The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 49

Chuck made a call from his cell phone and reserved us two rooms at a place called the Ventura Inn, on the beach. He used my credit card number, got the reduced government rate, and assured me it was a reimbursable expense.

Chuck handed a small paper bag to Kate and said, "I stopped and got you a toothbrush and toothpaste. If you need anything else, we can stop."

"This is fine."

"What did you get me?" I asked.

He produced another paper bag from under his seat and handed it to me, saying, "I got you some nails to chew on."

Chuckle, chuckle.

I opened the bag and found toothpaste, a toothbrush, a razor, and a travel-size can of shaving cream. "Thanks."

"On the government."

"I'm overwhelmed."

"Right."

I put the stuff in my jacket pockets. Within ten minutes we reached a high-rise building, whose marquee announced itself as the Ventura Inn Beach Resort. Chuck pulled up to the reception doors and said, "Our office will be staffed all night, so if you need anything, give a call."

I said to Chuck, "If anything pops, make sure you call us, or I'll be very, very angry."

"You're the man, John! Tom was impressed with how you got that delivery guy to voluntarily cooperate."

I said, "A little psychology goes a long way."

"To tell you the truth, there're a lot of lotus-eaters out here. It's good to see a meat-eating dinosaur once in a while."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Sort of. So, what time do you want to be picked up in the morning?"

Kate replied, "Seven-thirty."

Chuck waved and drove off.

I said to her, "Are you crazy? That's four-thirty in the morning, New York time."

"It's ten-thirty A.M., New York time."

"Are you sure?"

She ignored me and walked into the motel lobby. I followed.

It was a pleasant place, and I could hear a piano playing through the lounge door.

The check-in guy greeted us warmly and informed us that he had deluxe ocean-view rooms for us on the twelfth floor. Nothing too good for the guardians of Western Civilization.

I asked him, "What ocean?"

"Pacific, sir."

"Do you have anything overlooking the Atlantic?"

He smiled.

Kate and I filled out the registration forms, and the guy made an impression of my American Express card, which I think let out a groan as it passed through the machine. Kate took a photo out of her bag, along with her credentials, and said to the clerk, "Have you seen this man?"

The clerk seemed less happy than he'd been when he thought we were just passing through for the night. He stared at the photo of Asad Khalil, then replied, "No, ma'am."

Kate said, "Keep that. Call us if you see him." She added, "He's wanted for murder."

The clerk nodded and put the photo behind the counter.

Kate told him, "Pass it on to your relief person."

We got our keycards, and I suggested a drink in the lounge.

Kate said, "I'm exhausted. I'm going to sleep."

"It's only ten."

"It's one A M. in New York. I'm tired."

I had this sudden unhappy thought that I was going to drink alone and sleep alone.

We went to the elevators and rode up in silence.

At about the tenth floor, Kate asked me, "Are you sulking?"

"Yes."

The elevator reached the top floor, and we got out. Kate said, "Well, I don't want you to sulk. Come into my room for a drink."

So, we went into her room, which was big, and with no luggage to unpack, we quickly made two Scotch and sodas from the mini-bar and retired to the balcony. She said, "Let's forget the case tonight."

"Okay." We sat in the two chairs with a round table between us and contemplated the moonlit ocean.

This somehow reminded me of my convalescent stay at my uncle's house on the water on eastern Long Island. It reminded me of the night Emma and I sat drinking cognac after a skinny-dip in the bay.

I was sliding into a bad mood and tried to get out of it.

Kate asked me, "What are you thinking about?"

"Life."

"Not a good idea." She said, "Did it ever occur to you that you're in this business, working long, hard hours because you don't want to have the time to think about your life?"

"Please."

"Listen to me. I really care for you, and I sense that you're looking for something."

"Clean underwear."

"You can wash your fucking underwear."

"I never thought of that."

"Look, John, I'm thirty-one years old, and I've never come close to getting married."

"I can't imagine why."

"Well, for your information, it wasn't for lack of offers."

"Gotcha."

"Do you think you'd get married again?"

"How far a fall do you think it is from this balcony?"

