The Hearing Page 9

  “If it’s not one of these, it would have to be—”

  “Low-down.”

  The man smiled, a tiny quiver at the corners of his mouth. “I’d try these, sir.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  By the time the sun came up and the bars and nightclubs had closed, Carl had been to eleven of the names on the list, talking to managers, flashing his DEA badge, showing his picture of Larry Young. None admitted to seeing him.

  He went back to the hotel, slept four hours, and at noon set out again. Just after five that afternoon, he found a food and beverage director at a hotel in Kowloon who remembered Larry.

  “We had him in our piano bar for four months, then he decided not to renew his contract. He said he had a job in London, wanted to get back to Europe for his daughter’s education.”

  Carl showed the man a picture of Samantha, taken from the video.

  “Yeah, that’s her, pretty girl. Nice girl, what I saw of her. Larry didn’t like bringing her to the bar.”

  Carl went back to his hotel, grabbed his bag, and headed for Kai Tak Airport. He reserved a seat on a Swissair flight leaving in an hour for Zurich, connecting to London. Then he found a pay phone and called Doug Cabot at the DEA office.

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “Love to, Carl. How was your day?”

  “Can you meet me at the Mandarin bar at eight?”

  “Fine. Perfect. Everything okay?”

  “Terrific. I’ll be around for another four days, then I’m off for Caracas.”

  “Caracas? What’s in Caracas?”

  “You won’t believe it, Doug. Tell you all about it tonight.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  Give Cabot something to put in today’s cable. Tomorrow he can try to explain how come he got it all wrong.

  This time he didn’t have to worry about surveillance. London cops couldn’t follow a train through a tunnel. Trying to make ends meet on a government expense allowance of $175 a day, he asked the Heathrow cab driver, a Pakistani, to take him someplace small, cheap, and off the beaten path.

  It was practically on another continent. The neighborhood was a sea of black faces, and when he walked into the entrance hall the smell of curry almost knocked him down. A desk, a stairway, six rooms upstairs.

  He was in his room—no TV, no phone—trying to get the window open when the young man who’d checked him in downstairs knocked on the door.

  “Telephone.”

  Carl said, “There isn’t one.”

  “Downstairs. Telephone for you.”

  “No. That’s a mistake.” He hadn’t told anyone where he was.

  “No mistake. Telephone for you.”

  Carl followed him downstairs, into the cloud of curry stench. He took the phone, put it to his ear. “Hello.”

  “Welcome to Caracas.”

  Doug Cabot. Carl couldn’t believe it.

  “You guys are better than I thought.” Flatter him.

  “We have our moments.”

  “I’m going to bed, Doug. You should, too. It’s late in Hong Kong.”

  At seven that evening—followed or not, he wasn’t sure—Carl found himself in the large, wood-paneled office of the manager of a Mayfair gambling club. The club had a piano bar, and Carl was about to hand over a photograph of Larry Young. Dressed in a tuxedo, a deep tan, and arrogance, the manager roamed regally around the office, talking into a gold-colored, fold-open cellular telephone hardly larger than a cigarette lighter. Absently, he waved Carl to a chromium chair. Something a little too imperious in that wave kept Carl on his feet. An enormous Saint Bernard sprawled on the beige carpet.

  The manager, still on the phone, wandered over to the dog, his back to Carl. The Saint Bernard, its head the size of a microwave oven, lumbered to its feet and moved next to Carl, panting.

  Carl patted the dog’s head and waited.

  The man hung up but remained silent, his back to Carl.

  Carl said, “Thanks for seeing me. I’m looking for someone they told me downstairs used to play the piano here. He—”

  The phone rang. The manager raised a hand for silence, flipped open his gold cellular phone, listened, whispered, and resumed his random walk around the deep-piled carpet, mumbling into the phone.

  Carl waited.

  The man hung up.

  Carl said, “As I was saying, his name is—”

  The phone rang again. Another raised hand. More whispering and wandering. The manager hung up.

