Limitless

Kenny Sanchez called me on Monday morning. He asked if we could meet, and suggested a coffee shop on Columbus Avenue in the Eighties. I was going to object, and suggest somewhere a little closer to midtown, but then I didn’t. If this was to be one of his little private investigator things – meeting in public places, like skating rinks and coffee shops – then so be it. I made a few calls before going out. I set up an appointment for later with my Tenth Street landlord to hand over the keys. I made an unsuccessful attempt to set another one up with the guy who was going to be tiling my bathroom. I also spoke to Van Loon’s secretary and scheduled a couple of meetings for the middle part of the afternoon.

Then I went down to First Avenue and hopped in a cab.

That was last Monday morning.

As I sit now in the eerie quiet of this room in the Northview Motor Lodge, it seems incredible to me that that was only five days ago. Equally incredible, given all that’s happened since, is what I was doing – setting up business meetings, worrying about bathroom tiles, taking what I imagined were sensible steps to address the MDT situation …

Outside there has been a subtle shift in the light. The darkness has lost its edge, and it won’t be long now before a blue tinge starts seeping up from the horizon. I am tempted to put the laptop down, to go outside and look at the sky, and feel the vast stillness that surrounds this small clearing on the edge of a Vermont highway.

But I stay where I am – inside, in the wicker armchair – and continue writing. Because the truth is, I don’t have that much time left.

In the cab on the way to the coffee shop, we passed Actium, on Columbus Avenue – the restaurant where I’d sat opposite Donatella Alvarez. I caught a glimpse of the place as we sped by. It was closed and looked strangely flat and unreal, like an abandoned movie set. I allowed my head to replay what I could remember of the dinner there and of the reception in Rodolfo Alvarez’s studio afterwards – but soon those painted figures, lurid, bulging, multiplying, were all I could see, and I had to stop. I blocked it out by reading the charter of passenger’s rights on the back of the seat in front of me.

When I got to the coffee shop, Kenny Sanchez was sitting in a booth, eating a plate of ham and eggs. There was a large brown envelope on the table beside his coffee cup. I sat down opposite him and nodded a suitably discreet hello.

He wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, ‘Eddie, how are you? You want something to eat?’

‘No, I’ll just have a coffee.’

He nabbed a passing waitress and ordered the coffee.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said and tapped the envelope.

I felt my heart beat a little faster.

‘That’s great. What is it?’

He took a sip from his coffee.

‘We’ll come to that, Eddie – but first, you’ve got to be straight with me. This designer drug thing – how real is it? I mean, how do you even know about it?’

Obviously — having gone off and had himself a little think — he’d concluded that I was trying to put one over on him, to finagle the information out of him without giving anything substantial in return.

‘It’s real all right,’ I said, and paused. Then the waitress arrived with the coffee, which gave me a moment to think. But there was nothing to think. I needed the information.

When the waitress had gone, I said, ‘You know all these performance-enhancing drugs you read about in the papers, and that are tainting sport – swimming, track-and-field, weight-lifting? Well, this is like one of those, except it’s for the brain – a kind of steroid for the intellect.’

He stared at me, unsure of how to react, waiting for more.

‘Someone I knew was dealing them to Tauber.’ I nodded at the envelope. ‘If those are Tauber’s phone records, then this guy’s name is probably on there, too. Vernon Gant.’

Kenny Sanchez hesitated. But then he picked up the envelope, opened it and pulled out a sheaf of papers. I could see straightaway that it was a print-out of telephone numbers, along with names, times and dates. He riffled through them, looking for something specific.

‘There,’ he said after a moment, and held a page out, pointing at a name, ‘Vernon Gant.’

‘So is there a Todd listed on there, as well?’

‘Yes. Just three or four calls, all around the same time, a period of a couple of days.’

‘And after which there are no more calls from Vernon Gant either.’ He looked back at the pages, flicking them over, one by one, checking what I’d said. Eventually, he nodded and said, ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ He put the sheaf of papers down on the envelope. ‘So what does that mean? He disappeared?’

‘Vernon Gant is dead.’

‘Oh.’

‘He was my brother-in-law.’

‘Oh.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He was a jerk.’

We were both silent for a few moments after that. Then I took a calculated risk. I picked up the sheaf of papers, and when they were firmly in my hand, I raised my eyebrows at him interrogatively.

He nodded his assent.