I thought she'd get angry over my flippancy, but instead, she laughed. Sometimes a guy can do no right, sometimes a guy can do no wrong. It has nothing to do with what a guy does; it has to do with the woman.

Kate said to me, "Anyway, you did a hell of a job today. I'm impressed. And I even learned a few things."

"Good. When you ram your knee into a guy's balls from that position, you may actually pop his nuts into his abdomen. So you have to be careful."

Smart lady that she was, she said, "I don't think you're a violent or sadistic man. I think you do what you have to do when you have to do it. And I think you don't like it. That's important."

See what I mean? I could do no wrong in Kate's eyes.

She'd put two more little bottles of Scotch in her jacket pocket, and she opened them and poured them in our glasses. After a minute or so, she said, "I know about that thing that happened on Plum Island."

"What thing?"

"When you disemboweled that guy."

I took a deep breath, but didn't reply.

She let a few seconds pass, then said, "We all have a dark side. It's okay."

"Actually, I enjoyed it."

"No, you didn't."

"No, I didn't. But… there were extenuating circumstances."

"I know. He killed someone you cared for very much."

"Let's drop the subject."

"Sure. But I wanted you to know that I understand what happened and why."

"Good. I'll try not to do that again." See what I mean? I cut this guy's guts out, and it's okay. Actually, it was okay because he deserved it.

Anyway, we let that subject cool off awhile. We drank and stared at the mesmerizing ocean rolling toward the beach. You could hear the waves breaking softly against the shore. What a view. A breeze passed by, and I could smell the sea. I asked her, "You liked it here?"

" California is nice. The people are very friendly."

People often mistake spacey for friendly-but why ruin her memory? "Did you have a boyfriend here?"

"Sort of." She asked me, "Do you want my sexual history?"

"How long will that take?"

"Less than an hour."

I smiled.

She asked me, "Was your divorce nasty?"

"Not at all. The marriage was nasty."

"Why did you marry her?"

"She asked me."

"Can't you say no?"

"Well… I thought I was in love. Actually, she was an ADA, and we were on the side of the angels. Then she took a high-powered job as a criminal defense attorney. She changed."

"No, she didn't. The job changed. Could you be a criminal defense attorney? Could you be a criminal?"

"I see your point. But-"

"And she made a lot more money defending criminals than you did arresting them."

"Money had nothing to do-"

"I'm not saying what she does for a living is wrong. I'm saying that… what's her name?"

"Robin."

"Robin was not right for you even when she was an assistant district attorney."

"Good point. Can I jump now? Or is there more you need to tell me?"

"There is. Hold on. So, you meet Beth Penrose, who's on the same side of the law that you're on, and you're reacting against your ex-wife. You feel comfortable with a cop. Maybe less guilty. I'm sure it was no fun around the station house being married to a criminal defense attorney."

"I think that's enough."

"Actually, it's not. Then I came along. Perfect trophy. Right? FBI. Attorney. Your boss."

"Stop right there. Let me remind you that it was you-Forget it."

"Are you angry?"

"You're damned right I'm angry." I stood. "I gotta go."

She stood. "All right. Go. But you have to face some realities, John. You can't hide behind that tough-guy, wise-ass exterior forever. Someday, maybe soon, you're going to retire, and then you have to live with the real John Corey. No gun. No badge-"

"Shield."

"No one to arrest. No one who needs you to protect them or to protect society. It'll just be you, and you don't even know who you are."

"Neither do you. This is California psychobabble bullshit, and you've only been here since seven-thirty. Good night."

I left the balcony, left her room, and went out into the corridor. I found my room next door and went in.

I kicked off my shoes, threw my jacket on the bed, and took off my holster, shirt, tie, and armored vest. Then I made a drink from the mini-bar.

I was pretty worked up and actually felt like crap. I mean, I knew what Kate was doing, and I knew it wasn't malicious, but I really didn't need to be prodded into confronting the monster in the mirror.

Ms. Mayfield, if I'd given her a few more minutes, would have painted a beautiful picture of how life could be if we were facing it together.

