Spiral (18 page)

”The secret police?”

”That is right exactly. The Romania K.G.B. They keep me under their eyes, because I am making good money, and in foreign currency, which is illegal. Finally, when I am suffocating from the Communism and bureaucracy, I decide to escape.”

”Defect?”

”Yes, but I am not famous, so I must be careful. I buy on the black market fake passports, and I put what remains of my foreign currency in the handle of a tennis racquet I hollow out. The passports let me go from Romania to Bulgaria, and then to Zagreb in Yugoslavia, but no further. However, a little Jewish man tells me I can cross with all the crowds at Trieste.”

”Trieste,
Italy?”

”Yes. All these Italians go back and forth into Yugoslavia on business each day. I can move in the big crowd with them, and then just run.”

”There weren’t any soldiers at the border?”

A shiver, and I realized why a gate guard might disquiet Radescu.

He said, ”The Jewish man tells me they will not shoot or release their dogs, because of all the people around me.” Radescu grew quieter. ”But the day I get to the Yugoslav side, there are no big crowds, so I must wait until dark, and then I crawl on my belly through the grass. I crawl like I am swimming on top of the ground, you understand?”

A frame of me doing that one night outside a base-camp in Vietnam flashed across my mind. ”Yes.”

”I crawl and I stop and I listen, and I crawl some more. It is a full moon, but the soldiers are not watching so carefully, and the wind is right, so their dogs do not smell me. After four hours and going across a stream of water, I know I am on the Italian side, and it is the most unbelievable feeling of my life. The meadow where I am is all moonlight, and I feel like I am floating, floating out of my body. I laugh, and I cry, too, but I am free. The big Communist rocks on my shoulders fell off then, even though it takes me six months of detention camps in Italy before I can use my foreign currency to get first to Paris and then to New York. And finally, finally here to the tennis club.”

Radescu then looked around us as he’d asked me to do. ”That man on Court One, he was the captain of his team at Notre Dame when the Second World War is over, and he can beat most of the club members in their twenties. The Woman I am playing before I talk to you, she is the top-ranked woman over forty-five in New England. And our Don Floyd, he has won two hundred singles tournaments, including the unrestricted championship of Virginia when he is forty himself. A forty-year-old, and he beat all others, regardless of age. This place attracts quality like that, and it is not just the social life and tennis play that keeps the people young. It is that they have something to look forward to in getting older, to be the youngest players in the next competition bracket of age, and reign as champions again.” Radescu picked up his towel and shook it at me. ”And that is what I want, too, Mr. John Cuddy. It is what I work hard for in Romania and risk my life to come to America and find. And no one takes this away from me.”

Before I could respond, a familiar voice rose stridently from the chicken-wire door. ”Cornel, the fuck is taking you so long?”

I turned and saw Cassandra Helides, pouting in the opening. Several of the players on other courts stopped their games and glanced over, a couple of them looking pretty angry.

Helides began walking toward us, wearing a miniskirt-length sundress but—from the way she was jouncing—no bra underneath. Not exactly a tennis outfit.

”Cornel?”

Radescu called out, ”Cassandra, please.”

I guessed Helides could see my suit but not my face under the shade of the awning, because drawing even closer, she said, ”You’re meeting with an accountant instead of coming to my place?”

I said, ”Mrs. Helides.”

Now she stopped. ”The guy Nick hired.”

”Good to see you again, too.”

Helides didn’t quite stamp her foot. ”What are you doing here?”

Radescu said, ”Cassandra, I tell you later.”

I stood up. ”I can tell you now. Cornel and I were just wondering why it was that you stopped driving Veronica over here for her tennis lessons?”

Helides glared at me. ”That fucking little tramp.” Then she moved the high beams over to Radescu. ”The hell are you telling him about that?”

”Cassan—”

Which was as far as he got, as Helides wheeled around and strode for the wire door.

Over her shoulder, she yelled, ”Fifteen minutes, Cornel, or don’t bother.”

It was a measurable time before the players on the other courts finished shaking their heads and resumed playing. Maybe another ten seconds after that, Radescu said, ”Mr. John Cuddy, turn around.”

