prescribed for “anxiety and depression.” The second was for penicillin, the fourth refill of five. That’s all it said. Shoot, people took penicillin for all kinds of things. No reason to assume the worst. Had he used a condom? Was he about to use a condom? Did he have a condom? His erection was totally gone now.
“Please hurry…before I change my mind,” she said. Okay, before . Maybe he was looking for a condom. She laughed a little, but there was some quality in her voice that gave him pause and made him think this wasn’t just something she said, that this was a tentative match, that the moment could slip the way so many moments slipped now—loosed of their context and meaning and floating gently to the ground.
“Okay,” he said, and he reached for—
SCOTCH. REMY tasted it in his mouth and felt the heavy glass in his hand. He let the booze trickle down his throat. It was delicious. He closed his eyes and watched the floaters drift by, like leaves on a pond. When the taste had faded Remy opened his eyes. “Wow. That wasgood.” He was sitting in an oak-lined room, on a leather sofa, across from a handsome guy in his forties. The guy was wearing a suit with a striking shirt: sky blue with a bright white collar and white cuffs pinched by gold links that just barely peeked out of his jacket. His hair was carefully combed and curled up at the collar. He was holding copies of the photographs of March Selios and he was glaring at Remy.
“Look, friend,” the guy said—Remy caught a slight Texas accent—“I’ve been shaken down before. So go ahead and act tough. Take my drink. Try to intimidate me. Arrest me if you want. But I’m not answering any questions until you tell me how you found my name.”
Remy had no clue. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said.
The two men stared at one another for a long moment, before Remy held up his glass and asked: “I don’t suppose I could get some more of this?”
The guy rubbed his jaw and then raised the index finger on his right hand.
Remy looked around. They were in a club somewhere, rich dark wainscoting on the wall behind them, and above that a thickly painted landscape and a plaque engraved with the club officers’ names. Two guys in tennis clothes were sitting a couple of tables away, watching them carefully. Remy and this immaculately dressed guy were sitting across from each other on leather couches in the center of the room, an ornately carved mahogany table between them.
A waiter approached and spoke sotto voce. “Mr. Eller, shall I call security?”
“That’s not necessary, Carlos. In fact, why don’t you bring Mr. Remy here another scotch.”
“And for you?”
“No. Thank you.”
Eller looked around the butterscotch room. He hissed: “Okay. I knew March…Yes. Obviously.” He carefully set one photo downbetween them: March drinking the Gibson. “And you’re right. I did take this one.” Then he set down the other picture, the one of March in her office. “But I didn’t take this one. I don’t know who took that one. I’d guess they were both taken with her camera. She always had that camera. She was always giving that camera to people to take pictures of her in different situations. She used to say she was recording her life in case she forgot anything.”
The memory made this Eller lose his voice for a moment. He rubbed his jaw and continued. “We met about a year ago. I had just moved here from Houston. My company had some business in the Sudan, oil futures.” He pronounced it ol’ futures . “We were having some…difficulties with Khartoum, and we hired March’s firm to help us. While the lawyers hammered everything out, March gave us some cultural advice—how to play certain families, which palms to grease…” He shifted on the couch. “When the first part of the deal was finalized, I asked her out to dinner to celebrate.” He shrugged. “And yes, Mr. Remy, for a short time after that, we were…” He
“Please hurry…before I change my mind,” she said. Okay, before . Maybe he was looking for a condom. She laughed a little, but there was some quality in her voice that gave him pause and made him think this wasn’t just something she said, that this was a tentative match, that the moment could slip the way so many moments slipped now—loosed of their context and meaning and floating gently to the ground.
“Okay,” he said, and he reached for—
SCOTCH. REMY tasted it in his mouth and felt the heavy glass in his hand. He let the booze trickle down his throat. It was delicious. He closed his eyes and watched the floaters drift by, like leaves on a pond. When the taste had faded Remy opened his eyes. “Wow. That wasgood.” He was sitting in an oak-lined room, on a leather sofa, across from a handsome guy in his forties. The guy was wearing a suit with a striking shirt: sky blue with a bright white collar and white cuffs pinched by gold links that just barely peeked out of his jacket. His hair was carefully combed and curled up at the collar. He was holding copies of the photographs of March Selios and he was glaring at Remy.
“Look, friend,” the guy said—Remy caught a slight Texas accent—“I’ve been shaken down before. So go ahead and act tough. Take my drink. Try to intimidate me. Arrest me if you want. But I’m not answering any questions until you tell me how you found my name.”
Remy had no clue. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said.
The two men stared at one another for a long moment, before Remy held up his glass and asked: “I don’t suppose I could get some more of this?”
The guy rubbed his jaw and then raised the index finger on his right hand.
Remy looked around. They were in a club somewhere, rich dark wainscoting on the wall behind them, and above that a thickly painted landscape and a plaque engraved with the club officers’ names. Two guys in tennis clothes were sitting a couple of tables away, watching them carefully. Remy and this immaculately dressed guy were sitting across from each other on leather couches in the center of the room, an ornately carved mahogany table between them.
A waiter approached and spoke sotto voce. “Mr. Eller, shall I call security?”
“That’s not necessary, Carlos. In fact, why don’t you bring Mr. Remy here another scotch.”
“And for you?”
“No. Thank you.”
Eller looked around the butterscotch room. He hissed: “Okay. I knew March…Yes. Obviously.” He carefully set one photo downbetween them: March drinking the Gibson. “And you’re right. I did take this one.” Then he set down the other picture, the one of March in her office. “But I didn’t take this one. I don’t know who took that one. I’d guess they were both taken with her camera. She always had that camera. She was always giving that camera to people to take pictures of her in different situations. She used to say she was recording her life in case she forgot anything.”
The memory made this Eller lose his voice for a moment. He rubbed his jaw and continued. “We met about a year ago. I had just moved here from Houston. My company had some business in the Sudan, oil futures.” He pronounced it ol’ futures . “We were having some…difficulties with Khartoum, and we hired March’s firm to help us. While the lawyers hammered everything out, March gave us some cultural advice—how to play certain families, which palms to grease…” He shifted on the couch. “When the first part of the deal was finalized, I asked her out to dinner to celebrate.” He shrugged. “And yes, Mr. Remy, for a short time after that, we were…” He
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