Marisha Pessl - Night Film

Something told me I should stop while I wasn’t ahead.

“What about your father?”

She leaned forward to study the painting above the fireplace.

“He’s at Starke.”

“Starke?”

“Florida State Prison. They have an Old Sparky there.”

Old Sparky —it was the nickname of the electric chair. I waited for her to clarify that her dad wasn’t destined to meet Old Sparky, but she moved to the bookcase, inspecting the books, leaving that strand of the conversation dangling like the end of a party streamer she didn’t bother to tape up.

“How do you like your coffee?” I asked, retreating into the kitchen.

“Cream, two sugars. But only if it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all.”

“You wouldn’t have anything to eat, would you?”

I set the girl up in my living room with coffee, two toasted English muffins piled with butter and marmalade, and a copy of my book Cocaine Carnivals. After making sure there was no cash lying around or any other valuables she could feed to her carnivorous purse, I went back into my office to print out directions to Briarwood Hall.

I also tried logging on to the Blackboards website again, but I was tossed back to the exit page, as I’d been before.

My IP address appeared to have been blocked.

When I returned to the living room, Nora had settled in. She’d taken off her boots, pulled a wool blanket over her legs, and drained some of the contents of that purse onto my coffee table: two stage plays, a tube of lipstick, that beat-up Discman.

“Who’s C.L.M.?” she asked, turning back a few pages to stare at the dedication page.

“My ex-wife.”

She was astonished. “ You have an ex-wife ?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Where’s she?”

“Probably working out with her trainer.”

“Got any kids?”

“A daughter.”

She thoughtfully considered this. I figured it was as good a time as any to bring up the mystery of her living arrangements.

“So where exactly do you live?” I asked.

“Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Where in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Ninth and, like, Fifty-second.”

“ Like Fifty-second?”

“I just moved in, so I forget the cross-street. Before I was on a friend’s pullout.” She resumed reading.

“Any roommates?”

She didn’t look up. “Two.”

“And what do they do?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Are they pimps, drug addicts, or working in the porn industry?”

“Oh, no. I mean, I don’t know what they do during the day. They seem nice.”

“What are their names?”

She hesitated. “Louisa and Gustav.”

Those were imaginary roommate names if ever I’d heard any. Living in New York for more than two decades, never had I once come close to meeting anyone with those names.

I looked at my watch. I was out of time to babysit.

“I have to leave for a doctor’s appointment,” I said. “So you’ll need to go. But we can talk tomorrow.”

I collected her plate and coffee mug, Nora watching with wide eyes, and carried them to the kitchen, loading the dishwasher.

“Thank you for the coffee,” she called out.

“Don’t mention it.”

There was a stretch of rather dubious silence.

I was about to go check on her, but then heard her purse unzipping and zipping. She was packing up her things— thank Christ. But I knew this was buying me only a little time; she’d be back again tomorrow. The girl was like one of those tiny fish that swam relentlessly under a great white shark’s chin for miles. I’d have to phone some old contact, someone in one of the unions or in banking, twist his arm to get her gainfully employed twelve hours a day at some Capital One bank in Jersey City.

“What’s Shandaken?” she abruptly shouted.

“What?” I stepped out of the kitchen.

“You have directions to a place in Shandaken, New York.”

She was in the foyer, inspecting the folder containing the directions to Briarwood and my emails with the admissions director, which I’d put on the table next to the Whole Foods bag containing Ashley’s coat.

“You’re getting a tour of the facility?” she asked, glancing up in amazement. “What facility ?”

I snatched the folder from her and, checking my watch — I was supposed to be on the New Jersey Turnpike ten minutes ago — I strode to the closet, grabbing my black jacket, pulling it on.

“A mental hospital.” I moved back into the hall, switching off the lights.

“Why do you want a tour of a mental hospital?”

“Because I might admit myself. We’ll catch up tomorrow.” I grabbed the directions and Nora’s bony arm, escorting her to the front door and giving her a gentle push so she was launched outside, then stepped after her, locking the door.

“You lied in that email,” she said. “You said your name’s Leon Dean.”

“A typo.”

“You’re going there to investigate Ashley.”

I took off down the hall, Nora hurrying after me. “No.”

“But you’re taking her coat. I should come.”

“No.”

“But I could be your daughter you’re thinking of admitting. I could play, like, a dark and brooding teenager. I’m really good at improv.”

“I’m going there to get information, not play charades.”

I stepped outside into the bright morning, holding the door for her — she had a fast, lopsided walk, though I couldn’t tell if it was scoliosis or a result of that leaden bag.

“This place has the security of the Pentagon,” I said, jogging down the steps. “Over the years I’ve developed a method of interviewing that allows people to trust me. It’s because I work alone. Deep Throat never would have talked to Woodward if he’d been shadowed by a teenage Floridian.”

“What’s Deep Throat?”

I stopped dead, staring at her. She was legitimately puzzled.

I took off again across the street. “You’ve at least seen the movie. All the President’s Men. Robert Redford, Dustin Hoffman? You know who they are, don’t you? Or aren’t you aware of any movie stars older than Justin Timberlake?”

“I know them.”

“Well, they played Woodward and Bernstein. Legendary journalists who exposed Watergate. They forced a president of the United States to admit wrongdoing and resign. One of the most powerful acts of patriotism by two journalists in the history of this country.”

“So you’ll be Woodward. And I’ll be Bernstein.”

“That’s not — okay, yes, they were a team, but they each brought something substantive to the table.”

“ I can bring something to the table.”

“Like what? Your deep knowledge of Ashley Cordova?”

She stopped dead. “I’m coming,” she announced behind me. “Or I’ll call the hospital and tell them you’re a fake using a fake name.”

I stopped in my tracks, turning around to survey her. There it was, that Teflon personality I’d gone mano-a-mano with at the Four Seasons. That was women for you — always morphing. One minute they were helpless, needing shelter and English muffins, the next they were ruthlessly bending you to their will like you were a piece of sheet metal.

“So it’s blackmail.”

She nodded, her stare fierce.

I walked the remaining yards to my car, a dented silver 1992 BMW parked along the curb.

“Fine,” I muttered over my shoulder. “But you’re staying in the car.”

Nora, squeaking with excitement, hurried around to the passenger side.