Geoff Nicholson - The City Under the Skin

“You’re sorry?” he said.

Very gently she replied, “Yes, I am, and I’ll give you the name of someone else who I think will be able to help you. He’s a very good man.”

“Somebody else won’t do.”

“That’s simply not true, William.” She turned away from the window and took a couple of steps toward the door. “I’ll pop into the reception area and get his details.”

“No,” said Billy. “I came here for you. You’re the one I want.”

“We’re going to have to wind things up now, I think.”

Billy stood up rapidly, swept past her, placed himself between her and the office door. The look she gave him was a beauty, stern but sympathetic, authoritative, earnest, cautious but unafraid, the look you’d give a dog that had wandered into your backyard: beloved pet or rabid stray?

“Don’t you want to hear about my problems with women?” Billy said.

“No, I don’t. You need to leave now.”

“No, that’s not what I need. Now shut up and listen.”

“This is getting out of hand, Mr. Smith. Step aside.”

“You’re not like the others. They were homeless or strippers or prostitutes, and sure, one was a realtor, but you’re in a different class. Did you just get over it, shrug it off? Or did the tattoos motivate you or some shit like that?”

That really got her attention.

“I think you’re mistaken, William. I think you have the wrong woman.”

“I’d like to believe that,” he said. “Not that it would make any difference. Like I said, this whole thing is a complete fucking mystery to me, and I’ve got a feeling some of it’s a mystery to my boss too, but you’ll see for yourself.”

“You’ve rather eloquently convinced me that I shouldn’t see this boss of yours.”

She clutched her gold pencil, as though she might use it as a weapon, or might crush it between her tense fingers.

“Well, that’s not an option, Doc. Neither of us has a choice about it.”

“We all have choices, William.”

“You know, I really fucking hate it when people call me William.”

It all happened very quickly after that. He hit her just once, nothing fancy, and then she hit him back, which meant that he had to hit her that much harder, which knocked the fight out of her and gave him time to drag her from the office, to his Cadillac.

“I’m sorry I had to do that,” he said, which he knew sounded stupid.

He also realized she’d pull herself together and be ready to fight some more long before they got anywhere near Wrobleski’s compound, and he didn’t want to have to hit her again to subdue her. He really didn’t want to hit anyone anymore. So he settled the issue by bundling her into the trunk of the Cadillac and locking it. He felt sure that other, more elegant solutions must be available, but he couldn’t think of any, and in any case, elegance was pretty low on his list of priorities just then.

As Billy Moore drove, he could hear the sounds of muffled banging and screaming from behind him, from inside the trunk of the Cadillac. Fists and feet, and very possibly elbows and knees, and possibly even a head, slammed pointedly and pointlessly against the car’s internal panels. He was glad his car was already a wreck: a man who drove a better vehicle could have gotten really upset about a thing like that. He turned on the radio and found some dull classic rock to drown out the noise. Yes, music had its uses.

Once the car was inside the courtyard, where Wrobleski and Akim were waiting, the improbable double act, the old firm, Billy popped the latch on the trunk, and Dr. Carol Fermor slowly pulled herself out. Now that there was nothing to kick against, she stood quietly, trying hard to exhibit dignity, looking at all three men, making steady eye contact with each. Perhaps it was a professional gaze, thorough, diagnostic, or perhaps she was simply committing their looks to deep memory, anticipating a time when she might take revenge. Billy Moore stared at the ground.

“Who are you people?” Carol Fermor said. “What do you want? How do you think this can possibly end?”

“That’s a lot of questions,” said Wrobleski.

“I’m a respected professional. I have a husband and a family. I’ll be missed. People will be looking for me. I can’t just disappear.”

Wrobleski stroked his scalp distractedly.

“People like you disappear all the time,” he said. “People better than you.”

He made the smallest gesture to indicate that he was bored, that Akim should take this woman out of his sight. She went reluctantly but without too much of a struggle, though Billy reckoned that might have a lot to do with the syringe in Akim’s hand. Wrobleski took an envelope of money from his pocket and held it out to Billy, but Billy turned away, keeping his hands down, in his pockets, spoiling the lines of his new suit.

“I don’t need it,” Billy said.

“What? You’re working pro bono these days?”

“No, Mr. Wrobleski. Have this one on me. I think I’m done.”

“Have you found alternate employment?”

“Well, yeah, I’m trying to run my parking lot, but in any case, I’m the wrong man for the job.”

“Don’t you think I’m the best judge of that?”

Billy said nothing. Only a damn fool would tell Wrobleski there was something wrong with his judgment.

“It’s okay,” said Wrobleski. “I understand your position. You’re confused. You want to know what’s going on. Am I going to hurt these women? How long am I going to keep them? You want to know what the fuck these maps are all about.”

It was true, Billy did want to know these things, but it had occurred to him that knowing exactly what Wrobleski was up to might be worse than being in the dark.

“Well, I could tell you, Billy,” said Wrobleski. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

Wrobleski didn’t laugh or smile, because he never did, and Billy tried to console himself with the notion that all the best jokes are told with a straight face, not that this particular joke explained anything.

“Billy,” said Wrobleski, “I’m not the worst guy to work for. There are many far worse than me. But I can’t have you picking and choosing, coming and going as you please. I can’t have anybody doing that. You’re working for me, not for yourself.”

As before, Billy was inclined to ask, “Why me?” but he knew it was far too late for that. He had been selected, perhaps for a good reason, perhaps on a whim, but once Wrobleski had made his selection, there was no room for further bargaining.

“But I’m not going to be a cunt about it,” Wrobleski said. “So how about this? You do one more and that’s it. Then you’ll have picked up your last tattooed woman. You’ll be your own man again. That’s fair, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question, and it would have made no difference whether Billy thought it was fair or not.

“Okay,” said Billy. “One more and then it’s over.” But he didn’t believe his own words any more than he believed Wrobleski’s.

Sunrise on a landscaped slither of real estate, formerly nameless, now Columbia Park, a canal-side house of cards, a public and private partnership: shiny, flimsy new buildings, office blocks and apartments in unequal numbers, built by developers who’d been given an easy ride on planning regulations in exchange for cleaning up the chaos of territory alongside the canal. Ray McKinley had been one of the first. Now there was a bike path, a pedestrian walkway, some fanciful lampposts and benches, a laughably small “green space” containing an even more derisory “nature trail.” At lunchtime this place would be densely populated with office workers, but now, with the sky barely light, it was deserted, static, and Wrobleski sat in the passenger seat of his SUV, Akim at the wheel, waiting.