The voice was very quiet, almost a whisper. There was no emotion in it, no hint of an accent.
‘I shouldn’t be doing this, of course – but at this stage, I almost feel that I know you.’
‘What do you mean pull the plug?’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed already that we’ve taken the stuff back. So, as of now, you can consider the experiment terminated.’
‘Experiment?’
There was silence for a moment.
‘We’ve been monitoring you ever since you showed up that day at Vernon’s, Eddie.’
My heart sank.
‘Why do you think you never heard back from the police? We weren’t sure at first, but when it became obvious to us that you had Vernon’s supply, we decided to see what would happen next, to conduct a little clinical trial, as it were. We haven’t had that many human subjects, you know…’
I stared out across the room, trying to cast my mind back, trying to identify signs, tells…
‘… and boy, what a subject you turned out to be! If it’s any consolation to you, Eddie, no one has ever done as much MDT as you have, no one’s ever taken it as far as you have.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I mean, we knew you really must’ve been hitting it hard when you cleaned up at Lafayette, but then when you moved in on Van Loon… that was amazing.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Of course, there was that little incident at the Clifden-’
‘Who are you?’ I repeated, dully now, almost mechanically.
‘-but tell me, what exactly did happen there?’
I put the phone down, and kept my hand on it, hard, as though by pressing it like that, he – whoever he was – would go away.
When the phone rang again, I picked it up at once.
‘Look, Eddie, no hard feelings, but we can’t risk having you talking to private detectives – not to mention Russian loansharks. Just know that you’ve been… a very useful subject.’
‘Come on,’ I said, a sense of desperation welling up in me all of a sudden, ‘is there no way… I mean, I don’t have to…’
‘Listen, Eddie-’
‘I didn’t give Morgenthaler anything, I didn’t tell him anything…’ – there was a crack in my voice now – ‘… couldn’t I just get…some kind of supply, some…’
‘Eddie-’
‘I’ve got money,’ I said, clutching the receiver tightly to stop my hand from trembling. ‘I’ve got a lot of money in the bank. I could-’
The line went dead.
I kept my hand on the receiver, just like I had the last time. This time, however, I waited a full ten minutes. But nothing happened.
I finally lifted my hand away and stood up. My legs were stiff. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, back and forth for a while. It felt like I was doing something.
Why had he hung up?
Was it because I had mentioned money? Would he be calling back in a while with a figure? Should I be ready?
How much did I have in the bank?
I waited another twenty minutes or so, but nothing happened.
Over the next twenty minutes again, I convinced myself that his hanging up on me had been some kind of a coded message. I’d offered him money, and now I was going to have to sweat it out until he called me back with a figure – which I’d better have ready.
I stared down at the phone.
I didn’t want to use it, so I took out my cellphone and rang Howard Lewis, my bank manager. He was on another call. I left a message for him to call me back on this number. I said it was urgent. Five minutes later, he returned the call. Between what I’d made trading recently and money I’d borrowed from Van Loon for the decorating and furnishing of the apartment, there was just over $400,000 in the account. Since Van Loon had gotten involved in my financial affairs on a personal level, Lewis had reverted to his earlier obsequious mode, so when I told him that I needed half a million dollars in cash – and as quickly as possible – he was flustered but at the same time so eager to please that he promised to have the money ready for me first thing in the morning.
I said OK, I’d be there. Then I closed up the phone, switched it off and put it back in my pocket.
Half a million dollars. Who could turn that down?
I paced around the room, avoiding the mess in the centre. Every now and again, I glanced over at the phone on the floor.
When it started ringing again, I leapt towards it, bent down and picked it up in what seemed like a single movement.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Spinola? It’s Richie, down at the desk?’
Shit.
‘What? I’m busy.’
‘I just wanted to check that everything was all right. I mean, about that-’
‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine. There’s no problem.’
I hung up.
My heart was pounding.
I stood up again and continued pacing around the room. I considered tidying up the mess, but decided against it. After a while I sat down on the floor, with my back to the wall and just stared out across the room, waiting.
I stayed in that position for the next eight hours.
Normally, I would have taken a dose of MDT in the afternoon, but since that hadn’t been possible, I was overtaken with fatigue by late evening – something I identified as the earliest stage of the withdrawal process. As a result of this, I actually managed to get some sleep – even if it was fitful and disturbed. I had no bed, so I stacked up some blankets and a duvet on the floor and used that to sleep on. When I awoke – at about five in the morning – I had a dull headache and my throat was dry and raspy.
I made a cursory effort to tidy the mess up, just for something to do, but my mind was too clogged with anxiety and fear, and I didn’t get very far.
Before I went to the bank, I took two Excedrin tablets. Then I rooted out my answering machine from one of the smashed wooden crates. It didn’t look as if it had sustained too much damage, and when I connected it up to the phone on the floor, it appeared to be working. I got my briefcase from another crate, put on a coat and left – avoiding eye-contact with Richie at the desk down in the lobby.
In the cab on the way to the bank, with the empty briefcase resting on my lap, I experienced a wave of despair, a sense that the hope I was clinging to was not only desperate, but clearly – and absolutely – unfounded. As I looked out at the traffic and at the passing, streaming façade of Thirty-fourth Street, the notion that things could somehow be reversed, at this late stage, suddenly seemed, well… too much to hope for.
But then at the bank, as I watched an official stack my briefcase full with solid bricks of cash – fifty and hundred dollar bills – I regained a certain amount of confidence. I signed any relevant documents there were, smiled politely at the fawning Howard Lewis, bid him good morning and left.
In the cab on the way back, with the now full briefcase resting on my lap, I felt vaguely excited, as if this new scheme couldn’t fail. When the guy phoned, I’d be ready with an offer – he’d have a proposal… we’d negotiate, things would slip neatly back into place.
As soon as I got up to the apartment, I put the briefcase down on the floor beside the telephone. I left it open, so I could see the money. There were no messages on the answering machine, and I checked my cellphone to see if there were any on that. There was one new one – from Van Loon. He understood I needed a break, but this was no way to go about taking one. I was to call him.
I powered off the phone and put it away.
By midday, my headache had become quite severe. I continued taking Excedrin tablets, but they no longer seemed to have any effect. I took a shower and stood for ages under the jet of hot water, trying to soothe the knots of tension out of my neck and shoulders.