown to Rosslyn. To their left was Theodore Roosevelt Island and another bridge. Not far away was the Kennedy Center, and in the distance the Lincoln Memorial and other monuments. The air was noticeably colder near the water. Large chunks of ice inched their way down the river.

When Gordy turned around, he was smiling with an odd look of peaceful satisfaction.

“I’m freezing,” Mark said.

“Let’s go.”

When Todd and Zola arrived after dark, Gordy was sleeping again while Mark read a paperback. In soft voices, the three recapped the day and tried to plan the night. They discussed calling Brenda and telling her the truth, but no one was ready for that. Especially Zola. Other than a passing thought of finding his doctor, there was little discussion about tomorrow. With hardly a sound, they moved his furniture and tidied up his den. Mark really wanted to clear off the wall. He was tired of looking at the face of Hinds Rackley and his gang. Things were bad enough being ensnared in their grand conspiracy, but it was almost cruel to have them in the room. However, Todd and Zola vetoed the idea. Gordy had slaved over his masterpiece. Destroying it might unhinge him again.

When the pizza arrived, Zola eased into the bedroom and tried to rouse her boyfriend. She returned, alone, and said he was barely responsive, and rude at that. They ate the pizza, drank nothing but water, and killed time. Mark had Gordy’s keys in his pocket and that’s where they would stay. They decided to tag team through the night, same as before, with Zola pulling the first shift on the sofa. Todd went across the hall to her apartment. Mark walked four blocks to his and showered for the first time that day.

After they were gone, and the den was dark and quiet, Zola began texting. To compound her miseries on this perfectly miserable day, she had received a call from her father. His latest petition had been denied by the immigration judge, and an order had been entered to remove him, her mother, and Bo, her unmarried brother. After twenty-six years in the U.S., they would be flown back to Senegal with a load of refugees. Twenty-six years of hard work in menial jobs for low pay. Twenty-six years of scraping by and saving as much as possible and obeying every law, including speed limits. Twenty-six years of considering themselves Americans and thankful to be here. Now they were being forced to return to a country they did not know and wanted no part of.

She was a strong woman who took pride in her toughness, but laden with more worries than any person could possibly bear, Zola made the mistake of closing her eyes.

At 1:42 a.m., her phone began buzzing and vibrating. It was in the pocket of her jeans and finally woke her. Missed call. It was Gordy. It took a second or two for reality to hit, and she bolted to her feet and ran to his bedroom. She checked his bathroom, knowing perfectly well he wasn’t there, and ran to wake up Todd. For the second night in a row, they raced down the stairs to the first-floor hallway and to the parking lot behind the building. Gordy’s Mazda was gone. Todd called Mark and said they were racing over to get him. In Todd’s car, Zola’s phone pinged with a text message.

“It’s him. He says: ‘Zola, I can’t do this anymore. There’s no way out. I’m so sorry.’ ”

“Shit! Call him!”

“He won’t answer,” she said as she punched his number. Straight to voice mail. “Hello, this is Gordy. Leave a message.”

“Voice mail,” she said. “I’m texting him.” “Gordy, where are you? We’re coming to get you.”