Circuit Of Heaven (34 page)

She opened the window, and cool air blew in, misting her face. She leaned on the windowsill and took a deep breath, imagining Nemo beside her. She remembered lying in his arms on the bed behind her.
You could make me cry
, he said.

She turned from the window, leaving it open, and went to the phone. She keyed in
Warren G. Menso
. There was no listing. She tried
Newman Rogers
, and of course there were screens full. At least a dozen in D.C.; one in Lhasa; three in Nairobi.

At the top of the screen, the two names she’d searched were displayed one on top of the other. The same number of letters. She studied them, comparing them letter by letter. The same letters. “Cute,” she said aloud. She liked anagrams, used to make them up in class. Stephanie had been
Denise B. Yophat
. She’d called her Denise sometimes as an inside joke. Justine didn’t care much for this one, though. She’d trusted him completely, and he’d been lying to her the whole time.

She thought about tracking him down in his shop, demanding to know what the hell was going on. She looked out at the rain, harder now, and decided against it. Let him come to me, she thought.

She lay on the bed, propped herself up with pillows, and watched the rain blowing in, the curtains billowing, then growing sodden and heavy. A pool of water collected on the window sill and ran down the wall into the carpet. She watched it soak in, inching across the floor. In her mind’s eye, she saw Angelina’s house, Nemo’s house she realized now, and felt a presence, like someone sitting close beside her, though she knew no one was there.

I’m glad I finally slept with Newman after all those years. The poor bastard had it coming
.

Justine winced at the cold, cynical voice. “You don’t remember it?”

After my time. None of us really remembers it: The kid never knew him. The old lady’s memories are a mess. Even what she remembers, she doesn’t remember, if you know what I mean
.

Justine closed her eyes, and she could see her—the lank hair and tired eyes. “I know. They’re all in pieces. What do you remember?”

Not a hell of a lot. I was having a bad day. I remember Newman, though. He was my best friend. When I was lying on the table screaming my guts out, I wanted him there. Only him
.

Justine felt her tenderness as she recalled Newman, like a single shaft of sunlight in a dark wood. “Why him? You didn’t love him.”

Love. I did that a bunch of times. I don’t remember any of them. Newman loved me. He was fucking crazy about me. I remember that. What do you do with something like that—all that love and you can’t give it back
?

She’d wanted to love him, longed for it, but she couldn’t do it. Justine ached with her regret. She wanted to fight it—what was he to her now but a deceitful bastard?—but it was too strong. “What
did
you do, Angie?” The question brought a wave of self-loathing.

Drugs mostly. I was high when I went into labor and they brought me into the emergency room, strapped me in, strung me up like a Christmas tree. “What is this fucking shit!” I screamed at this mousey little guy. “Life-support monitors,” he said. The last thing I remember is the same little guy pulling the harness of wires off my head
.

“Why’s he doing this? What are we doing here?”

I don’t know. Why did Newman ever do half the things he did? For me, usually
.

It was a sickness. An obsession. And now Justine was trapped in it. “So he’s brought his sweetheart back from the dead.”

For someone else. If it’d been me, I would’ve done it for myself. But Newman’s not like that. God knows what he ever saw in me
.

“But Nemo is his grandson—and yours.”

In my reality, Nemo’s not even born yet, his mother isn’t even born yet. We’re not guilty on this one, Your Honor—for a change
.

“What should I do?”

She burst out laughing.
No one ever asks me that question—that’s my question
.

“Then what would you do?”

Ask Newman
.

“He’s the one who got me into this mess. He’s the last person I trust.”

You asked me what I’d do. Probably nothing. Get high. Who cares what I’d do
? Justine felt her retreating, closing in upon herself, hiding from this life she’d never asked for.

Justine got up off the bed and paced up and down, shaking off Angie’s dark thoughts, the dull, tired voice. She pulled off her dress, wadded it up, and threw it in the corner. Stood in the shower for thirty minutes, letting the water beat down on her head. Came back into the room dripping wet. Hit the room service pad and ordered a joint and a rock. Picked them up and hurled them out the window. Slammed the window shut.

