“Jorgensen,” Denisov said. The mistake annoyed him.
“Little ole Lu Ann is pretty tired right now and she’s set up to see this fella from the National Enquirer later tonight. So I don’t think I can help you out.”
“Please,” Denisov said.
“Well, look. I’ll put it pretty straight to you and I hope you appreciate that. Lu Ann’s only got so many minutes in the day, God knows, and so I’m sort of managing her time for her.”
“Who are you, please?”
“My name is Willis,” the man said. “I’m her cousin, if it’s business of yours.”
“Please,” said Denisov. “I would like to see this woman.”
“I’m sure you would—”
“Who is it, Willis?” The voice was small and cracker-rough. It came from the bathroom.
“Fella from Sweden he says,” Willis said, holding the door in one hand and calling over his shoulder.
“What’s he want?”
“What’s he want? Wants you, honey, is what he wants.”
“Tell him to go ’way, I got a headache now, Willis.”
“You heard the lady.”
“Please. I have come too great a distance.”
“I appreciate that, I surely do,” Willis said in the manner of a person who did not appreciate it at all. “Look here, let me put it right out to you, I don’t believe we got to be pussyfooting around. You got money on you? American money, not that ole Swedish money or whatever.”
Denisov was startled. When he had read of the incident in the church, he was puzzled, first by the reaction of the American media and then by the woman herself. He had studied her on the television screen and he still did not understand what her part was in the puzzle of Leo Tunney. He finally decided she was an American agent, for the Section or for the CIA. He had decided to be absolutely certain before killing her.
“I do not understand.”
“Man, you understand. Look, money talks and bullshit walks and that’s the way of the world. If I’m going to manage ole Lu Ann, we are going to have to keep this on a civilized basis, you dig?”
Denisov blinked at him. He understood some of the words but they did not seem to be in a sensible order.
“How much you got?”
“What is it you want?” Denisov said slowly, so that the other man would slow down his words as well.
“Money. Green. What the hell you think I’m talking about?” His laugh was like a bark. “Lu Ann is an innocent chile and I don’t want you to get the wrong idea but I gotta protect her.”
Denisov understood at last. He opened his pocketbook.
“What the hell kind of money is that?”
“Traveler’s check,” Denisov said. Issued by the KGB, acquired from the Gordny printing complex in Byelorussia, where a steady stream of the checks was forged in a variety of currencies.
“I don’t want no goddam traveler check, I want Uncle’s paper.”
“I do not understand.”
Willis started to close the door.
Gently, with strength, Denisov pushed against it. The door opened as though Willis were not there. He was pushed back against the bureau behind the door.
“Hey, now, you can’t push a American like that.”
“Please to sit down,” said Denisov slowly, gravely. He closed the door behind him.
“What’s going on out there, can’t ah take a pee without all that fuss?”
“Nothing, Lu Ann, honey,” said Willis.
“Please to come out here,” said Denisov.
“What’s that? Is that fella here?”
She emerged from the bathroom dressed in an Oriental bathrobe with dragons and kimono-clad women printed on it. She was thin and her face was as chalk white as it had appeared on the television screen that morning.
Denisov looked around him. On the dresser were the remains of a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket dinner. Congealed gravy had stained the plastic top of the dresser.
There were articles of clothing on the floor, male and female pieces, mixed together.
Both beds in the room were rumpled and the bedclothes were bunched at the foot of them.
The television set was on with the sound turned down. A cartoon about a mouse was playing on the screen.
Denisov felt in his pocket for the familiar pistol. A very small pistol of French make.
“I am Jorgensen,” he said and repeated the name of the paper. “I would talk to you about what happened.”
“He come busting his way in here, honey, I—”
“Be quiet,” said Denisov, the voice as ponderous as the march of a bear.
Willis took a swing at him then.
Denisov took the blow and shook it off. He turned his mild eyes to the other man, who stood for a moment undecided. Denisov said, “Be quiet.” He said it as an adult speaks to a child.
“Willis.” The voice of the thin woman was hard. The words cracked like sounds of a whip. “Sit down like he said. This man ain’t messing around.”
“No,” said Denisov. “You understand. This is not too long. I must know about this in the church.”
For the first time, Lu Ann trembled.
Denisov noticed the fear in her eyes. Why was she afraid? he thought. Does she know who I am?
“It was everything like I said,” Lu Ann Carter said. “Just like it. I’m just a girl from the swamps, ain’t got nothing, ain’t never gonna have nothing.”
“Yes,” said Denisov. He stood perfectly still. Willis sat on the edge of the bed and stared at him.
“I was a cripple and Willis’d testify on his mother’s grave to that. Folks coming in here trying to say I’m some fake or something, smart-aleck reporters from the North and all, well, I am what you see—”
“Who are you?” Denisov said.
She took a step back. She crossed her arms across her chest. She never let her dark eyes leave his mild face.
“Lu Ann Carter. Just Lu Ann Carter.”
“That miracle was real, I swear to God it was,” said Willis. “I don’t want you to get riled, I—”
“Be quiet,” said Denisov.
He stared at her and she trembled again as though she understood his thoughts.
What would Gogol instruct him in this instance? But it was too bizarre. It was beyond any scenario, he thought.
“Lu Ann Carter,” he repeated.
He felt the pistol in his pocket. He decided.
He reached for the handle of the door and opened it. He closed the door behind him without a word.
“Oh my God,” Lu Ann Carter said when he was gone.
“Honey, honey, you’re shaking all over.” Willis took her in his arms. “Honey, honey,” he crooned. “He ain’t gonna hurt you none. I didn’t know who he was—”
“Oh, shut up, Willis,” Lu Ann said.
He realized she was crying.
“Ain’t nothing to cry about,” he said, holding her trembling form next to him.
But she knew there was.
20
“I would like to see you,” Devereaux said. He stood at the pay telephone in the lobby of his hotel; habit impelled him to avoid a room telephone. Every contact came from an anonymous place.
“What time is it?”
“Seven.”
“Seven? In the morning? God, I feel like I’m drugged, I’m so tired. But I should be up.” Rita’s voice sounded pleasant and husky; Devereaux imagined her in bed, half-asleep, carelessly entwined in sheets the way a child sleeps. The image pleased him.
“I got the coroner’s report for you. On Father Foley’s death.”
“Really?” She paused. “Really? How did you do that?”
“An old reporter’s trick,” he lied. “From days I worked in Chicago before I got polite.”
“All the rumors are he was drugged—”