When I did, he was holding his tennis racquet by the handle, staring at the strings.

Radescu spoke to them. ”The best players on the professional tour can serve almost one-hundred-fifty miles an hour.” He looked up at me. ”Even now, forty-three years of age, I can reach one-hundred-ten. A tennis ball is not a baseball, but at such a speed, it feels so when it hits you.”

”Sorry if I spoiled your afternoon.”

Moving toward the wire door, I didn’t really expect any impact between the shoulder blades, but I was still a little relieved when none came. As I went up the walkway between the court fences, I could see Don Floyd, standing at the far end.

When I was a conversational distance from him, he said, ‘Everything all right?”

”From my viewpoint, anyway.”

Floyd nodded. ”You a tennis player, John?”

”Not since the army.”

”Too bad. Man like you might find this a decidedly interesting place to live.”

Don Floyd treated me to one of his fountain-of-youth smiles, then ambled away in the afternoon sun’s fading light.

Outside the tennis club’s gate, I picked up my cell phone and tapped in the number on Justo’s list for Dr. Henry Forbes. After two rings, a soothing male voice identified itself as the psychiatrist. I started talking back until I realized it was an outgoing tape announcement, suggesting that the caller could leave a message, proceed to the nearest emergency room, or follow the steps that Forbes and the caller had previously discussed. When the beep finally sounded, I gave my name and got as far as ”regarding David Helides” before there was a click and the soothing voice from the outgoing tape came on live.

”Mr. Cuddy, I was expecting contact sooner.”

”Sooner?”

”Nicolas told me the gravity of the situation.”

Doctor Forbes seemed to have trouble finishing a thought

”Mr. Cuddy?”

I said, ”When can we meet to talk about David?”

”Well, I’m rather booked for tomorrow...”

I decided to go with his flow. ”...but, given the ‘gravity of the situation’?”

”Of course. Where are you now?”

I looked up at the next street sign and told him.

”Fine. Head south from there until you hit Las Olas Boulevard, then turn east.”

Forbes gave me the address and said I should be to him in fifteen minutes.

It was actually twelve minutes by my watch when I pulled into the parking lot next to a freestanding bungalow with a lot of fussy trim I would have called ”gingerbread” if its colors had been brown and white instead of pink and lime. Leaving the Cavalier, I went up to the front door and knocked. Hearing no reply, I tried the knob. Unlocked.

Inside was a dimly lit reception area with idyllic seascapes on the wall. Thankful that the decorator hadn’t let the exterior sherbet colors seep in, I didn’t see anybody behind the counter or in the open doorway beyond it.

”Dr. Forbes?”

”You’re early. I’ll be right out.”

A muffled, echoing tone to his words. Then I heard the flushing of a toilet and the surging of water into a sink.

A short, compact man came through the open doorway, shrugging into a windbreaker over flap-pocket shorts and boat mocs. Pushing sixty from the creased lines on a deeply tanned face, his hair was still that nicotine color that goes white around the ears. He smiled at me and, clearing the reception counter, shook my hand in a no-nonsense way.

”Mr. Cuddy, Henry Forbes.”

”How are you?”

He glanced over his shoulder. ”I’d be better if every time I got up from a sitting position, I didn’t sound like a hearthful of crickets.”

A practiced line—and a finished thought—so I laughed politely.

Forbes smiled more broadly. ”Still, though, it’s more comfortable than the head.”

”The head?”

”On the boat.”

I didn’t bother to follow that up.

”You know,” said Henry Forbes from the helm, ”it’s possible to take the Intracoastal most anywhere you’d want to go”

I nodded, my hair being whipped by the wind.

We’d driven from his bunglalow/office to a marina, him leading in a Mercedes sedan. Once there, he’d ushered me along a series of catwalks to his motorboat.

Now, sitting in one captain’s chair, I glanced at Forbes on my right in the other. As we went south on the wide ribbon of water, restaurants and bars with raised wooden decks lined both sides of the Intracoastal, families toting cameras waving to us. Other people were gathered at the seawall docks, getting into or out of green-and-yellow gondolas that seemed to function as buses.

