"I've had to make a living these last few months," I said. "Not everyone can park themselves in a hotel. You kill enough, maybe you start to think differently of people, the ones who need something. Anyway, I don't require your approval. Or anyone's."
"My sources paint a different picture. You're in the drug trade now. That's fine with me, Michael. It doesn't suit your temperament, but I suppose you need to find your thrills where you can. It can't always be about espionage and sex with the wrong people."
I was standing beside the garage, where I'd spent half of my childhood working with my dad on one failed project after another, including the Charger, listening to a woman I'd once slept with, who'd tried to kill me, who I should have killed the several times I had the chance, telling me who I was, what I was about, telling me that what I was… wasn't.
"Natalya," I said, "I've lost patience."
"I can see that," she said.
"I'm sure you can." It was dark out, but the sky was clear. Since I grew up in your average poorly lit neighborhood, and since no one had bothered to complain to the city about how, after dusk, the streets fell into perfect blackness, interrupted only by the flickering of the same flickering streetlights that have flickered for nearly thirty years, I was able to see a full array of stars. I tried to spot any that seemed to be moving. Or blinking. Or snapping photos. "Your sources have quite an array of satellites," I said.
"Now you can see why I believe him."
"So he's a he?"
"Michael," she said, "do you think semantics are going to solve our problem?"
"This isn't our problem. I know what I have and haven't done. I've done bad things-that's true-but I didn't roll on you to cover my own ass. I don't even have an ass anymore. You're free to believe what you want to believe, but now you're going to have to pay the consequences, too."
"The consequences? Do you want to know the tally of a person's life, Michael? What your lies are worth? What our lives are finally worth to the nations we've worked for? Three million dollars. That's what the cut is. That's what I owe and therefore that is what you owe if you wish to live through this."
"Do not threaten me," I said.
"You should spend more time with your family," Natalya said. "Have you seen your brother lately?"
"Natalya," I said, "Nate is not part of this. My mother is not part of this. You and me, that's all this is."
"Is that true?"
Of course it wasn't. "Of course it is."
"You should watch the news, then," she said. Her accent, so perfect when I saw her yesterday, so British, was beginning to falter. Her inflection had changed. I didn't know if it was her atavistic self coming through her anger, or she was just tired of pretending. Either way, she was the woman I remembered, finally. "Your little assault on Longstreet made the five o'clock. I hope you've learned what you needed. Because next time? Next time they will shoot to kill."
"I'm sorry. I don't get TASS on my cable plan," I said, because suddenly, things were becoming clear to me. My problems, two of them, but not all of them, had that locus point I'd been searching for, that connective tissue. "And just so you know, Natalya, your body? Everything in it? All the skin, all the elements, all the fluids? The final tally is about five bucks. Use it wisely."
Natalya started to say something else, but I was already hanging up.
The time for talking to Natalya?
Done.
I went inside, had another piece of pot roast, told Fiona I wanted her to stay the night with my mother. Called Nate, told him not to open any of his mail and that if anyone came to his door, he should shoot them first, figure out what they wanted second, and if there was any problem to call me and I'd be there, but that I didn't have time to explain everything to him just yet, only that tomorrow, I'd need him. Called Sam, told him to get Cricket and bring her to my mother's, because we needed to keep things close at hand. Told him we needed to get Cricket's house ready for an operation tomorrow. Called an associate named Barry, who handles things like large sums of laundered money, and told him to meet me for breakfast.
Then I called the offices of Longstreet Security and left a message on Brenda Holcomb's voice mail, told her that my name was Hank Fitch and I was the guy who could have killed her and didn't, but would like to return what had been taken from her office, provided that the police weren't still snooping around and that she'd put her shotgun away. "And do me favor," I said into her voice mail, because I was feeling lucky, and because I was feeling cocky, and because I knew I was right, and that eventually I'd need someone like Dixon Woods, whoever he was, to be pissed off and in Miami. "Let Dixon Woods know that I've taken care of that problem his mother had up in Jupiter."
I didn't know if I knew what I was talking about, exactly, but I figured if Brenda Holcomb called me back the next day, I'd be on the right path.
Whatever that was.
8
The difference between being a spy and being a criminal is largely one of sanctioning. But when you've lost your sanction, it's important to know a few people who don't live on the right side of the law and don't care that you, for most of your life, did. Trust is the most important aspect of any relationship, but when you have two people with their particular agendas, agendas that might work at divergent angles, it's also important to have a strong sense of honor.
You like someone, you don't fuck them. At least not in business. You don't always find affinity with the people you work with, so the people you do, well, you foster it. In the end, if there is one, you'll have someone watching your back even if they don't exactly agree with who you are, or what you've done.
Which is why I didn't mind too much when Barry said he'd like to meet me at the Cereal Bowl in Coral Gables for breakfast. It's a restaurant that serves cereal. They also have supersweet parfaits and coffee, but mostly, it's just cereal. Lucky Charms. Cookie Crisp. Trix. And since it's across the street from The U, every college student not on the meal plan is there drying out from the night previous.
When I got to the restaurant, Barry already had two empty bowls in front of him and was looking back over the menu again with a rather studious expression.
"What's your poison?" I asked, sitting down.
"Been mixing it up," Barry said. "First bowl was Kix. Second bowl was something from the Count Chocula family. I'm thinking I might try some of this Kashi stuff."
"I'm a Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch man myself," I said.
"You're out of luck," Barry said. "They don't carry the Peanut Butter Cap'n here. Some union thing."
"It's okay," I said. "I don't actually eat cereal."
Barry pulled down his sunglasses and regarded me. Barry was the kind of guy who wore sunglasses inside. Barry was also the kind of guy who did creative things with his beard, so that it cut across his face in sharp angles. Barry was also the kind of guy who knew things about things you didn't know about, namely of the criminal variety. If Barry had a business card, it would say money launderer on it, but he had a lot of special skills. He was a confidence man in the truest sense: He kept things confidential. "You work out?" Barry said.
"A little," I said.
"I gotta start doing that, get off the cereal, get on the treadmill. What do you think of that Chuck Nor-ris exercise device?"
"Bow-flex?"
"Yeah."
"Couldn't hurt," I said
"Three in the morning, that infomercial comes on?" Barry said. "It takes every fiber of my being not to get on the phone and order one. Chuck Norris is very persuasive."
"Nothing good happens after two a.m.," I said.
"True, true," Barry said. A waiter came up then. Barry ordered something called the Dirt Bowl. I just asked for a glass of juice. "What do you normally eat for breakfast?"