Women think the perfect husband is all they need for a perfect life. Wrong. First, there are no perfect husbands. Not even many good ones. Second, she was right about me, and I wasn't going to get any better by living with Kate Mayfield.

I decided to wash my underwear, go to bed, and never see Kate Mayfield again after this case was concluded.

There was a knock on my door. I looked through the peephole and opened the door.

She stepped inside, and we stood there looking at each other.

I can be really tough in these situations, and I didn't intend to give an inch, or to kiss and make up. I didn't even feel like sex anymore.

However, she was wearing a white terry-cloth hotel robe, which she opened and let fall to the floor, revealing her perfect naked body.

I felt my resolve softening at the same rate Mr. Happy was getting hard.

She said, "I'm sorry to bother you, but my shower doesn't work. Could I use yours?"

"Help yourself."

She went into my bathroom, turned on the shower, and got in.

Well, I mean, what was I supposed to do? I got out of my pants, shorts, and socks, and got into the shower.

For purposes of propriety, in case there was a middle-of-the-night phone call from the FBI, she left my room at 1 A.M.

I didn't sleep particularly well and woke up at five-fifteen, which I guess was eight-fifteen on my body clock.

I went into the bathroom and saw that my undershorts were hanging on the retractable clothesline above the bathtub. They were clean, still damp, and someone had planted a lipstick kiss in a strategic spot.

I shaved, showered again, brushed my teeth and all that, then went out to the balcony and stood there naked in the breeze, looking at the dark ocean. The moon had set and the sky was full of stars. It doesn't get much better than this, I decided.

I stood there a long time because it felt good.

I heard the sliding glass door on the other side of the concrete partition open. I called out, "Good morning."

I heard her reply, "Good morning."

The partition jutted out beyond the balconies, so I couldn't peek around. I asked her, "Are you naked?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"Of course. This feels great."

"Meet me for breakfast in half an hour."

"Okay. Hey, thanks for washing my shorts."

"Don't get used to it."

We were talking sort of loud, and I had the feeling other guests were listening. I think she had the same thought because she said, "What did you say your name was?"

"John."

"Right. You're a good lay, John."

"Thanks. You, too."

So, there we were, two mature Federal agents, standing naked on hotel balconies with a partition between us, acting silly, the way new lovers act.

She called out, "Are you married?"

"No. How about you?"

"No."

So, what was my next line? Two simultaneous thoughts ran through my head. One, that I was being manipulated by a pro. Two, I loved it. Realizing that this moment and this setting was going to be remembered forever, I took a deep breath and asked, "Will you marry me?"

There was a long silence.

Finally, a woman's voice, not Kate's, called out from overhead, "Answer him!"

Kate called out, "Okay. I'll marry you."

Two people somewhere applauded. This was really dopey. I think I was actually embarrassed, which barely masked my sense of panic. What had I done?

I heard her sliding door close, so I couldn't qualify my proposal.

I went into my room, got dressed sans body armor, and went downstairs to the breakfast room where I got coffee and a copy of the New York Times, hot off the press.

There was continuing coverage of the Flight 175 tragedy, but it seemed like a rehash of events with a few new quotes from Federal, state, and local officials.

There was a small paragraph about Mr. Leibowitz's murder in Frankfurt and an obituary. He lived in Manhattan and had a wife and two children. It struck me again how random life could be. The guy goes to Frankfurt for business and gets clipped because some people need a red herring to make it look like a guy in America on a secret mission is back in Europe. Whack. Just like that, without regard to the victim's wife, kids, or anything. These people sucked.

There was also a little rehash of the double-murder of James McCoy and William Satherwaite at the Cradle of Aviation Museum. A Nassau Homicide detective was quoted as saying, "We're not ruling out the possibility that the motive for these murders may not have been robbery." Despite the tortured syntax, I could see that little Alan Parker was spooning out a third today, a third tomorrow, and the rest by the weekend.

Speaking of tortured syntax, I turned to Janet Maslin's movie review column. Some days I do the Times crossword puzzle, other days I try to understand what Ms. Maslin is trying to say. I can't do both on the same day without getting a headache.