Probably just what I’m supposed to do, she thought. Fall apart, so he can come to my rescue. No, not this time. She’d keep him guessing. Go about her business. He wasn’t going to use her anymore, not if she could help it. She put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and picked up her guitar. She had time to make it by the first set. He said he wanted to come hear her sing. Fine. Let him come.

AS
SHE
RODE
TO
THE
CLUB
,
SHE
WONDERED
IF
THE
REST
OF the band would even show up, since she’d skipped out on them last night. Then she remembered what Lenny had said about Rick—that he was instructed to deal with Rick and only Rick. Justine would’ve thought John would be the one to deal with, certainly more pleasant. Unless Rick was in on the whole thing, someone to keep an eye on her. Or maybe they were all in on it.

When she walked in, there was a cheer from a group of guys at the bar. She remembered them from the night before. Tonight, they’d brought friends who waved shyly. She waved back, but she kept her distance. Bruce came running from behind the bar. “God, am I glad to see you. What happened last night? They said you had some kind of emergency or something?”

She liked Bruce and his nervous enthusiasm. “That’s right. I’m sorry I took off like that. Did the band do okay?”

Bruce shrugged. “Oh, yeah. But without you they’re just another band. Lover boy. Whatshisname. Rick. He was strutting around like he’s God’s gift. Doing solos that last a week and a half. There’s only so much of that shit I can listen to. He’s not a boyfriend of yours, is he?”

“We just play together. You ever see him before? Do you know anything about him?”

Bruce made a face. “Me? Never laid eyes on him. Course, I don’t have tits, if you’ll pardon my French. Hey, you going to do that welcome home song tonight?”

“Sure thing.”

“Great. Love that song.”

SHE
FOUND
HER
BAND
IN
THE
GREEN
ROOM
ARGUING
OVER
what songs they were going to do if she didn’t show up. “No, man,” John was saying to Rick. “No more fucking Dead. They’re called the Grateful Fucking Dead because everybody’s grateful they’re finally dead.”

Ian spotted her first and pointed her out to the other two. “Boss lady!” Rick said. “Vacation over?”

“Told you she’d be here,” John said, grinning at her. “Hey Justine, we got time for a J before we play.”

“No thanks,” she said.

He lit up without her. “You got here just in time, Justine. Justine Time, Justine.” He laughed to himself. “Rick here was going to force me to play ‘Casey Jones’ again. You know how many fucking times I’ve played that song?” He started thumping out the bass part with a plodding beat, walking up and down in a parody of a palsied old man.

“Fuck you, asshole,” Rick said.

John stopped, looking hurt. “Where’s your sense of humor, Rick? I’ll play anything you want. I’m a mu-si-cian. Plug and play.”

“Knock it off,” Justine said. “We’ll start off with ‘Casey Jones.’ Rick, you sing lead. I’ll do harmony.”

It was hard to tell which one was more surprised, Rick or John. Ian smiled to himself. John shrugged and turned to Ian. “But please, man, can we pick it up a little bit? This dude’s supposed to be high on cocaine, not dropping downers.”

Justine walked over to Rick. He gave her his usual leer. “You trying to get on my good side?”

She held his gaze. “Which side is that, Rick?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yeah, I would. How about tonight after work?” She ran her fingertips up his arm.

That rattled him. He looked away, pretended to have something in his eye. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve got plans.”

“You stay pretty busy. You must know this town pretty well.”

“Indeed I do. You looking for a tour guide?”

She leaned in closer. “What do you want to show me, Rick?”

He looked her up and down and sneered, trying to hide his nervousness under his usual bravado. “All the tricks your whore friend knows and then some.”

“John, Ian,” she said over her shoulder without taking her eyes off Rick. “Why don’t you guys go set up. Rick and I have something to work out.”

