Christopher Buckley - Wet Work

"She called me. She was upset about the review. She said she'd bought cocaine from this usher at the theater. She said she was going to do the whole gram until she had the role authenticated. I pleaded with her not to do it. I told her it was dangerous. She said she didn't care. Christ, Charley, you know how she was. I rushed over, called her from the phone booth, that was the first message I got on the machine. She let me in. By the time I got there she was already flying. She'd done like half the gram. She was gone. Then she just keeled, dead."

"Why didn't you call for help?"

"She was dead, Charley. There was no heartbeat. I gave her CPR. She was dead."

"You should have called for help."

"She was dead . Either your heart is beating or it's not beating. Hers wasn't beating. I panicked, okay? I'd just heard the show might be moving uptown, my first real break, and, and I panicked, okay? I'm guilty of panicking. But that's all. The medical examiner doesn't know what he's talking about. She was dead at four-twenty or four-twenty-five. By the couch."

Charley threw open the door and went outside. He put his head against the metal side of the RV and pressed it there. Felix went to him. Charley moaned, "They found her in the bathroom. He left her to die."

Felix started up the steps. Charley stopped him.

Five minutes passed before the door opened and Charley reentered the RV. Tim was sweaty and pale. Charley said somberly, "I will not drag her good name through the papers. It's done. You'll have to live the rest of your life with this and I pray to God it drives you screaming off a cliff someday. Now get out."

"Charley, I feel badly-"

"GET OUT."

Tim closed the door behind him and breathed in the cold night air, still trembly. Felix said, "I'm supposed to take you back. Get in."

"I'll walk, that's all right."

Felix stared. "You wouldn't last two minutes in this neighborhood. Get in." Tim climbed in back, Felix in the front. He started the car. The glass partition slid up. Tim was grateful for that. He heard a hissing coming from beneath the seat. It seemed a little too loud for heat. He looked. Two streams of white smoke. He reached for the door handle; it was locked. It was a chemical smell, like, actually it was-Jesus-wonderful. He felt great. He'd never felt this great. It was so incredibly great, like a great opening night, only more… great.

Charley and Ramirez spoke in Spanish. "Who gave you the cocaine you sold to Tim?" Ramirez had not quite grasped the essence of his situation and was now demanding his lawyer and phone call. Finally Charley said to Ramirez that he could discuss the matter either with him or with the two men bookending him.

Ramirez said, "If I give you his name, he will kill me."

"No." Charley shook his head convincingly. "I promise you that will not happen. And I will pay for the information."

"How much?"

"Five thousand dollars."

The prospect of money seemed to relax Ramirez. "Fifty," he said.

Charley considered. "No."

"Forty-five."

"Ten."

"Forty."

Charley said, "Ten. And my offer is good for ten seconds. After that"-he nodded in the direction of McNamara-"our negotiation will proceed to another phase."

Ramirez gave a name and address in Hunts Point. Charley pointed to the crucifix around his neck.

"Are you Catholic, Emiliano?"

" Si si. Muy catolico. "

"Hold the cross in your hand." Puzzled, Ramirez held the crucifix. "Repeat after me: I swear by the Holy Cross of Jesus and by His Holy Mother, the Virgin, that what I've just said is true, and if it is not true, then may I spend eternity in hell and may my grandmother, mother, aunts and sisters spend eternity in hell."

"No problem, man." That wasn't quite the right answer. Charley was disappointed in Emiliano. He cocked his.45. Ramirez produced a different name and address, and a phone number. Charley dialed the number on the cellular telephone and handed it to Ramirez, the.45 aimed at his head. "Prove it," he said. Ramirez called Uguarte and said he needed more "oranges." Amazing, the codes they used like someone listening in wouldn't know what "oranges" was.

Charley said, "Who do you want to get the money?" There were some awkward moments as Ramirez figured it out. He began to cry and that didn't help. He said to send the money to his mother, Rosa, and gave her address. Charley cocked his.45 and urged him to be a man. At which point Ramirez began blubbering. " Por el amor de Dios, un cura. Por el amor de Dios, un cura. " Charley lowered the gun. Felix caught the stricken look.

"What's the problem?" he whispered.

"He's asking for a priest."

"Yeah. So?"

"Well, I can't shoot a man who's asking for a priest."

"Why?"

"You know why ."

Rostow came over. "What's the problem?"

Felix said, "He wants a priest."

"Uh-huh. So?"

"So."

Rostow shrugged. "It's always like this. When you want a priest, there's never one around."

"You Catholic, Rostow?" said Charley testily.

"Presbyterian."

"Then I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Rostow looked at Felix. Felix drew Charley off to one side. "I don't get it. You're saying you want to take him to a church, then shoot him?"

"No," said Charley. "I'm not sure that's feasible."

"Okay."

"My bill's going to be high enough as it is, Felix. I don't want that on my tab."

"Okay," Felix said, shrugging. "I'll shoot him."

"No. We got a Yellow Pages on board?"

"What?" said Felix.

"A Yellow Pages, a telephone book, damnit. Hell with it." Charley punched 411. "Operator, give me the name of a Catholic church, please. Any church. I don't have a particular church. Look, it doesn't matter. Oh, for cryin' out loud. St. Mary's Church. Any St. Mary's. First St. Mary's you got… Fine. Yes… Thank you. Christ in heaven, where do they get operators like that, in the Soviet Union?" He dialed.

"Excuse me," Rostow was whispering to Felix, "but what the hell is going on here?"

"He's calling a priest," said Felix.

"Hello?" said Charley. "I'm sorry, I know it's late, but I need to talk to a priest… You are? Good. All right now, Padre, now listen up. Got a man here gonna die-he's slipping fast-and he wants to say his piece to a priest… No, there's no time, believe me, he's almost gone as it is… No, this is not a joke, on my heart, this is very serious."

Charley stabbed at the "hold" button and pointed the pistol at Ramirez and said, "Okay, Emiliano, I got your priest on the line. You say one word not directly related to your immortal soul and you'll be in hell before he can give you forgiveness and you'll spend all eternity there wondering why you were so damn stupid."

Ramirez's confession went on for a full ten minutes. Even Rostow, McNamara and Bundy were impressed. Charley felt indecent holding the gun to old Ramirez's head like that while he unpacked his sorry soul, but there wasn't much he could do about that.

Tim was discovered on the floor of his apartment next to a crack pipe and several rocks of the same, dead of an acute heart attack. They found massive traces of it in his lungs and blood, enough to kill several people. Everyone was stunned. This obsession with authenticity was getting out of hand. Who was next, the set designer? Theater people were calling the play MacWired , because it was starting to look as jinx-ridden as Macbeth . Bernie and Karen were horrified, though the publicity was frankly having a tremendous effect on sales. Jimmy Podesta wrote a piece for the Times Op-Ed. Charley sent a nice floral arrangement to the funeral, along with his regrets that he couldn't attend. He remained in seclusion on his island in the Chesapeake, but he did issue a statement through his company spokesman saying it was a tragedy such young and talented lives were being taken while the government refused to get serious about the problem.