The Bridge Trilogy Part 106

Tokyo? That would be in the phone menu, if he could find it. "What matters is you're there."

"Yamazaki said you had something for me to do up here."

"I do," said Laney, and Rydell remembered his cousin's wedding, Clarence having sounded just about

as happy, saying that.

"You want to tell me what it is?"

"No," said Laney, "but I want to put you on retainer. Money up front for as long as you're up

there."

"Is it legal, Laney, what you want done?"

There was a pause. "I don't know," Laney said. "Some of it hasn't ever been done before probably,

so it's hard to say."

'Well, I think I need to know a little more than that before I can take it on," Rydell said,

wondering how the h.e.l.l he'd ever get back down to Los Angeles if this didn't pan out. Or indeed if there was any point in his going back.

"You could say it's a missing person," Laney said after another pause. "Name?"

-~-"Doesn't have one. Probably has a few thousand, more like it. Listen you like cop stuff nght~?

What s that supposed to mean?

No offense, you told me cop stones when I met you remember~ Okay so this person m looking for is very very good at not leaving traces Nothing ever turns up not in the deepest quant.i.tative a.n.a.lysis Laney meant netsearch stuff that was what he did He s just a physi

cal presence How do you know he s a physical presence if he doesn t leave traces~ Because people die Laney said And just then there were people taking seats on either side of him ~j and a sharp reek of vodka-

Get back to you Rydell said thumbing the pad and pulling the

~ gla.s.ses off

Creedmore gnnning on his left Howdy said Creedmore This heresMarjane

"Maryalice." On the stool to Rydell's right, a big old blonde with most of the top of her strapped up into something black and shiny, the unstrapped part forming a cleavage where Creedmore could easily have wedged one of those pint bottles. Rydell caught something deep in her tired eyes, some combination of fear, resignation, and a kind of blind and automatic hope: she was not having a good morning, year, or life probably, but there was something there that wanted him to like her.

Whatever it was, it stopped Rydell from getting up with his bag and walking out, which was really what he knew he should be doing.

"Ain't you gonna say hi?" Creedmore's breath was toxic.

"Hey, Maryalice," Rydell said. "Name's Rydell. Pleased to meet you.

Maryalice smiled, about a decade's wear lifting, just for a second, from her eyes. "Buell here tells me you're from Los Angeles, Mr. Rydell." -

"Does he?" Rydell looked at Creedmore.

"Are you in the media down there, Mr. Rydell?" she asked.

"No," Rydell said, fixing Creedmore with the hardest look he could muster, "retail."

"I'm in the music business myself," Maryalice said. "My ex and I operated one of the most successful country music venues in Tokyo. But I felt the need to get back to my roots. To G.o.d's country, Mr. Rydell."

"You talk too much," said Creedmore, across Rydell, as the waitress brought Rydell's breakfast.

"Buell," Rydell said, with something approximating a tone of even good cheer, "shut the f.u.c.k up."

Rydell started cutting the hardened edges off his eggs.

"Beer me," Buell said.

"Oh, Buell," Maryalice said. She hauled a big plastic zip bag up off the floor, some kind of advertising giveaway, and rummaged inside. Came up with a tall sweaty can of something she pa.s.sed to Creedmore over Rydell's lap, under the counter. Creedmore popped it, held it to his ear, as if admiring the hiss of carbonation.

a, t.iii a *a~ emma.

"Sound of breakfast cooking," he said, then drank. Rydell sat there, chewing his leathery eggs.

so you go to this site," Laney was saying, "give them my name, 'Cohns.p.a.ce-Laney,' cap C, cap L, first four digits of this phone number, and 'Berry' That's your nickname, right?"

"Actually it's my name," Rydell said. "Family name on my mother's side." He was seated in a capacious but none too clean cubicle in the former bank's restroom. He'd gone there to get away from Creedmore and company, and so he could ring Laney back. "S0 I give them that. What'll they give me?" Rydell looked up at his bag, where he'd hung it on the st.u.r.dy chrome hook on the cubicle door. He hadn't wanted to leave it out in the restaurant.

'They'll give you another number. You take that to any banking machine, show it picture ID, key the number. It'll issue you a credit chip. Should be enough to hold you for a few days, but if it's not, phone me."

Something about being in there made Rydell feel like he was in one of those old-fashioned submarine movies, the part where they shut off the engines and wait, really quiet, for the depth charges they know are on the way. It was that quiet in here, probably because the bank was so solidly built; the only sound was the running of the toilet tank, which alone."

not be."

he thought added to the illusion.

"Okay," Rydehl said, "a.s.suming all that works, who is it you're looking for, and what was that you

said about people dying?"

"European male, mid to late fifties, probably has a military background but that was a long time ago."

"That narrows it to maybe a million probables, up here in NoCal "How this is going to work, Rydell, is he'll find you. I'll tell you where to go and what to ask for, and one thing and another will bring you to his attention."

"Sounds too easy."

"Coming to his attention will be easy. Staying alive once you do will

63.

Rydell considered. "So what am I supposed to do for you when he finds me?"

"Ask him a question."

'What question?"

"I don't know yet," Laney said, "I'm working on it."

"Laney," Rydell said, "what's this all about?"

"If I knew that," Laney said, and suddenly he sounded very tired, "I wouldn't have to be here." He fell silent. Clicked off.

"Laney?"

Rydehl sat listening to the toilet run. Eventually he got up, took his bag down from the hook, and exited the cubicle. He washed his hands in a trickle of cold water that ran into a black imitation

marble sink crusted with yellowish industrial soap and made his way back along a corridor made narrow by cartons of what he took to be janitorial supplies.

He hoped that Creedmore and the country music mamma would've forgotten about him, gone away. - Not so. The woman was working on her own plate of eggs, while Creedmore, his beer clipped between

his denim thighs, was staring balefully at the two enormous, gypsum-dusted construction workers.

"Hey," Creedmore said, as Rydell walked past, carrying his bag.

"Hey, Buell," Rydell said, heading for the door to the street.

"Hey, where you going?"