  Carl said, “His name—”

  The telephone rang again.

  Carl said, “Excuse me—”

  The man, now on the other side of the Saint Bernard, again raised a hand.

  Carl had had enough. He stepped around the dog, gripped the man’s wrist, and removed the phone. Then he closed the phone, slipped it into the panting mouth of the Saint Bernard, and held the jaws closed. He felt a heavy gulp. He released the jaws. The dog, licking its mouth with a tongue as big as a dishcloth, looked placidly at Carl.

  The stunned manager stared incredulously at the Saint Bernard. “You gave him my telephone.”

  “You’ll get it back.”

  “He swallowed the telephone.”

  “Forget it. We have to talk.”

  “He swallowed—”

  The dog dropped lazily to the carpet, lay its head on its paws, and gazed contentedly up at its master.

  The manager said, “Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine. I’m looking for a man named Larry Young who used to play piano here. Do you remember him?”

  Still watching the dog, the manager said, “Yes, that’s right. Larry Young.” He looked up from the dog, and his eyes fixed on Carl. “Larry Young. Yes.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “I wish he’d never left. He had a great way with the clients. The richer they were, the more they liked him. I always thought it was the Albanian thing. Do you know him?”

  “The Albanian thing?”

  “He was from Albania, related to the old royal family, at least that’s what he said. He said he changed his name when he went to the States. He went to Saint-Tropez for the summer. Said he wanted his daughter to see the Continent.”

  “Did you meet her?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. A little bitch.”

  “Really?”

  “Precocious. Very demanding. Thirteen years old and she’s acting like she’s his agent. Larry tried to keep her out of here, which suited me fine. Guys had started to hit on her. Very mature.”

  A mild explosion, followed by a stench worse than the hotel curry, filled the office. Carl and the manager turned to the Saint Bernard, whose expression had gone from dreamy to mildly concerned.

  After a moment, Carl said, “I think he’s about to return the phone.”

  The Saint Bernard rose heavily to his feet, stood uncertainly, then sat back down with the preoccupied expression of a dog having an unfamiliar internal experience.

  The manager said, “Should I call the vet?”

  “I don’t think so. Just be patient.”

  13

  Carl sat at the end of the crowded bar with a Heineken that cost exactly four times what he’d have had to pay in Montgomery. The place was packed, but the piano was silent.

  He asked the bartender, a pretty redhead with a smile and an English accent, when the music started.

  “He’s just on his break. Coupla minutes.”

  The tables, reaching from the bar to an open terrace bordering the port, were filled with vacationers Carl guessed had come to the south of France for the sun, sex, and imagined glamour. Carl had been in Saint-Tropez long enough—about two hours—to see the yachts along the port, smell the sea air, and have his eyebrows almost singed off by a fire-eater performing in the crowd oozing through the narrow medieval streets. He saw a lot of young girls, many with men who were not so young. But he saw no one who looked like Samantha. He wasn’t happy to think she might be here.

  Carl sm
iled back and said, “What’s his name?”

  The bartender reached under the bar and handed Carl a black-and-white leaflet, French on one side, English on the other.

  LIVE

  At the Papagayo

  Larry Young

  11 to Dawn

  The picture showed a handsome, tuxedoed young man at a piano, smiling into the camera. He was the man in the photograph Doreen had given Carl, the one he’d been displaying all over Hong Kong and London.

  Carl saw a door open in the shadows at the back, and a man came in. He stood for a moment in the half-light, back bent, looking tired. Then he smoothed the front of his tuxedo jacket, took a deep breath, straightened himself, and started toward the piano. Before he entered the light, his face changed, a smile came on, and by the time he reached the piano he was beaming greetings to customers. A few nearest the piano smiled and nodded.

