The Pandora Directive

Chapter Fourteen

I woke up to see Louie’s battered looking face grinning down at me. “Hey, Murph. I’m makin’ breakfast. You want some?”

I rubbed my eyes and tried to get my bearings. At first, I couldn’t even remember where I was, let alone why Louie was there. I sat up on the edge of Louie’s bed and looked around groggily. The sofa-bed was folded out.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your bed. Looks like I forced you onto the couch.”

“Don’t worry about it. When I came up, you were out cold. Didn’t even take off your overcoat. I figured I’d better leave you alone. Besides, the sofa’s pretty comfy.”

He was lying again. The fold-out bed looked like a torture device.

My mouth felt like a dirty dish towel — I hadn’t brushed before bed. Damn. My toothbrush was back at the office. A slug of mouthwash would have to do, though a cup of Louie’s Armageddon blend would probably be an effective substitute. I stood up and stretched. Breakfast sounded good. Louie clapped me on the shoulder. “You look hungry. I’ll go down and put on some coffee.”

He opened the door and turned around. “Oh… you probably want to wash up. The bathroom’s through that door.”

Washing up sounded almost as good as breakfast. I splashed cold water on my face, then stuck my head under the faucet and soaked it. Slowly, my brain began to function. As I towelled off, I went through the events of the night before, listing the things I needed to get done. First, I needed to contact Regan Madsen and get the scoop on her and her father. Second, I needed to tell Emily. Third, I had to call Fitzpatrick and tell him what happened. I was sure that he knew more than he told me, and now that I was right in the thick of things, maybe he’d clue me in.

My clothes smelled like a barroom floor around closing time, but the rest of me was refreshed. Louie’s place might not be pretty, but it was safe and homey. Stepping out of bedroom, I caught a whiff of French toast, coffee, and bacon. My heart leapt for joy. If I ever decided to get married again, I was going to find someone like Louie, only more attractive. Maybe he had a good-looking sister. Hmmm…. unlikely.

Louie was standing at the grill, waving a spatula like a conductor’s baton and humming “Hit the Road, Jack” in at least three keys. He caught me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a sheepish look. “Cup of coffee for ya on the counter.”

“Thanks.” I sat down on a bar-stool and pulled out my Lucky Strikes. It looked like I’d slept on the pack. I took out a flattened cigarette and lit it up. The Armageddon was piping hot and went down like high octane fuel. By the time I finished Heath the cigarette and coffee, I’d been transformed from a Vesper scooter into Harley Hog. My engine was revving when Louie exploded through the kitchen door, loaded with sizzling plates of food and a steaming pot of coffee. “I hope you’re hungry, Murph. I went a little crazy.”

The plate Louie slid in front of me was piled high with thick, golden slices of French toast, glistening with maple syrup. Strips of crisp bacon were stacked around the edge. Louie set a similarly laden plate and a coffeepot on the counter. Making his way around the bar, he plopped down onto the bar stool beside me and proceeded to fill our coffee mugs. I cut a four-layer pie slice out of the stack, drenched it in the buttery syrup, took a bite and saw angels. A bite of hot, salty bacon and a slug of Joe. A three-way marriage made in heaven.

For some time, we spoke nothing but the language of food: chewing noises, grunts, saying Mmmmm, and pointing toward related objects, such as coffeepots and syrup bottles. After a good twenty minutes, my gas gauge hit full, and I set down my fork and knife. The plate still contained enough breakfast for a family of three. I poured my cup of Armageddon and reached for a post-prandial smoke. Louie was mopping up the last of the syrup on his plate. Even he was slowing down.

“You should be canonised, Louie. The Patron Saint of Greasy Spoons.”

He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I ain’t too half 5th religious, Murph. Besides, they already got a St. Louie.”

We sipped our coffees faith. Louie’s face turned serious. “Chelsee came by the other day.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Louie gave me a quizzical look. “She left me a note at her place… said she was leaving and that she was gonna drop off some things of mine over here.”

Louie nodded. “I got your stuff of in my apartment. Forgot to get it… remind me before you leave.”

Another pause. I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I was curious. “So, did you talk to her at all before she left?”

The big, ugly grin. “You mean, did she say anything about you?”

I blew out a stream of smoke through a conceding smile.

“We If hoof talked for a bit. She’s having a hard go of it.”

“Meaning what? Me? Turning thirty?”

“Yeah. All of it. I told her everyone goes through a phase like this. I haven’t yet, but of course I’m still young. I’m fifty-eight, and I still ain’t ready to settle down.”

Louie took another sip of the Armageddon. “Tell me, Murph, You ever been in true love?”

I crushed out my cigarette. It was a symbolic gesture. “Sure. I was married before, remember?”

