Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,116

gawky teenage blonde in the photo—Diemer was smart, he would know I had looked inside his tactical bag—but it would also open up the subject of a half million or more in euros, cash. And did I really want to know the truth in advance of being questioned by police?

No, I did not.

So, instead, I remained silent, which gave the Brazilian an opportunity to add to my restlessness when he said, “You think I’m selfish, don’t you?”

“Top-of-the-food-chain selfish,” I said.

“You’re right. Of course! I have to be—and so do you. But do me the kindness of looking at it from the woman’s perspective—Cressa, in this case. I fall in love with her, allow Cressa to fall in love with me, even though I know she will soon hate me—and for good reason. So I keep love in the bedroom, where it belongs. You see? It allows me to be selfish, but also extremely unselfish.”

The Brazilian, pleased with his rationalization, sniffed, placed his wineglass on the table, vanished for less than a minute, then handed me a sealed envelope as he walked me to the door.

“It has been . . . pleasant working with you, Dr. Ford. I was afraid you would ask all the obvious questions. Instead, you lived up to your reputation.”

“At the risk of being obvious,” I replied, “what’s this?” meaning the envelope, midsized manila, but it had some bulk to it.

“Professionals get paid. Isn’t that what the word means?”

When I got back to the lab, I opened the envelope. Twenty thousand in euros—almost five percent of a half mil. Not bad. Generous, actually, by European standards.

I gave some thought to calling the man and thanking him. Plus, I’d forgotten to request updates on Dean Arturo.

I did neither: an oversight a thinking professional wouldn’t make.

—

TWICE THAT NIGHT, I called Hannah. In total, talked for nearly an hour—an outrageous amount of time for someone like me. Pleasant, we laughed a lot, yet I still couldn’t sleep. Days may not move quickly for a dying man, but the night moves slowly, too, for a man who lives alone and who is starting to ask himself, Is it time?

That’s why I was restless and I finally admitted it.

Like it or not, a formal date with someone like Hannah Smith implied a commitment, however minor, that caused a claustrophobic twinge. But Hannah wasn’t the cause. By three a.m. I’d convinced myself it was true so celebrated by pulling on running shorts and shoes, then jogging to the beach while my brain thought it through.

What I felt was more accurately linked to a combination of recent events and elements, I decided: the haunted look in Angel Sampedro’s face, dried flowers in the family album, the POP-POP of a silencer, the resonance of human bone beneath my own mortal feet.

Is it time to . . . make a change?

Unfortunately, I’d made the mistake of asking Tomlinson that question on the long boat trip home from Lostman’s River.

“First off, Doc, your entire premise is totally bullshit! Same with the question ‘What time is it?’ Try this: start counting in your head, one-two-three-four-five, and keep counting until your attention swerves to something else. Something interesting, man, and there’s your answer! Why? Because time stops the instant we release the bullshit concept that time actually exists. Understand? Let go of all the illusionary crap on the outside and we become timeless beings, man. Inside, you know? Where it counts.”

There are those rare occasions when I envy Tomlinson’s drug-buffered view of life, but I still could not let go of the question and it continued to pester me all day Thursday and into the night. Had I reached a period in my life when it was time to . . .

Do what? Be specific, for christ’s sakes!

Okay. Time to settle down . . . buy a van for the kiddies, take up golf, attend functions, be home by ten, pay bills on time, discuss insurance policies, endure lunch dates, smile blandly at parties, vote the straight ticket, mow the lawn, wave cheerfully at a neighbor when, in fact, you want to stick that leaf blower right up said neighbor’s ass.

That’s what you’re thinking about doing, Ford? Oh . . . then at least be honest and project ahead: might as well burn the false passports, the old logbooks, clean out the secret hidey-holes, and notify your overseas friends—via Facebook, maybe!—that your traveling days are over. Why? Because you have met a long-legged, independent woman who, while not wildly