”Water taxis,” said Forbes, playing tour guide. ”Pay a flat rate, ride all day, up and down. And over there is Bahia Mar, where John D. MacDonald set the Travis McGee series.”

I’d enjoyed reading the books, so I looked at the marina going by on our left. Lots of big sailboats and power vessels, their hulls bobbing almost daintily in the constant chop, some folks drinking and eating.

They didn’t wave to us.

Forbes moved a lever next to the wheel, throttling down some as he had earlier to go under buttressed causeways. ”There’ s even a monument.”

”Sorry?”

‘To MacDonald, at Slip F-18 where McGee’s houseboat was supposedly moored.”

I nodded, and Forbes goosed the engine back to cruising speed.

After a while, we slowed down again to go under another causeway. Once through the maze of pilings, though, Forbes slowed even further, then anchored, the boat tugging tight on the line until we began to swing a little, left to right. Forbes cut the engine, and it suddenly seemed unnaturally quiet, despite the other boats going by us.

”Love the pilings.”

I turned toward the stem, the closest supports maybe forty feet away. ”Who does?”

”Snook, Mr. Cuddy.”

I just stared at him.

”Snook, a game fish. They love to drive mullet or other bait up against the pilings, then tear them to pieces. Look, some are busting right now.”

The surface of the water near the supports was roiling, almost churning.

Forbes said, ”My favorite part of the day.”

From under the gunwale, he pulled a two-sectioned fishing pole, already strung with thick, mustard-colored line, and matched up the halves. ”Fly rod, seven weight.” Forbes pointed to the red and white feathered lure, maybe two inches long, at the end of some clear monofilament. ”And that blood look on the fly just drives them nuts.” He smiled at me. ”If you’ll pardon a shrink’s technical term.”

”Doctor, about David Helides?”

”Just one second.”

Forbes flicked the rod back and forth, getting more of the thick line out from the tip each time. Then he made the line already on the water loop and roll forward, like a rodeo cowboy doing a lariat trick, and the little fly at the end of the monofilament plunked into the water almost at one of the pilings.

”Roll cast, Mr. Cuddy. Faster way to—whoa!”

A silvery fish broke water, a speck of white and red at the corner of its jaw, then slapped back on the surface and ran deeper, the line singing off the reel mounted under the rod’s grip.

”Nice snook,” said Forbes. ”Maybe eighteen inches.”

He played the fish carefully, drawing line in with his hand rather than using the reel. A minute or so later, Forbes lifted the snook over the stem by holding the lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. The fish was both silvery and gold, with a black racing stripe the length of its side.

Forbes eased the fly out of the snook’s mouth and laid the fish along a tape measure embedded in the stem gunwale. ”Nineteen inches.” He smiled up at me. ”Great species. Hits like a blue and jumps like a tarpon, but sweet as a sea trout on your plate.”

And with that, Henry Forbes pushed his prize over the side.

I said, ”You don’t eat what you catch?”

”There are few enough of them around anymore, I don’t keep many for the table.” The smile turned sheepish. ”Fact is, I flycast out here mainly as a way to stay sane after a day with clients who aren’t.”

I took the opening. ”Which brings us to David Helides?”

”Oh, David’s not insane, at least not by any legal definition. No”—Forbes flicked his line out for another cast— ”he’s ‘just’ a severe depressive.”

”Meaning exactly what?”

The mustard-colored line rolled again toward the pilings. ”You want professional jargon or plain talk, Mr. Cuddy?”

”Plain talk would be nice.”

Forbes began yanking the line toward him rhythmically, maybe six inches at a time. ”All right, plain talk. David was emotionally scarred early. You knew his mother died giving birth to him?”

”Yes.”

”Well, it can’t have been easy for him, what with a father mostly away and his brother behaving as he did.”

”Spiro leaving home, you mean?”

”Yes, but not before spilling the beans.”

”About what?”

Forbes glanced at me, then restudied his line before making another roll cast. ”David’s brother is the one who told him about how their mother died.”

Lovely. ”When was this?”

