That’s it.
Is it any wonder no-one ever comes in here?
He goes over to the coffee table and puts his glass down beside the bottle of smoky Laphroaig.
Outside, the phone rings.
Again.
Eve is under instructions to screen all calls.
His own cell is turned off.
He looks down at the bottle.
Does he pour himself another one? He’s not sure he can relive – as he will inevitably have to, again and again – those final few moments in the car today beside Don Ribcoff… without some form of… of fortification. Especially that final moment, that very, very final moment, when he picked up his laptop and swung it sideways straight into Ribcoff’s forehead… withdrew it and swung it back, even harder this time, aiming better, the right angle of its corner ramming directly into the centre of Ribcoff’s now-turned and very startled face.
The bridge of his nose?
Definitely the bridge of his nose the next time, going by the sound, and no question about it the time after that, cartilage, sinew, muscle.
Blood.
Spurting, spraying… everywhere.
The few times after that? You’re talking fucking… serious laundry bills.
He picks up the bottle, hesitates, then pours himself another measure, a generous one.
He remembers getting out of the car somewhere down around Twenty-third Street and being met – taken in hand, transferred to another car – by some of his people. Luckily, the driver of the original car was one of his, too, and not a Gideon driver – well, he’s assuming luckily – because you never know.
And then?
And then it was busy.
All day.
He’s been busy… all day.
Talking.
To this one and that one.
Rationalising, explaining, making calls, responding. Earlier on, there was that very long shower he had to take, and then later – he’s a little muddled about the sequence of things at the moment – yeah, later, watching TV and checking news websites.
Because, Jesus Christ…
J.J.
His big brother.
All day he’s had to watch the poor bastard being crucified.
Vilified, ridiculed.
While knowing at the same time, that somehow – and sooner rather than later – he’s next in line.
For the hammer and nails.
And the cheap cracks.
He lifts the glass to his lips, well beyond that tipping point now. No euphoria anymore, just…
Oh Jesus.
He was so angry in the car today, about Nora… and with Ribcoff – for delaying, for maintaining that stupid pretence of military precision, when it was clear what they had to do.
Despite the enormous risks.
Just go in there and…
Because two or three minutes earlier and everything would have been different.
Everything would be different now.
Yeah.
He throws his head back and drains the glass, though this time feeling a little sick as he does so.
Like he’s had enough.
He stares at the plain wall in front of him, and then down at the floorboards.
How many messages did he leave today for Jimmy Vaughan? A lot. And that’s what makes him the sickest, that’s what -
Rundle looks up. The door is opening.
It’s Eve, looking gaunt and exhausted. She remains standing in the doorway.
‘Clark.’ She whispers it. ‘There are two police detectives downstairs. They want to speak with you.’
Rundle swallows. ‘OK.’ He shrugs. ‘Send them up.’
Shit. This is about Don Ribcoff, isn’t it? That driver today, he’s sure of it. Or one of the others maybe, one of the Gideon contractors. There were so many of them around the place, it was sometimes hard to tell who was with who, and -
Their loyalties would be with Ribcoff, wouldn’t they?
Clearly.
He shakes his head.
All they’d need is the laptop. Which of course he doesn’t remember taking with him from the car, and that’s because he didn’t take it with him, he left it there.
Do these detectives have it now? This choice piece of evidence?
Definitive, case-busting?
Rundle turns around and does something he’s been threatening to do all day. He steps forward, heaves loudly and throws up – all over one of the leather couches.
Half a pint of whisky.
The sum total of what he’s got.
And when he’s finished, he wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.
Standing there, facing the window, he takes a few deep breaths.
A moment later, from outside, he hears the door opening, and voices.
A little after eleven o’clock the next morning Ellen Dorsey takes Jimmy to the offices of Parallax magazine on Forty-first Street. She introduces him to the editor, Max Daitch, an intense guy in his mid-thirties who sits behind a mahogany desk piled high with papers and books.
Within about twenty seconds he has offered Jimmy two things – coffee and a job.
When Jimmy doesn’t respond immediately to either offer, Daitch says, ‘OK, I can’t tell you much more about the coffee, it’s coffee, what do you want, but the job…’ He leans forward on the desk and clicks his tongue. ‘Or maybe, I don’t know, does the word job make you nervous? Would you prefer if I said commission?’
Jimmy smiles and says, ‘No, no, coffee’s fine, thanks. An espresso. Please.’
Daitch looks at him, waits, then says, ‘Oh, what are we, playing hardball here?’ He turns to Dorsey. ‘Ellen, help me out with this guy, Jesus.’
‘Shut up, Max,’ she says. ‘Do you have any idea what he’s been through in the last twenty-four hours?’
Jimmy has barely been able to process this himself.
‘That interview he did was broadcast all over the world, it was the lead news story everywhere and it totally burned up the blogosphere, but people want more, some kind of a follow-up, so he spent most of yesterday fighting off offers from editors and booking agents and people like Liz Zambelli. Who by the way appears to have more or less kidnapped Tom Szymanski, because no one knows where he is. But anyway, there’s a lot of interest out there, a lot of competition, network producers are salivating, and yet this guy, as you call him, chooses to come here.’
Daitch considers what she’s said, then nods. ‘OK. Fine. An espresso it is.’ He buzzes out to his assistant. Then he looks at Jimmy. ‘Great interview, I have to say. Really. It was. Every question, every answer, not an ounce of fat.’
Jimmy nods back. ‘Thanks. We were under a certain amount of pressure.’
‘No shit. But Ellen here tells me that you’ve got more, a whole back story to go with this. Is that right?’
‘Yes. What I’ve got, I think, is the story of how BRX got involved in this thing in the first place. I want to draw a direct line from that right up to yesterday. Right up to last night.’ He exhales and bobs his head from side to side, as though weighing it all up. ‘So, I don’t know, a ten-minute segment on a some news show…’
‘Couldn’t possibly do the story justice?’
‘Right.’
‘OK, but you only think you’ve got it?’
‘Well, I know what happened, but I need to work on it. There are a lot of gaps to fill in. I need to go to London to check out some CCTV footage. I need to go back to Italy. Ideally, I should go to Congo.’ He pauses. ‘Actually, I have to go to Congo.’