bandage at a time.
When she finished, Wilton had a patchwork of smeared antibiotic cream on her legs and arms, and a clumsy gauze bandage on the back of her head. Sandy sat Indian-style on her desk, tumbler in hand. The hands of the office clock had passed three when Sandy finally swung her crossed legs down and stretched. She replaced the nearly empty whiskey bottle in her bottom drawer, then stared across at Wilton, asleep on the long bench.
"Fuck, shit and piss," she heard herself say, but it did not ease her at all. High-school words without power.
She looked at Wilton with aching eyes. Wilton seemed a lost child, thin brown wrists and slender bruised throat. Someone she should damned well take care of, watch over. If Wilton went down, would she and Lindsey go on without her? Sandy went to the closet again and found a blanket she had once used to wrap some fossil-bearing rocks. She spread it over Wilton's sleeping form.
No matter what she might try to tell Lindsey about Wilton, all the old college memories, all the perceptions that Wilton herself had built over the years would make Sandy sound totally weird. Paranoid too. Lindsey would possibly believe Wilton had delusions. Clumsy inattentive Wilton with her eyes on the birds in the sky. What good would that do? Lindsey was too busy laying plans and moving money. Even Sandy didn't know how much Lindsey was worth now. Sandy lit herself a much-needed cigarette.
Besides, she'd fucking promised not to tell. Whatever else might come, whatever friend gave her secrets better told, Sandy didn't break promises.
Chapter 18: Lindsey
March 1967
Lagos, Western Region, Nigeria
"Madam, Lionel Inara is here. Do you wish to see him?"
Lindsey's mouth went dry.
"Yes," she said before any doubt could interrupt the smoothness of her voice. She rose and took the needle off the record on the player behind her desk. Tchaikovsky wasn't appropriate for this meeting. She glanced once at her reflection in the glass of her bookcase. Neat, cool, formal.
Oroko didn't go. She sat down and continued moving her pencil across the checked boxes on the indexing sheet before her. Everything in its place. He to his. What was wrong with him? She jerked her head at him, signaling him to leave.
"Not alone," Oroko said.
She took a considering breath, noticing the aura of patience that he seemed to carry. So academic in appearance with his steel-rimmed glasses.
"Alone."
"Inappropriate confidence," Oroko said.
"That will suffice. I know what I'm doing." She went back to her forms. He moved without a sound across the room and the door clicked shut.
Less than a minute later Lionel came in, a big man, noisy with mouth-breathing enthusiasm.
"Madam Kinner. Lindsey. May I say you look simply splendid today." His rich voice sounded too large for her office.
He took a seat without invitation and she felt herself slow down, taking in the details. The European cut of his suit, the silk tie, the white shirt too tight across his midriff. He probably couldn't see that, but he should feel it. Everything new. Maybe he imagined that if he wore a smaller size it might make him appear slim. He had a fine-featured face, too small of nose and mouth for the heaviness of his jowls.
"I am seriously vexed at you, my friend," he said.
"How did I annoy you?"
"You failed to attend my party last weekend. I felt it too deeply."
She folded her hands on the top of her papers. She had seen him trying to read them upside down and now his eyes moved back to her face and she realized he didn't want to look at her. The scent of his aftershave was expensive and too strong.
"Such a disappointment. You are all business," he said, the note of complaint exaggerated.
"That should not be a problem."
"Ah, but it is," he said. "You have pressed me, good madam. Pressed me too hard. Without kindness. Are we not old best friends? How many years have you held my note for the hotels in the North?"
"Four years and three
When she finished, Wilton had a patchwork of smeared antibiotic cream on her legs and arms, and a clumsy gauze bandage on the back of her head. Sandy sat Indian-style on her desk, tumbler in hand. The hands of the office clock had passed three when Sandy finally swung her crossed legs down and stretched. She replaced the nearly empty whiskey bottle in her bottom drawer, then stared across at Wilton, asleep on the long bench.
"Fuck, shit and piss," she heard herself say, but it did not ease her at all. High-school words without power.
She looked at Wilton with aching eyes. Wilton seemed a lost child, thin brown wrists and slender bruised throat. Someone she should damned well take care of, watch over. If Wilton went down, would she and Lindsey go on without her? Sandy went to the closet again and found a blanket she had once used to wrap some fossil-bearing rocks. She spread it over Wilton's sleeping form.
No matter what she might try to tell Lindsey about Wilton, all the old college memories, all the perceptions that Wilton herself had built over the years would make Sandy sound totally weird. Paranoid too. Lindsey would possibly believe Wilton had delusions. Clumsy inattentive Wilton with her eyes on the birds in the sky. What good would that do? Lindsey was too busy laying plans and moving money. Even Sandy didn't know how much Lindsey was worth now. Sandy lit herself a much-needed cigarette.
Besides, she'd fucking promised not to tell. Whatever else might come, whatever friend gave her secrets better told, Sandy didn't break promises.
Chapter 18: Lindsey
March 1967
Lagos, Western Region, Nigeria
"Madam, Lionel Inara is here. Do you wish to see him?"
Lindsey's mouth went dry.
"Yes," she said before any doubt could interrupt the smoothness of her voice. She rose and took the needle off the record on the player behind her desk. Tchaikovsky wasn't appropriate for this meeting. She glanced once at her reflection in the glass of her bookcase. Neat, cool, formal.
Oroko didn't go. She sat down and continued moving her pencil across the checked boxes on the indexing sheet before her. Everything in its place. He to his. What was wrong with him? She jerked her head at him, signaling him to leave.
"Not alone," Oroko said.
She took a considering breath, noticing the aura of patience that he seemed to carry. So academic in appearance with his steel-rimmed glasses.
"Alone."
"Inappropriate confidence," Oroko said.
"That will suffice. I know what I'm doing." She went back to her forms. He moved without a sound across the room and the door clicked shut.
Less than a minute later Lionel came in, a big man, noisy with mouth-breathing enthusiasm.
"Madam Kinner. Lindsey. May I say you look simply splendid today." His rich voice sounded too large for her office.
He took a seat without invitation and she felt herself slow down, taking in the details. The European cut of his suit, the silk tie, the white shirt too tight across his midriff. He probably couldn't see that, but he should feel it. Everything new. Maybe he imagined that if he wore a smaller size it might make him appear slim. He had a fine-featured face, too small of nose and mouth for the heaviness of his jowls.
"I am seriously vexed at you, my friend," he said.
"How did I annoy you?"
"You failed to attend my party last weekend. I felt it too deeply."
She folded her hands on the top of her papers. She had seen him trying to read them upside down and now his eyes moved back to her face and she realized he didn't want to look at her. The scent of his aftershave was expensive and too strong.
"Such a disappointment. You are all business," he said, the note of complaint exaggerated.
"That should not be a problem."
"Ah, but it is," he said. "You have pressed me, good madam. Pressed me too hard. Without kindness. Are we not old best friends? How many years have you held my note for the hotels in the North?"
"Four years and three
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