“This isn’t the right time for it,” he told her. “The Defense Department has got him so scared he’s seeing spies coming out of the woodwork.”
“Do you think Jack Sergeant could help me?”
“Jack? I don’t see how. He’s hardly ever around.”
She rummaged in her big purse and brought out a compact, checking her lipstick and hair. “Want to come over to my place for a change?”
He remembered that Sergeant might be coming by with the money. “I should be home. Maybe we should make it an early evening.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“God, no!” he said with a laugh. “Come on over. I just might have to take you home by midnight.”
“You got another girl coming in for the late shift? Is she better than me?”
“Stop that!”
She seemed more passionate than ever in bed that night, and after the violence of their lovemaking Frazer drifted off to sleep. He dreamed he was a bird circling the earth, watching couples in love, watching creatures in the forest, watching—
He awakened suddenly, aware of Cynthia’s deep, regular breathing at his side. The door chime had rung, just once. He slipped out of bed, got into his robe, and padded out the bedroom door, quietly closing it behind him. He crossed the living room and opened the door an inch. “Who is it?”
“Jack. Open up, will you?”
He let Sergeant in but kept him near the door, speaking in a low voice. “I... there’s a friend in the other room. Let’s keep our voices down.” He switched on a small reading lamp.
“I brought the money,” Sergeant said, slipping another fat envelope from his pocket, opening it to show the familiar wad of new bills.
“Good.” Frazer hesitated and then added, “I’ve been thinking about this whole setup, Jack. With Method as nervous as he is, maybe we’d better call it quits for now.” He was looking through the money as he spoke.
“You’re not backing out on me?”
“I told you I’d give it a try. Right now it’s too risky to continue.”
“Because of Method?”
“Because of you. I noticed the consecutive serial numbers on that first batch of new hundreds, before you took your share. These are the same bills as the ones you kept for yourself last time. You’re not working for anyone else. You’re paying the money and delivering the photos directly to this unnamed foreign government. You’re an enemy agent, Jack.”
He shook his head sadly. “I hope you’re not going to tell that to anyone.”
He started to turn, as if leaving, and then spun around. Frazer saw the gun in his right hand but he was frozen with surprise.
There was a sound like a cough from the bedroom and Jack Sergeant toppled over, knocking aside the lamp as he fell. Frazer turned to see Cynthia standing naked in the doorway, holding a pistol with a silencer on the barrel.
“God, you saved my life! He was going to kill me!”
She came slowly into the room. “Is he dead?”
Frazer picked up the lamp and bent to examine the body. “Dead as he’ll ever be. You’d better call the police.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No police. We’ll get rid of the body ourselves.”
“What are you—?”
She came closer and he saw the steely coldness of her eyes. “From now on, Frazer, you’re working for me.”
Looking for Lauren
Joseph Lisowski
Joseph Lisowski teaches English at the College of the Virgin Islands on St. Thomas. He has had poems and translations of Chinese poetry published in over one hundred periodicals, and his first published story, an abridged version of an unpublished novel, appeared in 1984.
About “Looking for Lauren,” Mr. Lisowski commented: “The story is an attempt to explore character in a short form of detective fiction. I like it, but I think I’ll have to do three or four more Wilcox stories before I’m satisfied. He has to face the long run and changing circumstances, a changing sense of self.”
“No,” she said. “I won’t let you go.” Her long black hair fell over her shoulders and across my chest as she looked down at me. Her gray eyes were determined yet filled with longing. Her hands were on my shoulders.
I turned over and groaned, slowly opening my eyes. It was already light outside, which meant that I had overslept again. I would only have time to check my post-office box before going to work. No time for jogging this morning. Just as well. I was really too old for exercise anyway. Besides, I had enough trouble managing to sit erect on the bed. I looked down at the small mountain where my waist should have been, shook my head, and lit a cigarette.
It was the third time in a week that I had that dream. Made no sense to me at all except that it was some time since I had been involved with a woman. Years. I tried to rub the sleep from my face.
After a shower, I made a cup of instant coffee and got the morning paper. As it had been for the past three weeks, my ad was in the personal section: “Discreet inquiries — reasonable rates, P.O. Box 1904.” Pretending to be an investigator took the edge off loneliness; it gave me something to look forward to, even though not much ever came from it. There had to be more to life than what I was doing. All the TV programs showed that it was so. Being a bookkeeper for Martin Ross Manufacturing wasn’t exactly a high-risk occupation.
I stopped by my post-office box before work to see if anyone had responded to my ad. I had almost given up hope that anyone ever would, but checking the box each morning was at least a chance, a chance that this day might not be a duplicate of yesterday, and the day before that, and the months and years before that.
When I opened the box, it was there. I stared at the envelope in disbelief and thought that there must be some sort of ritual to go with opening the letter. What it was, though, I couldn’t figure out. I put the letter in my pocket. I’d prolong the suspense until coffee break. I hadn’t felt so good in years. It was my chance.
At 10:15 A.M., I opened the letter to find only a name and a phone number. I waited an hour before I called. It was delicious. A woman answered on the first ring, and she sounded anxious. I made an appointment to see her during my lunch hour. She lived just north of the city, not far from my office.
Hawthorne Street was wide and lined with large sycamores. The houses were set back a good forty yards from the curb. When I walked to the door of 3905, I adjusted my rates accordingly. This was going to be money.
“My name’s Wilcox,” I said. “I believe we talked earlier.”
“Oh,” she registered surprise. “You don’t look like a private investigator.”
“A lot of people think that, ma’am. Helps me get the job done.”
She hesitated a moment and then said, “Well, come on in.”
I followed her into the living room. She was an attractive woman about thirty who looked like she had a lifetime membership to a health spa. She wore a simple beige dress with heels. Very little makeup, no jewelry.
After we sat down, she studied me for a moment. “Yes, I guess so,” she said. “Not many people would ever think of you as a detective.”
I smiled. I would never be mistaken for Magnum. When I hit fifty, I let my weight go, not that I was ever really in good shape, but two hundred pounds is a bit much for my five-foot-five-inch frame. That’s why I took up jogging. Jogging, to me, meant once around the block. So far I had made the distance only twice. I always have the feeling that I’m going to fall when I jog, which is easy to understand because I can never see my feet. Actually, I get enough exercise just getting dressed each morning, but it got to the point that I couldn’t read a paper without seeing some article about how jogging is good for the heart. So, it’s me and Jim Ryun from now on.