But on some occasions, like tonight, those assessment reviews also coincided with his Tuesday and Friday single drink rituals — so he’d then spread out with his papers at a corner table rather than sit up at the bar. But the order of reading, day or night, was always the same: first the majors, the NYT, Washington Post and Chicago Tribune, twelve to fifteen minutes on each, then finally the Times-Picayune, which held his attention for no more than six or eight minutes.
Truelle always felt more connected to the country at large than locally, possibly through having graduated from Cornell and spent his first eight years of practice in New York. He’d only gone to New Orleans when his mother became ill. She’d long since died, but through circumstance, the drink and a mess of other problems, he’d never managed to grasp a time when he was organized or brave enough to return.
He still felt, twenty years on from his last days of practice in the Big Apple, that he was in New Orleans through duty rather than choice. The only things he found solace in were the warmer climes and the seafood. The rest of it — the petty wrangling and corruption of city officials, the environmentalists fighting a losing battle against the oil refineries along the coast — constantly grated, and so he always gave the Picayune short shrift as he flicked through.
He was flicking through so rapidly, skimming half-blindly, that he could have easily missed the entry, tucked in the bottom left-hand corner of page fifteen: Raoul Ferrer, 36, financier and businessman, was found dead in an Algiers car lot in the early hours of Friday morning. Early police reports cite the cause as two gunshot wounds from a 9mm calibre weapon to the head. On occasion linked to the Malastra organization, Ferrer…
The noise and activity of the bar around him suddenly became more distant, muted. He wasn’t sure if the barman, Benny, had heard him above the drone from the sudden blood-rush to his head as he called out for another drink.
But Benny was certainly looking his way, having paused mid-wipe of the bar counter as he saw Truelle suddenly transfixed by the paper as if he’d seen a ghost, one hand gripping tight to the page as he read and re-read, the other reaching absently to knock back in one the bourbon that he’d usually nurse for another half hour.
‘Are you sure?’ Benny asked, eyeing him with concern. Four months into the ritual, Benny felt that enough rapport existed between them for him to breach barman’s protocol and ask why always only the one drink? From that point on, Benny had become a silent conspirator in keeping him clean.
‘Yeah, Benny, never been surer. Bring it on.’ He beckoned elaborately, but was careful not to meet Benny’s eye. Shield the demons. Then, as he watched Benny pouring, ‘In fact, bring over the whole bottle.’ This time he looked even further aslant — somewhere between New York and New Orleans, to avoid Ben’s withering gaze, only looking up with a tight smile as Benny came over and set the glass and bottle down.
‘Your funeral,’ Benny said resignedly. The tired tone of a barman who’d seen more than he dared count finally slip off the wagon.
Truelle knocked the drink down in two slugs as soon as Benny turned away. Poured, drank; poured, drank; poured, drank… but it did little to quell his panic or give him any clarity of thought. His head was still buzzing and his hands still shaking.
He pushed the bottle abruptly away, suddenly picturing the months ahead of trying to push away more and more bottles, but never quite succeeding… the lost hours and days and mental lapses, the patients neglected, the sickness and depression, friends patting his shoulder concernedly, ‘Are you okay, Len?’… the steady downward spiral that he knew so well.
Truelle’s eyes darted around the table. There was even a small article on Durrant on page nine of the NYT, obviously the first to hit the national press: ‘Anti capital punishment campaigners, both local and from out-of-state, are planning a vigil in front of Libreville’s prison gates in the run-up to the execution…’
Maybe that was it, Truelle thought. Surrounded by too many demons: the bottle, Durrant, Raoul Ferrer, the bar where Nel-M had paid him a visit just a week ago. He had to get out!
He pushed the table back, its legs grating roughly and turning a few heads from the bar. He felt himself sway uncertainly as he took the first few steps — he had been off the wagon a long while. In the good old days, he’d have put away a few stiff ones like that without hardly blinking. He waved briefly towards Benny as he passed, again careful not to meet his eye, or for that matter those at the bar who were now watching his exit with curious smiles.
‘Tab-it, Benny. I’ll catch you next time.’
It was worse outside. A confusion of traffic noise, horns beeping, people rushing by and calling out — the height of the rush hour and happy hour on Chartres Street. All of it seemed amplified in his head along with the buzzing, and he felt himself swaying more — or was it the street and all the people around tilting? He bumped into a woman with her shopping bags, and reached out to steady himself on the man just behind — who pushed the arm brusquely away with a sneer. Another horn blaring, sharper, more immediate, the sudden flare of headlamps making him realize he’d staggered into the road.
He jumped back and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and his nerves. Maybe he was panicking for nothing. In Ferrer’s line of work, it was only a matter of time before he was found in an empty car lot or ditch. But it was the timing in the run-up to Durrant’s execution that made it ominous. Nel-M pays himself a visit to make sure that everything is ‘cool’ — then next on the list is Raoul Ferrer. This time, though, Nel-M had obviously decided that everything wasn’t so cool.
The only way he could know for sure was by calling Nel-M. Nel-M probably wouldn’t admit it outright, but he’d glean enough from the cadence and inflection of what was said. The trained psychiatrist’s ear. But the call in itself might be the one thing to alert Nel-M that things might not be so cool with himself either, would make him next on the list.
Cool. It was a warm and sultry night, but Truelle felt ice-cold, his whole body starting to tremble and shiver. Rooted to the spot amongst the milling throng, his stance underlined how isolated he felt at that moment, with nobody he felt he could turn to. Advising thousands through the years — but who had ever been there for him when he most needed it? And his burden had been far, far beyond that of any of those he’d had to sit patiently listening to through the years.
Perhaps it was time to tell Nel-M and Adelay Roche about his insurance policies. No point in them finding out after the event that killing him was the one thing that would throw everything into the open.
Jac was waiting in the ante-room to the Payne, Beaton and Sawyer boardroom along with seventeen other lawyers and paralegals for the company’s regular Wednesday morning progress meeting, when the call came through on his cell-phone.
The ritual meetings were presided over by either Jeremiah Payne or Clive Beaton — Dougy Sawyer would take the role of company secretary, saying little but making furious notes throughout — and order of importance in the company was all but determined by time of arrival. Junior lawyers and paralegals were expected at 8.20 a.m. sharp, senior lawyers at 8.25, and, finally, the presiding partners at 8.30.
The message was patently clear: when the company gods arrived, woe betide any laggers that might hold up proceedings, even for a second.
The ten-minute wait for the juniors, though, was often insufferable. It was intended to give them more time to prepare their notes or get comments clearer in their minds — but more often than not it just gave them more time to dwell and become increasingly anxious.