  He played a few show tunes, some modern pop numbers, Cole Porter, even a little Bach jazz, working hard to propel the magic beyond the fans at the piano’s edge. It wasn’t easy. Compelling conversations—seductions and con stories, Carl guessed—resisted intrusion at the outer tables. Carl listened and watched, impressed. Larry was a fighter, throwing personality and talent against a fortress of apathy. His head was back, eyes closed, playing from the heart, or giving a good impression of it. Sweat rolling down his cheeks darkened the white collar. A professional, Carl thought, good at what he does, and he’s gonna do it whether anyone listens or not. What had his relationship been with Doreen? What was it now with Samantha? What had that family been like, when it was still a family? Where was Samantha? As Carl watched Larry playing, he thought, I’ve found him, now how do I keep him?

  Larry was on the run with his daughter. If Carl followed him back out that door the next time he took a break, Larry might make a run for it. It was dark out and Carl didn’t know the streets. But if he confronted him here in the bar, Larry could still take off. An entire side of the room was open to the port.

  Is he a runner? Carl wondered. Or a talker, or a fighter?

  Several people had approached the piano with written song requests. Carl took a card from a stack on the bar and wrote a request of his own.

  “Dear Mr. Young: I am not a cop, I am not from Doreen. I am a friend who is on your side. I have important news for you. Can we talk?”

  He folded the card and asked the bartender if she had a paper clip.

  “Will a pin do?”

  “That’ll be fine, thanks.”

  He pinned a 500-franc note to the card, walked over to the piano, and laid it on top of the others. He stayed until Larry had glanced up and met his eyes. Larry smiled, said “Thanks,” and kept on playing.

  Carl went back to his stool, sipped his beer, and waited. People drifting in from the port, drawn by the music, filled the empty tables. Larry was winning. The seducers and con men were losing.

  Larry finished a song, drank from a glass on the piano, and lifted the cards. Carl slipped off his stool and moved toward the piano. He was five steps away when Larry unpinned the 500-franc note and unfolded Carl’s card. Carl watched him read it. A runner, a talker, or a fighter?

  Larry finished reading, turned the card over, read it again. He slipped the card slowly into his jacket pocket, not looking up. Then abruptly, making a decision, he raised his eyes and found Carl.

  Carl tried to get the whole message into his smile. I’m safe, talk to me. But he was ready to run.

  Larry put the other cards into his pocket, smiled at the faces nearest the piano, and headed back toward the rear door. He wasn’t hurrying, and by the time he reached the door, Carl was with him. Carl held the door, and they stepped into a narrow street between the back of the bar and a small café.

  Larry said, “Who are you?”

  “A friend. Can we talk?”

  Standing, Larry looked smaller than he had at the piano.

  “Tell me who you are.”

  The beaming smile was gone, an act abandoned as he left the stage. His tired eyes were filled with a sadness that made Carl want to trust him.

  “It’s too long a story. It’s not any of the things you’re thinking. You couldn’t possibly guess. But I’m a friend. Believe me. Can we talk? You won’t be sorry.”

  Larry hesitated a moment. Then he said, “I have to do something first.”

  Carl had expected more of an argument. This was too easy. What was it Larry had to do?

  Larry said, “Wait for me in the café. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  He walked down the street to the corner, made a left, and disappeared.

  Carl was going to believe that? Back in ten minutes? But if Larry looked around and spotted Carl following, it would be the end of whatever fragile shred of trust he might have won. Larry was desperate, and desperate men are eager for someone to trust.

  The café had a zinc bar, four tables, a bartender, and one other customer, an old man with a newspaper and a glass of something milky white.

  Carl told the bartender, “Coffee, please,” and sat at one of the tables.

  He faced the street and looked at his watch. When the ten minutes had passed he began to curse himself. What a jerk. Conned by a piano player. “Be back in ten minutes.” Sure you will, yeah, right. His brains must be softening.

  He gave it another five minutes, then paid for the coffee and walked out. He took the left turn Larry had taken. Halfway up the block he saw a small illuminated sign. HOTEL. No name. He walked past on the other side of the street and looked in through the glass front. A tiny entrance hall, a desk with an old woman, stairs.

