Glamorama

Glamorama Page 199

Calmly, deliberately, Palakon asks, "Well, Victor, what would you like to know?"

"Who do you work for?" I ask.

Palakon considers this, doesn't know where to go.

"Oh shit, Palakon."

I glance over at the inspector from Interpol, who seems to just be taking up space, barely paying attention to the proceedings. But those cheekbones, that jawline-I've seen them before and I'm trying to place where I met him.

"I'm just figuring out the best way to explain-"

"Fuck the best way," I shout. "Just f**king say it. Who do you work for?"

"I'm an independent contractor, Mr. Ward-"

I cut him off. "I'm not saying anything else until you tell me who you work for."

A long pause, during which Delta sighs heavily, then nods at Palakon.

"Who in the f**k do you work for?" I ask. "Because Jamie Fields has nothing to do with any of this, right?"

"Not... exactly." Palakon tilts his head.

"Goddamnit, Palakon, I'm so f**king sick of your bullshit," I scream.

"Mr. Ward-"

"They killed Tammy Devol," I'm screaming. "They f**king raped her and cut her throat open. Bobby Hughes ordered it done."

Everyone just stares at me blankly from across the table like I've lost it or as if losing it isn't understandable.

"Mr. Ward-" Palakon starts, his patience dropping.

"Fuck you, Palakon!" I'm screaming. "Who in the f**k do you work for?" I'm at the table now, gripping its edges, glaring into Palakon's face. "Fucking tell me who you work for," I'm screaming at maximum volume, my face twisted into a grimace.

Palakon draws in a breath and stares icily at me.

He says, simply, "I work for your father."

Palakon pauses, looks away, sighing, then back at me.

"I work for your father, Mr. Ward."

This is uttered so matter-of-factly, delivered so deadpan, that its existence opens a door and if you looked through that door you would see me moving above a winter road then descending rapidly and no one's there to catch me and I'm hitting pavement. What this implies simply is that truth equals chaos and that this is a regression. A physical sensation causes me to ignore everything in this room-to turn away from Russell running his hand through his hair, turn away from the Japanese man lighting another cigarette, turn away from the fly buzzing around my head. These men are perpetrators and the table they're sitting behind suddenly seems vaster and they're making plans, they're jotting memoranda, they're casting motives, they're plotting itineraries. Something invisible is forming itself in the cold air in the interrogation room and it's directed at me, wheeling forward. But the familiarity of the inspector from Interpol interrupts everything, makes me remember an earlier scene, and something emerges, obliterates the fuzz.

"What do you mean?" I ask quietly.

"I was hired by your father," Palakon says. "He came to me."

I slowly move away from the table, my hand on my mouth, and I'm sitting back down in the chair I'd kicked away.

"Mr. Ward," the Japanese man starts, with a thick accent. "Your father is leaving the U.S. Senate quite soon. Is this correct?"

I stare blankly at him. "I... don't know."

The Japanese man continues. "Your father will be making a bid for the-"

"Wait," I say, cutting him off. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"Victor," Palakon starts, "your father-"

The Japanese man interrupts. "Mr. Palakon, please. May I speak?"

Palakon nods uncertainly.

"We have not been formally introduced," the Japanese man says.

"Who are you?" I ask.

He hesitates. "And for reasons owing to our mutual personal safety, Mr. Johnson, we will not be."

"Oh shit," I'm muttering, clenching up. "Oh shit oh shit-"

"Mr. Johnson, your father is leaving the United States Senate." The Japanese man pauses. "He is interested in moving on, shall we say?" The Japanese man gestures with his hands, tries to smile kindly but is incapable. "To a higher place. He is planning to announce his bid for a higher office, for-"

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit." My moaning cuts him off, distracting the Japanese man.

"Mr. Ward," Crater starts, "when your father came to us, he was concerned about certain... well, proclivities you had toward-"

"What he's trying to say, Victor," Palakon interrupts, "is that you're not exactly an unknown quantity."