The Unquiet

I looked around.

“There isn’t one.”

She almost smiled, then thought better about cracking the makeup on her face.

“Guess you’ll have to stand, then.”

I sighed. Here was more proof, if proof were needed, that not all fat people were jolly. Santa Claus had a lot to answer for.

She lifted the receiver and pressed some buttons on her beige phone.

“Name?”

“Parker. Charlie Parker.”

“Like the singer?”

“Saxophonist.”

“Whatever. You got some ID?”

I showed her my license. She looked at it distastefully, like I’d just taken my weenie out and made it do tricks.

“Picture’s old,” she said.

“ Lot of stuff ’s old,” I replied. “Can’t stay young and beautiful forever.”

She tapped her fingers upon her desk while she waited for an answer at the other end of the line. Her nails were painted pink. The color made my teeth hurt. “You sure he didn’t sing?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Huh. So who was the one who sang? He fell out of a window.”

“Chet Baker.”

“Huh.”

She continued drumming her nails.

“You like Chet Baker?” I asked. We were forming a relationship.

“No.”

Or maybe not. Mercifully, somewhere above us a phone was answered.

“Mr. Eldritch, there’s a-” She paused dramatically. “-gentleman here to see you. He’s asking about a Mr. Merrick.”

She listened to the answer, nodding. When she hung up she looked even unhappier than before. I think she had been hoping for an order to release the hounds on me.

“You can go up. Second door at the top of the stairs.”

“It’s been a blast,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “You hurry back now.”

I left her, like an overweight Joan of Arc waiting for the pyre to ignite, and went up to the top floor. The second door was already open and a small old man, seventy or more, stood waiting for me. He still had most of his hair, or most of someone’s hair. He wore gray pin-striped trousers and a black jacket over a white shirt and a gray pin-striped vest. His tie was black silk. He looked slightly unhappy, like an undertaker who had just mislaid a corpse. A faint patina of dust seemed to have settled upon him, a combination of dandruff and paper fragments, paper mostly. Wrinkled and faded as he was, he might almost have been made of paper himself, slowly crumbling away along with the accumulated detritus of a lifetime in the service of the law.

He stretched out a hand in greeting, and conjured up a smile. Compared to his secretary, it was like being greeted with the keys of the city.

“I’m Thomas Eldritch,” he said. “Please come in.”

His office was tiny. There was paper here, too, but less of it. Some of it even looked like it had been moved recently, and box files were stored alphabetically on the shelves, each carefully marked with a set of dates. They went back a very long time. He closed the door behind me and waited for me to sit before he took his own seat at his desk.

“Now,” he said, steepling his hands before him. “What’s this about Mr. Merrick?”

“You know him?”

“I am aware of him. We provided him with a car at the request of one of our clients.”

“Can I ask the name of the client?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Is Mr. Merrick in some kind of trouble?”

“He’s getting there. I’ve been employed by a woman who seems to have attracted Merrick ’s attentions. He’s stalking her. He broke a window in her house.”

Eldritch tut-tutted. “Has she informed the police?”

“She has.”

“We’ve heard nothing from them. Surely a complaint of this kind would have made its way back to us by now?”

“The police didn’t get to talk to him. I did. I took the tag number from his car and traced it back to your firm.”

“Very enterprising of you. And now, instead of informing the police, you are here. May I ask why?”

“The lady in question is not convinced that the police can help her.”

“And you can.”

It sounded like a statement, not a question, and I had an uneasy sensation that Eldritch already knew who I was even before his secretary gave him my name. I treated it as a question anyway.

“I’m trying. We may have to involve the police if this situation persists, which I imagine might be embarrassing, or worse, for you and your client.”

“Neither we, nor our client, are responsible for Mr. Merrick’s behavior, even if what you say is true.”

“The police may not take that view if you’re acting as his personal car-rental service.”

“And they’ll get the same reply that I have just given you. We simply provided a car for him at a client’s request, and nothing more.”

“And you can’t tell me anything at all about Merrick?”

“No. I know very little about him, as I’ve said.”

“Do you even know his first name?”

Eldritch considered. His eyes were cu

“I believe it’s Frank.”

“Do you think that ‘Frank’ might have served some time?”

“I couldn’t possibly say.”

“There doesn’t seem to be very much that you can say.”

“I am a lawyer, and therefore a certain degree of discretion is to be expected by my clients. Otherwise, I would not have remained in this profession for as long as I have. If what you say is true, then Mr. Merrick’s actions are to be regretted. Perhaps if your own client were to sit down with him and discuss the matter, then the situation could be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction, as I can only assume that Mr. Merrick believes she may be of some assistance to him.”

“In other words, if she tells him what he wants to know, then he’ll go away.”

“It would be logical to assume so. And does she know something?”

I let the question dangle. He was baiting me, and wherever you found bait, you could be pretty certain that there was a hook hidden somewhere within it.

“He seems to think so.”

“Then it would appear to be the natural solution. I’m sure that Mr. Merrick is a reasonable man.”

Eldritch had remained impossibly still throughout our discussions. Only his mouth moved. Even his eyes appeared reluctant to blink. But when he said the word “reasonable” he smiled slightly, imbuing the word with an import that was entirely the opposite of its apparent meaning.

“Have you met Merrick, Mr. Eldritch?”

“I have had that pleasure, yes.”

“He seems to have a lot of anger in him.”

“It may be that he has just cause.”

“I notice that you haven’t asked me the name of the woman who is employing me, which suggests to me that you already know it. In turn, that would seem to indicate that Merrick has been in touch with you.”

“I have spoken to Mr. Merrick, yes.”

“Is he also a client of yours?”

“He was, in a sense. We acted on his behalf in a certain matter. He is a client no longer.”

“And now you’re helping him because one of your other clients has asked you to.”

“That is so.”

“Why is your client interested in Daniel Clay, Mr. Eldritch?”

“My client has no interest in Daniel Clay.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I will not lie to you, Mr. Parker. If I ca

“What about his daughter? Is your client interested in her?”

Eldritch seemed to consider confirming it, then decided against it, but his silence was enough. “I could not possibly say. That is something you would have to discuss with Mr. Merrick.”

My nostrils itched. I could feel the molecules of paper and dust settling in them, as though Eldritch’s office were slowly making me part of itself, so that in years to come a stranger might enter and find us here, Eldritch and me, still batting questions and answers back and forth to no end, a thin layer of white matter covering us as we ourselves dwindled into dust.