Glamorama

Glamorama Page 187

"What was in the hat?" I'm asking, cutting him off. "Why did you tell me to bring that hat? Why was it torn apart when I found it? What was in the hat, Palakon?"

"Mr. Ward, Victor, I promise you that at our next meeting I'll explain," Palakon says. "But we simply don't have time now-"

"What do you mean?" I'm asking, panicking. "You have more important things to do? I mean, holy shit, Palakon. I have no idea what's going on and-"

"We have other photos to show you," Palakon interrupts, handing three glossy 8 x 10s to me.

Two people dressed in tropical clothing on a foamy shore. Yards and yards of wet sand. The sea rests behind them. White sunlight, purple at the edges, hangs above the couple. Because of their hair you can tell it's windy. He's sipping a drink from a coconut shell. She's smelling a purple lei hanging from her neck. In another photo she's (improbably) petting a swan. Bobby Hughes stands behind her, smiling (also improbably) in a kind way. In the last photo Bobby Hughes is kneeling behind the girl, helping her pick a tulip.

The girl in all three photos is Lauren Hynde.

I start weeping again.

"That's... Lauren Hynde."

A long pause, and then I hear someone ask, "When did you last have contact with Lauren Hynde, Victor?"

I keep weeping, unable to hold it to ether.

"Victor?" Palakon asks.

"What is she doing with him?" I sob.

"Victor met her while they were students at Camden, I believe," Palakon says softly to his colleagues, an explanation that doesn't accomplish anything, but I nod silently to myself, unable to look up.

"And after that?" someone asks. "When did you last have contact with Lauren Hynde?"

Still weeping, I manage, "I met her last month... in Manhattan... at a Tower Records."

Russell's cell phone rings, jarring all of us.

"Okay," I hear him say.

After clicking off he implores Palakon to start moving.

"We've got to go," Russell says. "It's time."

"Mr. Johnson, we'll be in touch," Delta says.

I'm reaching into my jacket pocket while wiping my face.

"Yes, this was... illuminating," Crater says, not at all sincerely.

"Here." Ignoring Crater, I hand Palakon the printout of the WINGS file. "This is something I found in the computer in the house. I don't know what it means."

Palakon takes it from me. "Thank you, Victor," he says genuinely, slipping it into his folder without even looking at it. "Victor, I want you to calm down. We will be in touch. It might even be tomorrow-"

"But since I last saw you, Palakon, they blew up a f**king hotel," I shout. "They killed the French premier's son."

"Mr. Ward," Palakon says gently, "other factions have already taken blame for the bombing at the Ritz."

"What other factions?" I'm shouting. "They did it. Bruce Rhinebeck left a bomb at the f**king Ritz. There are no other factions. They are the faction."

"Mr. Ward, we really-"

"I just don't feel you're concerned about my welfare, Palakon," I say, choking.

"Mr. Ward, that's simply not true," Palakon says, standing, which causes me to stand as well.

"Why did you send me to find her?" I'm shouting. "Why did you send me to find Jamie Fields?" I'm about to grab Palakon but Russell pulls me back.

"Mr. Ward, please," Palakon says. "You must go. We'll be in touch." I fall into Russell, who keeps propping me up.

"I don't care anymore, Palakon. I don't care." "I think you do, Mr. Ward."

"Why is that?" I ask, bewildered, staring at him. "Why do you think that?"

"Because if you didn't care, you wouldn't be here."

I take this in.

"Hey, Palakon," I say, stunned. "I didn't say I wasn't scared shitless."

18

Russell races down the stairs in the building on Avenue Verdier two steps at a time and I'm tumbling behind him, for support grabbing on to a marble banister that's so encased with ice it burns my hand, and outside on the street I hold that hand up, panting, telling Russell to slow down.

"We can't," Russell savs. "We have to go. Now."

"Why?" I'm asking uselessly, bent over. "Why?"

I brace myself to be pulled along toward the black Citroen but Russell suddenly stops moving and he's breathing in, composing himself.