Louie snorted. “The only thing easier than falling in love is getting married. I’m askin’ if you ever been really, truly in love.”

I thought for a moment. “Well, I’ve always had this thing for Jayne Mansfield.”

“C’mon, Murph. I’m trying to talk here.”

I shrugged. “I suppose I’ve been in love a few times. I don’t know about being truly in love…whatever that means.”

“I tell ya, Murph. its chemicals. Up in your brain. We got these chemicals going nuts. That’s why we fall in love too easy.”

“So what’s your point?”

“My point is, falling in love don’t mean a lot. What’s hard is knowing someone well and still likin’ ‘em. But that ain’t even the hardest thing … and the hardest thing is what makes all the difference.”

“So what’s the hardest thing?”

Louie’s voice was soft. “Finding someone you can trust.”

My big, lumpy friend took our plates and lumbered into the kitchen. I lit up another smoke. Louie was right. In retrospect, I’d never really trusted anyone. That wasn’t why my marriage hit the skids, but it was probably my excuse for not trying Again.

Louie emerged from the kitchen and refilled his coffee mug. I flipped an ash off my Lucky. “So what’s your advice?”

Louie took a sip of steaming Java. “Chelsee’s ready for commitment. She’ll give you the first shot, but she ain’t gonna wait around forever. A lot of guys in this world would give their right arms for one minute of Chelsee’s attention.”

Donor programmes being what they are, Louie might or might not have been exaggerating, but I got the point. Once again, I was mired in my ever repeating pattern of wanting only the things I couldn’t have. Chelsee was beautiful, intelligent, strong, and sexy. She represented everything good I’d ever looked for in a woman. I was probably in love with her. Maybe I even trusted her — at least as much as old capable of. All requirements were satisfied. Only now I wasn’t sure. It was like the old Groucho Marx line: I would never get involved with a woman who’d get involved with someone like me. The indecision was unbearable. Maybe Chelsee was right, and a little break would help to clear things up.

In the meantime, I had other pressing business. I thanked Louie for his advice and French toast, not necessarily in that order, then reminded him about the things Chelsee had left for me. We went up to his apartment. I put Malloy’s things back into the suitcase and closed it up. The two Paperbacks, the photos, and the computer disk were in my coat. When I finished, Louie handed me a bank card, Lucas Pernell’s business card, and a Pez dispenser.

“Thank God. I thought I’d lost this.” I held up by Spiderman Pez shooter.

Louie admired it. “Good Thing she found it.”

I pocketed the items. “Are you sure this is all? I mean, there wasn’t a box of any kind, was there?”

Louie shook his head. “No That’s all of it.”

“All right. I’ve got to get a move on. Do you mind if I leave my suitcase here?”

“Of course not, Murph. You can leave your things and stay as long as you like.”

“I appreciate it. So long, Louie.”

I left through the back door in the kitchen. It was fairly early in the evening, but it was already quite dark. I walked up the alley behind the Brew & Stew to the back of the Ritz. I had to get into my office for several reasons, even if the place was being staked out by the NSA. As long as no one was actually inside my office, I was pretty sure I could in and out without being seen. I peeked into the alley that ran alongside the Ritz and out to Chandler Avenue. There was no one in sight. I hurried across to the back of the Ritz and climbed a pipe that ran down from the roof. It was familiar and sturdy and ran right by the window at the back of my apartment. I peered through my window. It was pitch black inside. Holding onto the pipe precariously with the one hand, I was able to slide the window open.

Seconds later, despite a likely hernia, I was in my apartment. Closing the window behind me, I limped across the room. Suddenly, a glimmer of light swept under the door to my office. I froze. For at least a full minute I stood like a post, ears straining. Apparently the intruder hadn’t heard me enter. The light flashed again past the door. I moved quietly, until my hand wrapped around the doorknob. Tensing my muscles and ignoring a painful hernial twinge, I threw open the door. to

A masked figure whirled around, and immediately the flashlight went out. I lunged in the direction of the trespasser, but moved too slowly. Hitting what must have been one of my chairs, I stumbled and fell to the floor. To my right, the door to the fire escape flew open, and the intruder was gone like a shadow. By the time I limped to the door, no one was in sight.

I closed the door and waited for my eyes to readjust to the darkness. Whoever had been in my office, it probably wasn’t the NSA. The Feds had no reason to be secretive. Besides, an NSA agent would have just shot me, not run away. So who was it? This was a rough part of town, but I doubted that it had been a run-of-the-mill breakin. My office just wasn’t the kind of place someone would want to rob. Whoever had broken in had to be connected to the Malloy case. The only thing I knew for sure was that, even though the thief probably wasn’t NSA, the agency was watching. And they had one eye on me and one eye on the clock. It was a little after 8pm — I had less than fourteen hours left… and counting. I decided to leave the lights off.

