When the Thrill Is Gone

45

I led the way to the inner sanctum, toward my office. Lamont followed silently. After I’d seated him in a blue visitors’ chair, I settled behind the ebony desk and smiled. The blood in my brain was still thrumming.

“How you know my name?” he asked, the drawl a bit more evident than in our last conversation.

“Trade secret,” I said, hunching my shoulders and at the same time leaning back in the reclining office chair. “What can I do for the bastard half brother of Mr. Cyril Tyler?”

“I was born in Cincinnati,” he said, as if I had asked about his origins. “Moved to Texas when I was a kid, though. I worked as a cowboy outside’a Dallas, but I gave that up eight years ago to come to New York. Lookin’ for the easy life, I guess. You know, if you can make it in the rodeo, you can make it anywhere.”

There was an aspect of violence in Lamont’s words. I guess he expected me to be insulted by his putdown of my city, and afraid of his obvious physical superiority. You could see by the way he held himself that it was a foregone conclusion that I’d be intimidated by his natural force.

I wondered if his assumptions were based on anything other than bucking broncos.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“You told the faggot that you had information about Chrystal,” he said, another scattershot attempt to rile me. “Cyril sent me over to find out what you know.”

“Like they say in Hollywood,” I said, “I only speak to the talent.”

It took a moment for the meaning of my words to filter through to the cowboy’s understanding. I watched as his bland visage turned to something a bit more sour. He sneered, glanced at the door behind and to his right, and then turned back to me.

“You’ll talk to me,” he promised.

It was an admirable thing, the sinister turn Lamont was able to get into his words. I almost wanted to be scared. He was used to having the upper hand in situations like this, but I didn’t have time to dance with him.

The case was getting away from me. Every step I took toward conclusion got me further away from solution. The only thing I knew for certain was that three women were dead, that these women were either married to Cyril or pretending to be. I was pretty sure that Cyril hadn’t committed the killings himself, at least not all of them, and so there was a man out there who might have accomplished the assassinations — possibly a man named Bisbe.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Lamont,” I said. “Cyril Tyler has not told me that I should report to you.”

“You don’t have a choice, Mr. McGill.”

That was when my thoughts took what might have been considered a non sequitur detour. When I first moved into that suite I had my office completely soundproofed by a music studio professional. Walls, door, ceiling, and floor — even the windows were specialized two-ply for sound reduction.

“We always have a choice,” I said.

On top of the noise-reducing insulation, I had a dozen extra-large, extra-thick plastic bags in the small supply alcove to my right.

“So you tellin’ me that I have to climb over this here desk and beat the answer outta you?” the cowboy asked.

“I’m tellin’ you to cool your horseshoes and chill, my brother. All Cyril has to do is call me and I will tell him what I know.”

Boxing is a wonderful art. It teaches you to move inside of violence while keeping your wits about you and ignoring the potential for harm. You learn to love your enemy more than you would from any Christian sermon, because in the ring your enemy is always a clear reflection of yourself. Ira Lamont’s threat was no more than an opponent in the opposite corner, waiting for the bell. There I was, on my side, anticipating his attack, loving him.

I wanted a fight, but that wasn’t going to solve anything. I wasn’t a boxer but a detective. This wasn’t my battle, it was my dead client’s last request.

“I ain’t your nigger brother.” Ira Lamont was filled with epithets. He came from a place where language was an invitation to violence.

Not so me.

My problem was much more complex than some contest between combatants. What Ira desired was simple, straightforward. He wanted me to kneel before him, to declare him master, and give him the words I kept close. But my needs were convoluted. I had to have Ira go back to where he came from with his dignity intact but still wary of my power. That way he would feel that he could come at me with a chance of victory.

He was to me no more than a ball in play.

“Heavens,” I said, feeling that this was an appropriate response to his insult.

“Are you gonna talk to me?” he said with a note of finality to the twang.

“I don’t think so.”

Ira half-rose from his chair.

I took the pistol from my pocket.

Ira smiled and rose to his full height.

I pointed the gun and he was forced to put another log on the fire of that grin.

I pulled back the hammer.

A thin sheet of worry barely diffused his confidence.

The gun made the sound of a cannon blast when I fired it.

To Ira’s lifelong shame, I’m sure, he flinched and jumped half a step backward. The shot had missed him completely, putting a neat little hole in the wall behind him. He was unharmed but still couldn’t stop the sweat from appearing on his forehead.

I aimed the pistol at his chest.

Our eyes met.

Dimly I realized that I had lost control again. But I felt justified. Lamont had threatened me, called me names, and tried to force information out of me that would put my new client in jeopardy. I had to shoot at him — didn’t I?

I pressed the intercom buzzer four times. This was to tell Mardi to clear out of the office — immediately. We’d set up that signal the first week she came to work for me. And she knew not to come back until I called her on her cell phone.

“One step forward,” I said to Ira Lamont, “and it will be your last.”

The cowboy had his chance. I didn’t know what I’d do if he called me on the threat. He didn’t, either. He actually took a half step backward.

“If Cyril wants what I have to say, tell him to come to me. Not on the phone, but in person. Man to man.”

I stood up suddenly and Ira girded himself so as not to cower.

“Let’s you and me walk to the front door,” I said.

He considered resisting but then realized the futility of such an action. Without a word he turned and opened the door. I followed him down the long aisle of empty cubicles and through to Mardi’s desk. I saw him out the front of the office, knowing that Mardi would have taken the service elevator down and out.

After Ira was gone I put the pistol back in my pocket and went to the larger utility closet that was at the far end of the hall from my office. There I pulled out a framed print of a long-necked Modigliani nude. I carried this down to the soundproofed room and used a hammer and nail to affix it to the wall, over the bullet hole.