Palindrome

CHAPTER 12

AI Schaefer was still floating on the best week of his career, when he had earned more than three hundred thousand dollars from Elizabeth Barwick's settlement. There had been weeks when he had won a judgment for more money; weeks when a larger check had arrived; but there had never been a time when he had initiated a case, settled it, and received such a huge payment in a single week. And, since he had no partners and felt no need to reward either of his two associates with a bonus, it was all his. First, he had set aside thirty-three percent of his fee, the maximum combination of U.S. and Georgia income tax he might have to pay; that came to a hundred and ten thousand dollars. Then he had put a hundred thousand into long-term CDs at a good rate. Finally, he had sent a check for thirty-five thousand dollars to the American Civil Liberties Union. His country, his security, and his conscience thus accommodated, and all his ordinary office and personal expenses taken care of by his other income, he was left with eighty-eight thousand dollars and change with which to amuse himself without guilt. He thanked his stars that his divorce had been final five months before, so he would not have to share the loot with what's-her-name. Al started with Las Vegas. He called a friend who had a very nice little business jet, who let him have it for running costs and crew expenses; then he called a girl he knew-a perfect Vegas girl-and they departed on a Friday morning. They checked into a high-roller's suite at Caesars Palace, and for two days Al did little but eat, drink, screw, and play high-stakes poker. He slept all day Sunday, played poker again that night, and, at checkout time on Monday morning, he calculated that, after all his expenses, he was thirteen thousand dollars ahead. Now he had over a hundred grand to play with. Al turned to the girl, with whom he was having breakfast in bed. "Do you really have to be back tomorrow?

She shrugged. "Not if I quit my job," she said.

"Why don't we look in on LA for a few days?" He grinned.

She grinned back. "Jobs are easy to find." By three o'clock they were lounging poolside at the Beverly Hills Hotel, not too close, because Al was terrified of the water. He called for a phone, rerranged his appointments, talked to his broker, and did some business. That night they dined at Michael's in Santa Monica, and the next day Al rented a Porsche 911 Cabriolet and they drove up to Santa Barbara for lunch. The week blew by: a chopper to Catalina, dinners at Spago and Rex, the studio tour at Universal, shopping on Rodeo Drive. Last Saturday night, driving back from dinner in Malibu, the music gave way to sports news. "Hey," she said, "the Bobcats are playing the Rams tomorrow. Let's take it in.

"Nah," Al said. "I'm off the Bobcats for life." Back at the Beverly Hills, she was tired; Al wanted a nightcap. She went upstairs; he headed for the Polo Lounge, got a table by himself near the garden door. They'd go back tomorrow; he was gaining weight, and he wasn't really accustomed to this much time away from work. He rested his head against the banquette cushion and swirled his Armagnac. Life was sweet. Or it was until he opened his eyes. Baker Ramsey was seated at a table near the door with a blonde. Al had walked right past him. Al's first impulse was just to get out; Ramsey looked drunk, and he didn't want a scene; but Ramsey was between him and the door. Al glanced over his shoulder toward the empty dining room and the garden beyond. He put a fifty-dollar bill on the table, slid out of the booth, and headed toward the garden. Outside, he seemed trapped, at first; then he saw a sheltered passage that led away from the tables; he emerged in more gardens, near the bungalows. Al took a deep draft of the California night air, laced with the scent of bougainvillea. There was a moon, and the gardens were lovely. He decided to explore for a few minutes; he didn't want to run into Ramsey in the lobby. He wandered slowly through the gardens, following no special path. A few minutes later, he emerged at the pool. The area was empty, lit only by the underwater lights. Al eased his small frame onto a comfortable chaise, not too near the water.

When he was a boy some overenthusiastic bullies had nearly drowned him, had put him in the hospital. The smell of chlorine and the thought of inhaling water still brought him irrationally near panic. He liked looking at water, he just didn't like being too near it. He'd wait here a few minutes, then go back to the room. After all, Ramsey had a game to play tomorrow; he'd leave soon. Al reflected that things had never before been so good. He'd made a lot of money for a long time, and now he was comfortably rich. He was out of a bad marriage; he was getting more big cases than ever; he was only forty-two; he had his health. He dozed. He was dreaming something bad. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't; he wanted to breathe, but he couldn't. He woke up. A huge hand covered his mouth and nose. He felt himself lifted from the chaise until his feet no longer touched the ground. An arm clamped around his neck, and he beat at it, tore at it. The lights in the pool seemed to be dimming when, suddenly, he could breathe again. He sucked in air, and, when he was about to yell, the arm tightened around his neck. "Not a sound," a voice said, close to his ear. "You make a noise, and I'll break your neck." Al scrambled for a toehold, but there was nothing under him but air. He wedged his hands between the arm and his neck and tried to pull it away, but he couldn't budge it.

"Where is she?" the voice said.

"What?" Al managedz to reply. The arm tightened again, and the hand went over his mouth and nose. Half a minute passed as he struggled, then he was allowed to breathe again.

"I'm going to ask you just once more, and unless I like the answer…"

"What do you want to know?" Al managed. He was becoming very frightened; he tried to think of a way to stall. Jesus, he was in a busy hotel; somebody had to come.

"Where is the bitch? Tell me where she is, and I'll let you go. Otherwise…" He put the hand over Al's mouth and nose again. Al, in spite of his terror, was beginning to think; he had enough air to hold his breath for a few seconds. This guy had a hundred pounds on him, but there was one place he might be vulnerable. Al couldn't get to his crotch the way he was being held, but there was one place. He felt backward with his feet, ran his heels up the other man's legs. Then he brought his right knee up nearly to his chest and drove his heel down hard into Ramsey's knee. This time, it was Ramsey who made the noise, an angry grunt, followed by a low, continuous growl. Al became a little tiger, squirming, reaching back for his captor's eyes, driving elbows backward, anything he could do to hurt the man. The hand left his face, and he was able to get a breath. Then, suddenly, the arm went from around his neck, and Al tried desperately to run, but a hand grabbed his suit collar and spun him around. He was facing Ramsey now, and he went for the eyes again. Then Ramsey hit him. Al took the punch in the upper abdomen, just below the solar plexus. He folded in half and fell to the tile poolside, clutching his belly, gasping for air. He might have been paralyzed, so difficult was it for him to move. Ramsey stood, looking down at him. "Now, you're going to tell me where she is," he said, and he was smiling. Al had just managed to get a tiny breath, when he found himself hoisted by his feet, facing Ramsey. He tried to shout, tried to move, but the pain in his middle was too much. Now he was being carried toward the pool. Knowing what was coming, he struggled wildly; then he was in the pool to his waist, upside down. He had precious little air in his lungs, and, with his failing strength, he tried to stop himself from inhaling water. He was ten years old again, drowning at the neighborhood pool, held under by two bigger boys. It was his worst nightmare. Then he was out of the pool, hanging upside down, just over the water. "One last time," Ramsey said. "Tell me."

Al was terrified, but his response to fear was to fight. "Fuck you," he sputtered. Ramsey wouldn't kill him here, not in this place. "Fuck you," he repeated. "You don't have the guts to kill me, you muscle freak faggot!"

Then Baker Ramsey put Al Schaefer back into the pool.