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Authors: Les Standiford
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reached out for her again. “Real sorry.”
Paige nodded once more. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She stood on her toes, gave Mahler a kiss on the cheek, then hurried out of the room.
***
“Who do we know in Miami?” Mahler said, the phone tucked against his shoulder. He was standing before one of the tall windows of his office, staring down a dozen stories at the entranceway of the building. The limo was just coming up from the underground, making its turn onto the circular drive.
“What Miami?” the voice on the other end replied.
“The one in Florida, for Chrissakes,” Mahler said. “Palm trees. Oranges. Guys with guns.”
There was a pause. Mahler imagined the pages of an atlas being turned. “Nobody there,” the voice said. “Have a cousin in Fort Lauderdale, own a restaurant.
Real
restaurant. Pretty good.”
“That’s not what I had in mind,” Mahler said, still staring down at the scene below. Eddie was out of the limo, holding the door, Paige scooting inside.
“What wrong?” the voice asked after a moment.
The limo was moving off now, joining the ribbons of traffic curling down toward the boulevard. Mahler glanced out at the horizon, where the airport might have been visible were this a normal town. He could see a mile, maybe less. What passed for air was getting thicker as he watched.
“Probably nothing.” Mahler ran his hand through his hair. “Weddings and funerals,” he said. “They make me nervous. You never know what might happen.”
“Uh-hah,” the voice said. Not agreeing. Just letting Mahler know he’d been heard. That was one thing he appreciated about dealing with the Chinese, the lack of extraneous bullshit. The stuff he spent most of his life wading through.
“I like to be prepared, that’s all.”
“You need somebody go to Florida, say so,” the voice said.
“Yeah?” Mahler said. “That’s good to know.”
“Whatever,” the voice said.
Mahler nodded to himself. His mind was already drifting, back to more pressing matters.
Other fry to fish
, as his little friend would say. “Hey—on that other thing. The films we been talking about. What about ponies, dogs, that kind of stuff?”
“Animals?” the voice said, rising in disbelief. “Animals not good.”
“I was just thinking,” Mahler continued. “Year of the dog, year of the monkey, all that.”
“No animals,” the voice said angrily. “Not good.”
“It was a thought,” Mahler said, feeling defensive. “That’s all. We got plenty to choose from. I’ll get back to you on the Florida thing.”
“That what phone for,” the voice said. And then the connection broke.
Chapter 7
“I don’t get it,” Deal said, shaking the slip of paper under the doctor’s nose. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”
The doctor glanced about the posh waiting room as if he were hoping for reinforcements. In one corner there was a television carrying a canned tape of supposed-to-be-soothing nature images with a New Age soundtrack, in another, a gleaming reception desk the size of a yacht, currently untended. It was the kind of place that suggested that psychological illness was a function of the privileged class. By the door stood Driscoll, craning his neck in an agony of embarrassment, looking anywhere but at the two of them, the doctor and the outraged husband.
“Mr. Deal, your wife admitted herself to this facility. She doesn’t need your permission to sign herself out.” The doctor’s tone was reasonable, but firm.
“But I
brought
her here,” Deal said, trying to control the anger in his voice. “She’s not…” He broke off. What was he going to say?
She’s not in control of her senses
? He glanced over at Driscoll, who seemed to be looking for flaws in the weave of the thick carpet at their feet.
“She’s not well,” Deal finished lamely.
“Your wife has been under a great deal of stress,” the doctor said, agreeing without really agreeing. Something in his tone told Deal
Paige nodded once more. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She stood on her toes, gave Mahler a kiss on the cheek, then hurried out of the room.
***
“Who do we know in Miami?” Mahler said, the phone tucked against his shoulder. He was standing before one of the tall windows of his office, staring down a dozen stories at the entranceway of the building. The limo was just coming up from the underground, making its turn onto the circular drive.
“What Miami?” the voice on the other end replied.
“The one in Florida, for Chrissakes,” Mahler said. “Palm trees. Oranges. Guys with guns.”
There was a pause. Mahler imagined the pages of an atlas being turned. “Nobody there,” the voice said. “Have a cousin in Fort Lauderdale, own a restaurant.
Real
restaurant. Pretty good.”
“That’s not what I had in mind,” Mahler said, still staring down at the scene below. Eddie was out of the limo, holding the door, Paige scooting inside.
“What wrong?” the voice asked after a moment.
The limo was moving off now, joining the ribbons of traffic curling down toward the boulevard. Mahler glanced out at the horizon, where the airport might have been visible were this a normal town. He could see a mile, maybe less. What passed for air was getting thicker as he watched.
“Probably nothing.” Mahler ran his hand through his hair. “Weddings and funerals,” he said. “They make me nervous. You never know what might happen.”
“Uh-hah,” the voice said. Not agreeing. Just letting Mahler know he’d been heard. That was one thing he appreciated about dealing with the Chinese, the lack of extraneous bullshit. The stuff he spent most of his life wading through.
“I like to be prepared, that’s all.”
“You need somebody go to Florida, say so,” the voice said.
“Yeah?” Mahler said. “That’s good to know.”
“Whatever,” the voice said.
Mahler nodded to himself. His mind was already drifting, back to more pressing matters.
Other fry to fish
, as his little friend would say. “Hey—on that other thing. The films we been talking about. What about ponies, dogs, that kind of stuff?”
“Animals?” the voice said, rising in disbelief. “Animals not good.”
“I was just thinking,” Mahler continued. “Year of the dog, year of the monkey, all that.”
“No animals,” the voice said angrily. “Not good.”
“It was a thought,” Mahler said, feeling defensive. “That’s all. We got plenty to choose from. I’ll get back to you on the Florida thing.”
“That what phone for,” the voice said. And then the connection broke.
Chapter 7
“I don’t get it,” Deal said, shaking the slip of paper under the doctor’s nose. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”
The doctor glanced about the posh waiting room as if he were hoping for reinforcements. In one corner there was a television carrying a canned tape of supposed-to-be-soothing nature images with a New Age soundtrack, in another, a gleaming reception desk the size of a yacht, currently untended. It was the kind of place that suggested that psychological illness was a function of the privileged class. By the door stood Driscoll, craning his neck in an agony of embarrassment, looking anywhere but at the two of them, the doctor and the outraged husband.
“Mr. Deal, your wife admitted herself to this facility. She doesn’t need your permission to sign herself out.” The doctor’s tone was reasonable, but firm.
“But I
brought
her here,” Deal said, trying to control the anger in his voice. “She’s not…” He broke off. What was he going to say?
She’s not in control of her senses
? He glanced over at Driscoll, who seemed to be looking for flaws in the weave of the thick carpet at their feet.
“She’s not well,” Deal finished lamely.
“Your wife has been under a great deal of stress,” the doctor said, agreeing without really agreeing. Something in his tone told Deal
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