”David’s fourth birthday. Long before he came under my care, but I’ve read the notes and reports of the colleagues up north who treated him as both child and adolescent. Do you know much about the drugs prescribed for depression?”

”I’ve heard of Prozac.”

”Yes, I suppose everybody has. Well, to stay untechnical, there are several families of antidepressant medications. All come with side effects, though varying ones. A given drug will work idiosyncratically best for a given patient, a different medication for another.”

”And with David?”

”Zoloft is the only drug that’s proven at all effective for him. And he’s past the top of the dosage scale even for that. It does allow David to function at a very low level, but also renders him quite... ‘lethargic’ is a picturable description.”

I thought back to Helides disappearing on me in the Skipper’s house. ”He moved pretty fast when I saw him.” Forbes jerked his head toward me like someone had set a hook in his own mouth. ”Mr. Cuddy, you weren’t to interview David until after speaking with me.”

His voice had lost that soothing patina and grown a burr to replace it ”I haven’t, Doctor. He spotted me in a corridor shortly after I arrived at the Colonel’s house, then rabbited before I knew who it was.”

”Rabbited.” Forbes sighed. ”Actually, a rather telling verb, under the circumstances. David is lethargic unless frightened, which happens rather easily. Especially by any kind of change in his normal schedule.”

”And what is David’s normal schedule?”

”His mornings are hardest, as with most depressives I’ve seen. He may lie in his bed until eleven or even noontime, inert, staring at the ceiling.”

”Why?”

”Any movement is such an effort, any plan of action’ unimaginable.”

Forbes seemed to think he should take some action himself by starting the casting routine again.

I said, ”What happens at noon?”

”David drags himself from bed, makes his way to the kitchen, and has for lunch what you or I might choose for breakfast on—there we go!”

Behind the boat, another snook, slightly bigger than the first, jumped and twisted in the air before crashing back to the surface.

”Twenty-two,” said Forbes. ”Maybe twenty-three.”

I returned to him. ”So David eats breakfast for lunch. Then what?”

”Back to his room for a rest.”

”Rest? You just said—”

”Depressives sleep a lot.” Forbes fought this fish to the stem, before losing him on a last flipping jump. ”Damn! I wanted to measure that one.”

”Doctor, after his siesta?”

”After...? Oh, David, yes. When he gets up again, he may go to the exercise room or out to his hammock.”

From my case in the Keys, I knew that last word had a double meaning in Florida. ”A hammock stretched between two trees?”

”No. No, a ‘hammock’ of trees themselves.”

A grove, the other meaning of the word. But... ”Where is this hammock?”

”About twelve miles west, on one of the many tracts that Nicolas owns out there.”

”Wait a minute. I thought David rarely left his room, much less the house.”

”That’s correct, but he developed an interest in botany as a boy, something he could do by himself with no family around. Also, plants are... stable organisms. They don’t cause changes he can’t deal with.”

”A plant stays put?”

”Something like that, yes.”

”But how does David get to a hammock twelve miles

west?”

Forbes blinked. ”Why, he drives, of course.”

”He drives?”

”Yes, Mr. Cuddy. Disabilities like David’s are no longer grounds for denying the afflicted all the privileges the rest of us enjoy.”

”You’re saying David has a driver’s license.”

”And his own vehicle, a small pickup truck. As you can imagine, the testing process was incredibly difficult for him. But I encouraged him to persevere, and I’m proud to say he did.”

”How long ago did you begin treating him?”

”Since Nicolas moved down here permanently with Cassandra.”

”In years?”

”About... twenty? If it’s important to you, I can consult my records tomorrow.”

”So how old was David when you first saw him?”

”Eleven, I believe.”

”And then six or seven years later, he gets a driver’s—”

”Actually, Mr. Cuddy, it was only a year ago.”

”When he was... thirty-two?”

”Yes. I had to build David up to it, slowly.”

”Which suggests that he’s gotten better.”

Forbes shook his head. ”Unfortunately, very few depressives get ‘better,’ in the sense I think you mean of moving toward cured. Oh, occasionally there’s a miracle, but the most we can hope for in David’s case is stabilization, because his father won’t authorize any more electroshock therapy or opera—”