The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(79)

You get in their files you dont get out again.

Ever.

Ever.

And I’m in their files.

What do you think?

All right.

You take care Bobby.

When he got back to the bar he went to his room and sat on the cot and stared at the floor. He thought about his own stupidity. He’d had some eight thousand dollars in the bank and now he had thirty dollars in his pocket. When are you going to take this seriously? When are you going to take steps to save yourself?

In the morning he showered and went out and got breakfast and walked uptown. The IRS was in the post office. He climbed the stairs and stood at the receptionist’s desk until she looked up and asked him what it was he wanted. He told her that his bank account had been attached and he’d like to talk to somebody about it.

What’s your name.

Robert Western.

She got up and went into another office. After a few minutes she came back. Have a seat, she said. Someone will be with you shortly.

He waited almost an hour. Finally he was sent to an office at the rear. A small room looking out over the parkinglot. The agent was dressed in a tan summer suit. Sit down, he said.

He was looking through Western’s file. He didnt look at Western. Our problem with you, Mr Western, he said, is that you seem not to have been employed for a number of years.

I work as a salvage diver. Before that I was a city employee.

And before that.

I was in school. Is that a problem?

No. The problem is failing to disclose your income to the Internal Revenue Service.

I didnt have any income.

You understand that if you give false information to a federal agent even orally you can be charged with a criminal offense. With a felony, in fact.

So?

So that brings us to question number two. During this period you apparently traveled a great deal and whiled away the hours driving expensive racecars and staying at nice hotels.

They werent all that nice.

The agent was looking out the window over the parkinglot. He turned and looked at Western. So, how did you finance all this?

My grandmother left me some money. It was not enough to qualify for inheritance tax.

You have some sort of documents to support this.

No.

No. How were you paid the money?

In cash.

In cash.

Yes.

The agent leaned back and studied Western. Well, he said. You have a problem, dont you?

Wouldnt it be up to you to prove that I received the money?

No. It wouldnt.

It wouldnt.

No.

How can I get my bank account released? And my car.

You cant. You’re under investigation for tax fraud. Since you seem to move rather freely in international circles we’ve also taken the precaution of revoking your passport.

You’ve revoked my passport?

Yes.

I work overseas. I need my passport in order to work.

You need your passport in order to flee.

Western leaned back in the chair and studied him. Who do you imagine that I am?

We know who you are, Mr Western. What we dont know is what you’ve been up to. But we’ll find out. We always do.

Western looked at the nameplate on his desk.

Is that you? Robert Simpson?

Yes.

You dont go by Bob I suppose.

I go by Robert.

My friends call me Bobby.

The agent gave a slight nod of his head. They sat. After a while the agent said: I’m not your friend, Mr Western.

I know. You’re my employee.

The agent seemed almost amused.

You dont know anything about me.

Really? said the agent. He reached and turned the file folder slightly on the desk and then folded his hands in his lap. I think you’d be surprised.

Western studied him. I’m not under investigation for tax fraud.

No?

No.

What do you think you’re under investigation for?

I dont know.

Western rose from the chair. I’m not sure that you do either. Thanks for your time.

He walked back through the Quarter. He went down to the end of Toulouse Street and stood looking out at the river. A fresh breeze. Smell of oil. He sat on a bench with his hands folded and thought of nothing at all. Someone was watching him. How do you know? You can feel it. What does it feel like? It feels like someone is watching you. He turned his head. It was a young girl sitting on a bench across the walk. She smiled. Then she looked away. Shaking her hair. Her face to the wind off the river. What do they think they see? Her back straight. Feet together. She was blonde, pretty. Young. If someone said to you that you had thrown your life away over a woman what would you say? Well thrown.

For all his dedication there were times he thought the fine sweet edge of his grief was thinning. Each memory but a memory of the one before until…What? Host and sorrow to waste as one without distinction until the wretched coagulant is shoveled into the ground at last and the rain primes the stones for fresh tragedies.

When he went back to Stella Maris in the spring after her death the people there looked at him curiously. They knew little what to make of him. Perhaps he’d come to be committed himself. On the registration form he had to enter the name of the patient he’d come to see. He looked up at the nurse.

Is Helen still here?

Helen Vanderwall.

I think so, yes. An older woman.