Ms. Maslin was reviewing a box office smash, an action adventure Mideast terrorist flick of all things, which I think she didn't like, but as I say, it's hard to follow her prose, or her reasoning. The movie was lowbrow, of course, and Ms. Maslin may think of herself as highbrow, but somebody from the Times had to go see this thing and tell everyone who loved it why it sucked. I made a mental note to see the movie.

Kate arrived and I stood and we pecked. We sat and looked at the menus, and I thought perhaps she'd forgotten the silly incident on the balconies. But then she put down her menu and asked, "When?"

"June?"

"Okay."

The waitress came by, and we both ordered pancakes.

I really wanted to read the Times, but I instinctively knew that my breakfast newspaper was a thing of the past.

We chatted briefly about the plans for the day, the case, the people we'd met at Chip Wiggins' house, and who I was going to be introduced to by Kate later in L.A.

The pancakes came and we ate. Kate said, "You'll like my father."

"I'm sure I will."

"He's about your age, maybe a little older."

"Well, that's good." I remembered a line from an old movie and said, "He raised a swell daughter."

"He did. My sister."

I chuckled.

She said, "You'll like my mother, too."

"Are you and she alike?"

"No. She's nice."

I chuckled again.

She said, "Is it all right if we get married in Minnesota? I have a big family."

"Great. Minnesota. Is that a city or a state?"

"I'm a Methodist. How about you?"

"Any kind of birth control is fine."

"My religion. Methodist."

"Oh… my mother's Catholic. My father's… some kind of Protestant. He never-"

"Then we can raise the children in a Protestant denomination."

"You have kids?"

"This is important, John. Pay attention."

"I am. I'm trying to… you know, shift gears."

She stopped eating and looked at me. "Are you totally panicked?"

"No, of course not."

"You look panicky."

"Just a little stomach acid. Comes with age."

"This is going to be all right. We are going to live happily ever after."

"Good. But you know, we haven't known each other that long-"

"We will by June," she said.

"Right. Good point."

"Do you love me?"

"Actually, I do, but love-"

"What if I got up and walked out of here? How would you feel? Relieved?"

"No. I'd feel awful."

"So? Why are you fighting how you feel?"

"Are we about to go into analysis again?"

"No. I'm just telling you like it is. I'm madly in love with you. I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. What else do you want me to say?"

"Say… I love New York in June."

"I hate New York. But for you, I'll live anywhere."

" New Jersey?"

"Don't push it."

Time for full disclosure, so I said, "Look, Kate, you should know that I'm a male chauvinist pig, a misogynist, and I tell sexist jokes."

"Your point is…?"

I saw I wasn't getting anywhere with this line of reasoning, so I said, "Also, I have a bad attitude toward authority, and I'm always on the verge of career problems, and I'm broke, and I'm bad at handling money."

"That's why you need a good lawyer and a good accountant. That's me."

"Can I just hire you?"

"No. You have to marry me. I'm a full-service professional. Plus, I can prevent impotence."

No use arguing with a professional.

The light banter was over, and we looked at each other across the table. Finally, I said, "How do you know I'm the one for you?"

"How am I supposed to explain that? My heart beats faster when you're in the room. I love the sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch of you. You're a good lay."

"Thank you. You, too. Okay, I'm not going to bring up anything about careers, about you getting transferred, about living in New York, my paltry disability pension, our ten-year age difference-"

"Fourteen years."

"Right. I'm not going to fight this. I'm in love. Head over heels in love. If I blow this, I'll be miserable the rest of my life."

"You will be. Marrying me is the best thing for you. Trust me. I mean, really. Don't laugh. Look at me. Look into my eyes."

I did, and the panic was suddenly gone, and this weird feeling of peace flooded over me, just like I felt when I was bleeding to death on West 102nd Street. As soon as you stop fighting it-death or marriage-as soon as you let go and surrender, you see this radiant light and a chorus of singing angels bears you aloft, and a voice says, "Come along peacefully, or I'll have to handcuff you."

No, actually the voice says, "The fight is over, the suffering is ended, a new life, hopefully a little less fucked up than the last, is about to begin."

I took Kate's hand, and we looked into each other's eyes. I said, "I love you." And I really did.