  He had turned back toward the café when a figure appeared at the desk. It was Larry. Carl watched as Larry said something to the old woman, came out to the street, and headed toward the café.

  Carl ran.

  His empty coffee cup was still on the table. He had it to his lips when Larry came through the door.

  “Sorry I took so long.”

  “No problem. Happy to relax for a few minutes.”

  Larry asked the bartender for coffee, hung his tuxedo jacket over the back of a chair and sat down. He was still sweating. “Tell me who you are.”

  “I represent someone in the United States who wants to talk to you. It has nothing to do with anyone else who might be looking for you. It’s completely independent of that.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Someone important. You might have heard of him. I know this sounds crazy, but what I’m saying is someone wants to talk to you and I can’t tell you who it is, only that it won’t hurt you and could help you a lot. I know I shouldn’t expect you to believe that, but it’s all I can say.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The person I represent wants to meet you, and he sent me to find you. I’ve found you, and now I’m asking if you’ll meet him. He’s in the States. If you say yes, he’ll be here tomorrow afternoon. He’ll meet you anywhere you like, and you can take any precautions you like. He’ll explain everything. There won’t be any mysteries. And I can guarantee that you’ll be glad you’ve seen him. You won’t be sorry.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “From the video.”

  “The video?”

  “The one you sent Doreen. I traced it back to Hong Kong, showed pictures around, got a lead to London. Someone in London sent me here.”

  “That was a lot of work.”

  “It’s important you talk to this guy. Don’t even try to guess what it’s about. You’ll be amazed. And you’ll be pleased.”

  Larry drank from his cup, slowly, then set it back on the saucer, right dead in the middle, thinking. “Does it have something to do with my daughter?”

  “Yes. But nothing to do with disagreements with Doreen. This man does not want to get you into trouble. In fact, this man wants to talk to you specifically because he wants to protect you. There’s something he’s thinking of doing but he doesn’t want to do it without consulting you first. If you say no, that’ll
be it. He’ll go home and you can forget you ever met him. Your life will go on as if he’d never been here.”

  “You talked with Doreen?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was she?”

  “Nasty.”

  Larry smiled, not a happy smile. “How did you meet her?”

  “Looking for you. All I had to go on was the video.”

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “From someone Doreen gave it to.”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know him.”

  Larry pulled an end of his bow tie and unbuttoned his collar. “What’s your name?”

  “Carl.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Let’s just stay with Carl. I don’t want to lie to you.”

  “What’s going on? Really.”

  Carl felt sorry for him. He was a man with problems, and now he had another, something else that might hurt him, hurt his daughter.

  “I’ve told you all I can.”

  “And if you’re lying to me, I’m in a lot of trouble. Maybe you’re from Doreen. She wants Samantha back.”

  “I’ve told you all I can tell you.”

  Larry nodded, took another sip of coffee, and sat there, silent, thinking. Then he shook his head and looked a lot more tired than when he’d come in through the door to the bar. He closed his eyes and sighed. It sounded like four years of desperation.

  “When do you have to know?”

  “Soon as you can tell me. Right now would be best.”

  “I can’t tell you now. Come back tomorrow night. I’ll see you during my first break.”

  “Fine.”

  “I have to get back.”

  “Larry …”

  “Yes?”

  “I just want to tell you …” Carl waited while Larry buttoned his collar and put on his jacket. The tie hung loose. “It’s important that you believe me. If you say no, it’ll be a big mistake. Meet this man. Hear what it’s about. You’ll be glad you did.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  There weren’t many things Carl had ever wanted to know more than he wanted to know if Samantha was in that hotel. But if he made a move to find out—talked to the old woman at the desk or came back in the morning to watch the entrance—and Larry found out, that would be the end. His instincts, rehabilitated after Larry’s return to the café, told him Larry was not going to run for it. Have confidence, play it cool.