She watched him as they went out. He was almost able to conceal his panic. When the door closed, she dropped the seductive smile. “You’re pretty good, bit repetitive, but you didn’t expect me to go for it. Rick Super Stud, fucks his way from club to club like a walking dick. Ignore him, brush him off, don’t suspect him of being anything but a prick. How come Bruce has never seen you before, Rick? You never slithered in here while you were making the rounds? Seems like a great place to pick up women. Or maybe you don’t pick up women. Maybe your whole story’s bullshit. What do you know about me, lover boy? Or are you just the hired help?”

He looked at her with complete loathing, his face enflamed with disgust. “I’ll tell you what I know,” he said, in a voice she’d never heard from him before, superior and precise. “I know that you’re a whore, and you will burn in Hell forever. And now your little boyfriend knows it, too.” He pushed past her and out the door.

She stood there stunned at his hatred and revulsion. He would’ve gladly strangled her if they’d been in the real world. She followed him out, and he was standing at his mike, back in character, his guitar riding on one hip, the neck sweeping the crowd for his next victim. It was all an act. Except he couldn’t fake the bulge in his pants.

AS
THEY
PLAYED
THREE
SETS
AND
SEVERAL
ENCORES
,
RICK
never dropped his guard again. She tried to figure out how he fit into all this. As angry as she was at Menso, she couldn’t imagine him and Rick in the same room together, much less plotting together. But at least she knew Rick wasn’t what he pretended to be, and finding out what he was would give her something to do. She needed more than anything not to feel so helpless.

In spite of everything, she found herself getting into the music, and she let it take her away. The crowd was crazy about her.
I always wanted to be a singer
, the old woman had said. That’s me, Justine thought, a regular dream come true. During the breaks, she searched the crowd for Mr. Menso, but of course he didn’t show.

You’re not Angelina Rawson
, Lawrence had told her, and that kept coming back to her. She had Angelina’s memories, some of them anyway, though there were long stretches missing. But when she’d talked with Angie in her head, she was struck by her otherness, her discordance with who she felt herself to be.
Without you, we’re nothing
, the girl had said. She was beginning to understand what she’d meant. The three of them didn’t even see each other as the same person. She brought them all together, like a string through beads. Cut the thread, and they fell apart. Wiped clean, like Lila said. Maybe Lawrence was right. She wasn’t Angelina anymore. She came after, the next chord in the progression.

WHEN
THEY
FINISHED
FOR
THE
NIGHT
,
SHE
PACKED
UP quickly and slipped out, hiding in a doorway across the street. After about fifteen minutes, Rick and Ian came out with a couple of women, but after a brief conversation, they left the women standing there and headed toward the subway. She followed them down to the station. They were arguing back and forth. She’d never seen Ian talk so much. Whatever they were talking about, they ignored the world around them, and neither one spotted her trailing behind them. She hid behind a pillar as they waited for an eastbound train, then worked her way from pillar to pillar to the other end of the platform. When the train pulled in, she boarded the last car as they were boarding the second. She stood by the door at each stop, watching to see where they got off.

At Pentagon Station they left the train and headed up the escalators. She watched them turn left and didn’t have to follow them. That corridor went only one place. They were headed toward the VIMs. They were headed back home to the real world. Rick and Ian were visitors.

“You wanted to see me?” a voice said behind her, and she didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

He was leaning on his cane, the same kind smile on his face. “You lied to me,” she said.

“Guilty, Your Honor, as Angelina used to say. It was necessary, I’m afraid.”

“Why in God’s name have you done this?”

“I couldn’t let her die, not when I had the power to bring her back. I just couldn’t.” He pointed with his cane to the street exit. “Please, I’ll be glad to tell you everything. There’s a place close by. We can have coffee and talk.”

She didn’t see that she had much choice.

ACROSS
THE
STREET
FROM
THE
STATION
WAS
A
SMALL
CAFÉ, Joe’s Inn. She hadn’t noticed it there before. It was a neighborhood place with mahogany booths and ceiling fans. There were even waitresses with pencils behind their ears.

He led her to a booth in the back. He looked around, smiling to himself. “Does this place look familiar?”