When the Thrill Is Gone

42

Back on the street, a few blocks from Cyril Tyler’s building, I experienced the momentary prickling of impotence across my forehead. It’s the sensation that a true athlete-boxer feels when there’s a punch coming that he hasn’t seen, a real hammer blow that will end the bout forthwith.

I turned to my left — just to see if there was someone standing there, watching me. There wasn’t, and so I took out my cell phone and a note I had scribbled down and shoved in the breast pocket of my blue suit. I entered the number and pressed send.

“Fawn David,” she said, answering the phone after only one ring.

Her voice was certain and crisp, businesslike. I was thrown off, mostly because I was used to preparing my lies while the phone rang in my ear.

“Hello, Ms. David,” I said out of reflex. “My name is McGill and I’m looking for Bill Williams.”

“Excuse me?” It was her turn to feel lost in the exchange. “Did you say Bill Williams?”

“Yes.”

“Do you, do you mean William Williams?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God. I haven’t heard from Mr. Williams in almost fifteen years. Maybe more. How did you even know to call here?”

“I’m a private detective,” I said, feeling a bit vulnerable with the honesty. “I was hired by a man named Vartan, Harris Vartan, to locate this Mr. Williams. Vartan had the number of a woman who had known Bill and who was in possession of some of his books. There was a real estate ad that he’d circled pressed into the pages of Kapital, by Karl Marx. This number was in that ad.”

“Yes,” Fawn David said, “yes. Mr. Williams lived in the room out back for seven years. Wow. I haven’t even thought about him in such a long time. He was a very nice man — exceptional.”

“In what way?” I asked, standing on the sidewalk of what passes for a side street on Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

“He was... such a nice man. Very interested in what people had to say, and very well read. It was really because of him that I started my business.”

“What business is that, Ms. David?”

“Middleman Enterprises. I research all kinds of products and, for a percentage or a fee, depending on price, I help people acquire special items for business, personal use, or just a present.”

“So if I wanted a special breed of dog...”

“I’d research the breed and give you a list of prices, breeders, and anything else you might need.”

“And how did Mr. Williams get you on this path?”

“He told me that I could do what I wanted to, exactly what I wanted. He said that I didn’t have to settle for less.”

I suspected that there was something important missing from the information she gave, but that was more about her than the absent, probably dead, Mr. Williams.

“I’d love to come by and see where it was that he lived,” I said. “I doubt if I’ll find him, but I’d like to try my best.”

“That would be wonderful,” Fawn David said. “You can drop by any time. I’m always home. When you work for yourself the day never seems to be over.”

“I know what you mean. I’m working a couple of more active cases at the moment. I don’t know when I can come exactly but I’ll call you in a day or two to see when is best for you.”

“Anytime, Mr. McGill, anytime at all.”

I was a little surprised about the welcome the young woman expressed. At the time I supposed that it was because she lived in Hoboken; maybe people were more hospitable there.

“Hey, LT,” BUG Said, also answering on the first ring.

“You sound tired.”

“I’m always tired. Iran works me until I’m almost dead. And he puts me on the scale every morning. If I weigh just a pound more he doubles the exercises. So I can’t even eat. I’m hungry all the time, man.”

“You asked for it, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey,” I said, grinning at no one. “You see? It’s working. Iran’s got your testosterone up high enough that you wanna curse a light-heavy like me.”

“I transferred the cash,” he said. “It’s in a special account that Twill started just today.”

“Twill?”

“He started the account, but he doesn’t know it.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s great. Thanks a lot, Tiny. You’re a real talent.”

I always carried throw-away phones that Bug kept me supplied with. This one had a tortoiseshell body and a Utah area code. I used it to compose the following text to my son’s phone: I got your money, boy. If you want some of it back you’ll meet me @ the Harvell Club on 9th Ave and 14th St @ 3:45 this Friday. Beat Murdoch.

I smiled to myself, thinking of the mental anguish I would be causing my delinquent and nearly perfect son. I had met killers and thieves, drug dealers and pimps, billionaires and extortionists, zealots of all kinds, and still Twill remained unique. He was a bright spot on the face of the sun, a shadow in the depths of space.

My real phone made the sound of a loon at sunset.

“Hey, Luke,” I said.

“You bettah get ovah here, LT. Your boy’s got trouble.”

“Right away, brother.”