“Shit,” the big man swore, coming forward. He grabbed a handful of McGarvey’s jacket and swung him around, bouncing him hard off the door frame. McGarvey didn’t resist; he went with it. He sagged as if his legs were giving out. The bouncer was very strong, but he wasn’t very sophisticated. A street brawler, McGarvey figured.
Harry hauled him to his feet, leaving himself wide open. McGarvey drove a knee into the big man’s groin. All the air went out of him and he staggered backward. McGarvey hit him in the solar plexus, the force of the blow sending the big man sprawling back into the vestibule. McGarvey came after him, driving a right into the man’s face, then a left and two more solid right jabs, causing blood to gush from the big man’s nose and mouth where his lip was all cut up. He sank to the floor, his eyes fluttering, his breath coming in big blubbering gasps.
McGarvey hauled the bouncer the rest of the way into the vestibule, looked around on the street to make sure that no one had witnessed the confrontation, grabbed his bag, then closed and locked the door.
Except for the bouncer’s labored breathing, the building was quiet. The man was unarmed. He hadn’t been expecting trouble, or at least he hadn’t been expecting someone too tough for him.
McGarvey’s right shoulder ached from where he had been slammed into the doorway. He hauled the bouncer across the vestibule and into the darkened club room, where he dumped him behind the bar. He’d be out for a while yet, and McGarvey didn’t think he would be in much shape to continue the fight when he did finally come around.
Leaving his bag by the entry to the vestibule, he went upstairs to Evita’s apartment. The living room was a mess. There’d apparently been a party here last night and no one had bothered picking up afterward. The place smelled of stale booze and cigarettes, and the sweeter, burned-leaves odor of marijuana. Evita’s cocaine paraphernalia was out on the coffee table in front of the fireplace; the vial lay open and empty. He listened but heard nothing, not even noises from out on the street. St. Christopher’s was taking a holiday.
He went to the back of the apartment, past an efficiency kitchen, the sinks and counters filled with dirty dishes, and down a short corridor to the rear bedroom. The door was open. He stepped inside. The curtains were closed over the four tall windows, leaving the large room in semidarkness. A raised platform at the center was dominated by a large circular bed. Evita was sprawled out asleep on the bed, her arms and legs spread. She was naked. In sleep her body seemed dissipated, tinged a little in blue as if she had circulatory problems, sagging here and there, flattened out, her neck too thin, her knees and ankles too bony.
For a moment McGarvey nearly turned around and walked away. She’d suffered enough. But he couldn’t think of any other way of doing what had to be done; of calling Yarnell out, of exposing the mole in the CIA and of stopping Baranov once and for all. Looking down at her on the bed he had trouble seeing her as the little girl in Mexico City, as Yarnell’s and Baranov’s plaything, yet he knew it was true.
He went into the bathroom, switched on the light, and turned on the cold water in the shower. He laid out a towel and a robe, then went back into the bedroom. Evita was just beginning to stir. He picked her up. She was surprisingly light.
“What?” she mumbled, her eyes fluttering.
McGarvey carried her into the bathroom, opened the shower door with his toe and put her down on her feet at the edge of the spray. She reared back all of a sudden, but he shoved her under the cold stream and shut the door. She screamed at the top of her lungs and then thumped against the door.
“You sonofabitch! Cristo!”
“We’re leaving in twenty minutes,” McGarvey called. “I’ll put on the coffee.”
Evita was still crying and sputtering when he went back out to the apartment. Harry, the bouncer, stood in the doorway weaving on his feet. His nose and mouth were bloody. He had a gun.
“I didn’t kill her,” McGarvey said. “I just put her in the shower.”
“Get out of here,” the big man growled.
“I’m trying to help her.”
“She don’t need your kind of help, you sonofabitch.”
McGarvey didn’t move. “I’m going to make some coffee. Then we’ll be leaving.”
“Not with her.”
“Someone is trying to kill her, Harry. I’m trying to stop it.”
“All sorts of people trying to do that lady harm …”
“Herself included,” McGarvey said. “I’m here to put a stop to it. Give her some peace.”
“Shit.”
“I’m not leaving without her, Harry. One way or the other.”
The bouncer raised his pistol. It looked like a toy in his massive paw. But the edge of his anger was gone. This was beyond his ken. He didn’t know what to do or say.
“Ask her, Harry. As soon as she’s out of the shower, listen to her.”
“Who the hell are you? You a cop or something?”
McGarvey shook his head. “You don’t want to know. Believe me. I’ll bring her back in a couple of days and you’ll never be bothered again.”
“Fuck you!”
“Save your breath, Harry, you don’t have a chance in hell,” Evita said from the bedroom doorway. She had put on a robe and wrapped a towel around her hair.
“You all right?” Harry asked.
“None of us has a chance in hell,” she said. “Go get your face fixed. And put away that gun, for Christ’s sake.” She turned and went back into the bedroom.
Harry seemed deflated. He lowered his pistol and looked from the bedroom door to McGarvey. He shook his head. “What have you people done to that woman? You fucked her up royal, that’s what.” He shook his head again.
“What people?” McGarvey asked softly.
“Shit.”
“Who else has come up here?”
“There’s always someone here. Someone after her. Pushing her. Telling her stories. Making her do … things.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Names don’t matter. But I see things. I watch things. We all do.”
“Her husband?”
“I would have killed the bastard if he ever showed up here,” the big man said with sudden feeling.
“Baranov? Does that name ring a bell, Harry? Have you heard that one? Was he here?”
“I don’t know shit,” the bouncer said. “You want her? You can have her. I don’t need this shit anymore.”
“I’ll bring her back …”
“She’ll never leave Mexico. Not this time.” The bouncer stuffed the gun in his pocket and went to the door.
“When was she in Mexico last, Harry? It’s important.” McGarvey hadn’t expected this.
The big man looked at him. His shoulders had sagged. He was carrying an impossibly heavy burden. “A year ago,” he said softly. “Maybe a little longer.”
“Did she go alone?”
“She was looking for him.”
“Who?”
“Baranov.”
“Did she find him?”
“Don’t ask me. But she’s been fucked up ever since.”
“Did he come here? Did he come to see her?”
“I don’t know, I’ve already told you. And I’ll tell you something else. If you’re taking her to see him, you’ll lose her. She’s right, you know.”
“About what?”
“She hasn’t got a chance in hell.”
McGarvey watched him leave. He heard him on the steps, his tread slow and even, as if he were a man either starting out on a very long journey or just returning from one.
“He’s a good man,” Evita said from the bedroom door.
McGarvey turned to her. She had gotten dressed, but she looked like hell, her eyes red, her face wan, drawn. “It’s time for the truth now,” he said. “All of it.”