“The aliens?” Cortez repeats.
“The people above you,” Lenore says.
“I love that term. But you know how it is with aliens. Long arms and all.”
“You’ve got quite the imagination.”
“And a strong sense of history. You’re free to believe what you want. I know the extent of their power. It’s been my experience that what is fantastic up here is simply the boring routine when you get south of the border.”
“In that case, one last question.”
“Go ahead.”
“The Aliens. They wouldn’t by any chance be women?”
An enormous smile breaks on Cortez’s face. He cups a hand around Lenore’s neck and, without actually making any sound, mouths the words “Of course they are.”
“I’m glad I entertain you so much,” she says.
“I hope it’s been a mutual infatuation.”
“Infatuation. That’s how you want to define this.”
“You’d prefer something stronger,” he says, voice low, genuinely flirting with her.
“Absolutely. And since you’re the one breaking to run, that makes me the spurned victim.”
“You? A victim?”
“And I’m here for some concessions.” She pauses, then says, “So how about it?”
He starts to close up the ghost library. He sinks to his knees to latch the case and says, without looking at her, “I’m taking Max with me, you know. You won’t be seeing any more of him.”
Lenore is startled. “You know about Max and me?”
Cortez nods. “And I don’t believe I’m the only one. But a father will forgive a son almost anything.”
“Father? Figuratively, or—”
“Does it matter?” He pauses, looks at the palm of his hand. “I don’t want Wyatt hurt, either.”
“Okay.”
“Mingo, I’m not as concerned about. I’ve had the feeling lately that if I looked into some of Mingo’s off-time activities, I’d be very disappointed. He’s caused more of my problems than he’s worth.”
“Just keep your people near you.”
He comes back upright, moves in close to her until their bodies are almost touching.
“You’ll be free at two A.M.?”
“I think I can make it.”
“St. James Cemetery? Off Richer?”
“Where my parents are buried.”
“The old section. Near the railroad tracks. A freight car labeled ‘Pachinko.’”
“All right. Done. Have you been given the money for the purchase yet?”
“It should be arriving shortly.”
“Then I should be getting out of here. You keep your hands on the cash. Can you set something up between now and the meet? Transportation and all?”
“I’ve had some loose contingencies in place for some time.”
“Then this is it,” she says, taking an awkward step backward, feeling a little woozy. “Have a good life, Cortez. Reading. In the caves.”
He rolls his eyes for some reason. He looks sheepish, embarrassed. He seems to her, suddenly, almost shockingly, unsure and young, like he could hold up his hands at any second and tell her the whole thing was a joke, an elaborate put-on. Ike and Woo, the whole narc department, even poor cousin Lon might come running into the library, conspirators in the gag. Everyone might laugh, bottles of champagne could be popped open, music could be introduced to the dusty room, and a party, based solely on a fat prank played on Lenore, could start its march into the night.
Instead, Cortez holds his hand above his head, palm flat and parallel with the crown of his skull, and says, “Remember, shoot high.”
Lenore stares at him, waiting for something more. Then she gives a single, small nod and turns to move. Cortez puts his hands on her shoulders, pulls her in toward him, and begins to kiss her. At first, Lenore doesn’t respond, but as seconds pass and he shows no sign of separating their lips, she lets herself go comfortable, and then she’s returning the gesture, applying pressure of her own. Their mouths open, almost simultaneously, and tongues slide around one another and into new territory. It goes on for full minutes, their breathing becoming more and more audible, sucking noises multiplying.
She wants to press on his shoulders and force him down onto the floor. But he stops, draws his head back slowly, then brings his mouth forward, this time pressing his lips to her forehead. He kisses softly now. He tilts his head and kisses her cheek, holding her face in both his hands. Then he steps backward, gives a small bow of the head, like some odd Euro-Latin count, some last-century duke, and he walks out of the library in a modified march, hands down at his side and feet moving in syncopated time.
She stands for a moment, taken back. She realizes she, too, should leave, get back to the Barracuda, get back to the green duplex, get on the phone, and start setting strategy. Instead, she moves to the fireplace, squats down, and hunches in over her knees. She tries to lean close and get any last heat the embers might have to offer. But it’s no good. She’s got a chill and an ache that’s only going to grow. The thing is to keep it under control for the next three or four hours.
That’s the goal. Get through a specific period of time. Keep the mind on that simple goal. Continue to perform, to move through the motions. Fulfill the duties, the responsibilities. Do her job.
And, where Cortez is concerned, shoot high.
Chapter Thirty
Eva sits on the aluminum fold-out chair in the back room of the Bach Room. She keeps both hands around her glass of ginger ale. The glass is growing foggy with the discrepancy between the heat of her fingers and the cold of the ice cubes. Rourke is sitting in a chair across the table, opposite her. He’s trying to make her as uncomfortable as possible, staring at her for long periods of time without blinking his eyes.
In fact, it’s Rourke who is uncomfortable, and growing more troubled as time goes by. He keeps biting on hangnails, using his teeth to tear at tiny strips of skin near the base of his thumbnail until trickles of blood run down his knuckle toward his wrist. There’s a bottle of Wild Turkey on the table, the cap off, but Rourke hasn’t taken a drink yet. It’s apparent to Eva that he wants one, and she doesn’t understand his abstinence. But for some reason, it gives her some confidence, it signals some obscure assurance that she’s made correct decisions, chosen the right path.
Marconi, the bartender, sticks his head through the doorway curtain, looks from Eva to Rourke, then says, “He’s here.”
Rourke nods his head rapidly.
Marconi says, “He wants to see you out in front.”
Rourke’s eyes break away from Eva and look down at the table. They stay focused there for a second, as if there were writing, some kind of microscopic graffiti, on the tabletop. Then he rises, pushing back the chair with the back of his knees, making an awful scraping noise against the floor. He moves out into the bar and Marconi steps just inside the doorway and stands in the corner watching Eva, his hands together behind his back. He seems frightened just being inside the back room.
Eva asks, “Is everything all right?” not really interested in a response, but more to prod and jangle Marconi, watch for a reaction.
He says nothing, looks down to the floor in the same manner that Rourke looked to the tabletop.
From out in the bar they both hear a slapping sound, like the flat palm of a hand coming down on wood, onto the bartop maybe. There’s an undercurrent of mumbling that can’t be made out and then silence again.
Rourke calls Marconi’s name and the bartender exits the back room without another look at Eva, as if he might turn to salt with a last glance. After a few seconds the curtain is pushed back and a rail-thin man steps into the room. He’s wearing a charcoal suit and a crimson silk tie marked with a splatter of grey dots. It’s impossible to make a good guess of his age, but if pressed, Eva would say late thirties to mid-forties.