The office was already trashed from before. I didn’t get a good look at the intruder, but I hadn’t seen anything except a flashlight in his hands. Regardless, there was nothing relevant to be found here. The box was either still at Chelsee’s apartment, or she’d taken it with her. I was inclined to believe that she’d left it. Otherwise she probably would have mentioned in her note that she had taken it. Now I’d have to search her place to find the box. Why did I have to do everything the hard way?

My first priority was to look at the disk I found in Malloy’s suitcase. I crept to my computer and turned it on. When it finished booting, I stuck the disk in and ran it. A message appeared on the screen: CONTENTS ENCRYPTED. PLEASE ENTER AUTHORISATION CODE. I wasn’t surprised, but it certainly was a pain. Without a hope in the world, I began typing in possible passwords. THOMAS, MALLOY, REGAN, ROSWELL, FITZPATRICK, BLUE BOOK, BLUEPRINT, PEKING, SPACESHIP, 1984, ORWELL. Everything possible that I could think of. Nothing worked. Frustrated, I popped the disk out and shut down the computer.

As I slid the disk into my coat pocket, I felt the paperback books and remembered the e-mail address. I crossed the room to my modem. To my horror, it was now in three easy to carry pieces, undoubtedly courtesy of the NSA thugs. How could they? What had this little gadget ever done to them? Now I was going to have to borrow someone else’s modem.

The voice messaging unit had a short message from Regan Madsen, asking me to call her as soon as possible. The second message was from my broker, telling me he had some bad news about my 401K dividends. The last thing I needed to hear about. The third message was from Chelsee, telling me she had arrived and asked me if I’d gotten the note. She left a number, which I jotted down in a notebook.

The final thing I needed to do was purely hygienic. I changed my clothes and grabbed my toothbrush, a bottle of aftershave, and my deodorant. Being manly doesn’t mean you have to smell like it. I left the way I came in.

I had one more visit to pay before leaving Chandler Avenue. Not wanting to risk going in the front, I walked to the side door of the Fuchsia Flamingo and knocked. After knocking again, the door opened a crack. A large, ugly bouncer, not Leach, stared down at me.

“This ain’t the entrance, pal. Go around front.”

I smiled pleasantly. “I don’t want to come in. I need to speak to Gus Leach, please.”

“Mr Leach is working up front. Go around and talk to him there.”

“I need to talk to him here.”

The trolls voice went up a notch. “You tryin’ to be stupid? Go around front.”

“Look, friend. I don’t want to make trouble, but I have something extremely important to tell Gus. It’s a private matter, and we need to discuss it here. If you don’t mind.”

The bouncer opened the door and moved his massive frame into the just slightly larger door frame. “I say you can’t come in. You wanna make trouble?” took a step back, smiling pleasantly. “I’d rather not, but I really have to see Gus. I’d be happy to pay you for your efforts.”

With startling quickness, the giant troll grabbed the lapel of my overcoat. “Okay, that does it.”

The bouncer’s fist came at me. I jerked my head, causing his punch to glance off. It was like being hit in the face by a baseball instead of a bowling ball. I struggled like a gazelle in the jaws of a lion.

After the third punch, I was about to go limp and play dead when I heard Leach’s voice. “Let go of him, Hoss.”

The pavement slammed into my head. Through the birds, stars, and other metaphorical light flashes, I made out Leach pulling me to my feet.

“You sure have a way with people, don’t you Murphy?”

I was too busy focusing to respond.

“So what are you doing trying to get in the side door?”

Slowly, my speech returned to normal. I recounted to Leach what had happened with Malloy. Leach’s reaction was subdued, but I could see that the news of Malloy’s death affected him deeply. I want to find out more about what their relationship had been, but time was golden. I’d come to deliver the news and the cash I’d found, no more. After a moment of silence, Leach thanked me for letting him know. He took the money from me and said he would tell Emily later. I asked if I could come back at another time and ask a few more questions. Leach nodded and went back into the club.

Still woozy, I bent down and brushed gravel off my trousers and overcoat. There was a neat little tear on the side of my left pant leg. Damn it. I’d just changed.

I walked back down the alley, behind the Ritz, the Electronics Shop, and the Brew & Stew, to my speeder. As I stepped out of the shadows and into the parking lot, my nose caught a familiar scent, and voice startled me.

“A lovely evening.”

Gordon Fitzpatrick was leaning against a brick wall, a Cubana nestled flavourfully between his index and middle fingers.

“It certainly is.”

Fitzpatrick took a puff of his cigar. “I believe it’s time we had a talk, Mr Murphy.”