Abram

Chapter 2 of the science fiction crime thriller Freak

Freak

Chapter Two

Abram

The man staring through the observation window was standing so still he might have been a cardboard cutout. The shatterproof glass of this window, as broad as the corridor’s facing wall, permitted booking officers, as well as lockdown officers, to make out every detail in the boxcar-shaped visitation room. Inside were a steel table and bench, a pay phone, and a smallish, dark-haired man in Levis, loafers, and light blue long-sleeved shirt. He was sitting perfectly still with his forearms resting on his knees, deep in thought.

Lawrence Abram’s eyes narrowed. The prisoner pretty much matched the impression he’d given over the phone; a contentious, physically and morally repellent character in his upper thirties, of East European descent. Even in half-profile there was something disturbing about the eyes.

“All right,” Abram said softly. “I’m ready.” The guard stepped around him and unlocked the door.

Nicolas Vilenov didn’t jump up as the famous defense attorney entered the room, didn’t gush with greeting and gratitude. His expression remained a spiteful scowl, but those peculiar eyes became quite focused. Abram felt an instinctive contempt for the man. It was the hardest thing in the world to recover his trademark geniality, but he smiled and extended a hand. The diamond winked on his pinky, the Rolex peeped from a silk sleeve.

Vilenov offered a limp hand. At its touch the sense of contempt came back a hundredfold. Abram was aware of a real sense of anger and resentment. Unbidden, an all but forgotten word returned to him. Incubus, he thought, and released the hand.

There was an unpleasant pause.

Abram said, “Mr. Vilenov, when my secretary accepted your sole allotted phone call, her first inclination was to put you on what we call ‘the elevator’. The elevator places a caller on hold for eternity, while canned Muzak dumbs him into the ozone. Eventually he’s so anesthetized by insipid recorded garbage he forgets his imaginary dragon and returns to the couch whence he came. However, Dottie said there was ‘something’ in your voice. I’ve worked with her for seventeen years, and have come to trust her like a lover. Now, I don’t generally conduct business on the strength of a call divulging a public storage locker’s combination, but it was a relatively slow day, the locker’s location was very near my office, and curiosity got the better of me. Or,” he said, trying the light touch, “maybe there was ‘something’ in your voice.” Vilenov glared. “At any rate,” Abram went on uncomfortably, “I discovered the locker did indeed hold sufficient cash--and then some--to retain my services. After removing a sample from the site, I reorganized my schedule around this interview but, because of ethical concerns, undertook a number of preliminary checks. The thoroughness of my investigation will explain, in part, why I’ve arrived so late in the day. In the first place, the money turned out to be unmarked.”

“It’s all clean,” Vilenov muttered. “Save your energy.”

Abram popped open his briefcase. Resting on parallel stacks of loose pages was a paper-clipped fan of bills, ranging from tens on the left to hundreds on the right, like a hand of cards. The bills were not new or well kept.

“Here’s your money, Mr. Vilenov. I want you to be aware from the outset that your property is in order.”

Vilenov didn’t bother to look. “It’s yours, man. That, and all you can spend. I’m prepared to make you a very rich man, Mr. Abram, just as soon as you get the job done.”

“And that job is?”

“To spring me immediately, and to clear me of any and all charges.”

Abram watched a prisoner being processed. “That’s pretty cut and dry.” After a minute he said, still staring out the wide window, “You, sir, are at this point what is known as a cipher. There’s no law against possessing so much cash, but it certainly doesn’t make your case look less suspect.” He turned back. “We don’t even have an address on you. Were you living under a bridge?”

“I use hotels, and I always pay in cash. Is that okay with you? Is there any law saying a man has to have a permanent address?”

“None whatsoever. I’m just trying to learn what I can about a prospective client. If we’re going to work together, I think it would be a good idea for us to be on the same side.” Abram clasped his hands behind his back and again looked outside. “After I visited your locker I headed back to my office and got busy on the phone. Finding information about you was like looking for water in the Mojave. According to every indication you are unemployed, do not file tax returns, and have not hit the lottery. Believe me, if you had a traceable real income the I.R.S. would know all about you. So unless you’re a very successful bank robber, a gun runner or dope dealer, I’m stumped. Have you been stashing money in a mattress all your life for just this eventuality? Have you found buried treasure? You’ll forgive my prying, but it’s not a matter of idle curiosity. I command high figures in my practice, and my clients are, as a rule, most accountable in their finances. But you, sir, as I said, are a cipher. An independently wealthy individual for whom a fairly thorough records check reveals no birth certificate, no social security number, no medical history, no rap sheet...the only documentation of your existence is a newly confiscated California ID card, demonstrated through a simple check with the DMV to be a quality street forgery.” Abram paused as Vilenov hawked and spat on the floor. The attorney scowled. “Excuse me, but I never got a spoken pronunciation, just Dottie’s scribble. Is it Vile, or something closer to Villain?”

The prisoner’s stare was so hard Abram had to look away. “My name is Nicolas Vilenov. Vi-len-ahv, if that pleases you. Or, better: V’len-of. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it quick enough.

“And as to my money, chew on this: I inherited it from my father, a Romanian immigrant who passed away in California. I am hiring you, the famous Mr. Lawrence Abram, to represent me in what has the potential to become, in my life, an absolute catastrophe. What part of the above escapes you?”

“There isn’t a whole lot about you that doesn’t escape me. But you yourself, Mr. Vilenov, have missed quite a bit.” Abram exhibited an erect forefinger. “Allow me to delineate the sequence of events leading to your present incarceration.

“First off, it seems that a number of weeks ago the landlady of Ms. Purly’s building, a Helga Scarboro, became highly suspicious of your dealings with her tenant.”

Vilenov rolled his neck, leaned back down, and stared at the floor. “I know the witch,” he muttered.

“Yes. Apparently she had an ongoing altercation with you, adamantly claiming you had drugged and raped her tenant, a beautiful and helpless young woman with a history of violent self-abuse. This landlady’s defense of her lodger is undoubtedly selfish: Marilyn Purly’s tenancy is subsidized through monthly Social Security checks, direct-deposited into Scarboro’s account and guaranteed in perpetuity so long as Purly remains unable to provide for herself. At any rate, Scarboro got the rest of her boarders into a group and had them sign a petition claiming you were making a practice of taking the Purly woman against her will. Even though Purly at first refused to go along, Scarboro photocopied the petition and began circulating it throughout the neighborhood, to the media, to her congressman. She badgered Pacific Division to no end, and finally the division commander assigned a team to place you under surveillance. Over the course of the next two weeks you were tailed and photographed extensively. There are photos of you checking into various hotels for the night, dining alone, walking on the beach. If you boarded a bus, a man was dispatched to board at a stop farther on to continue the surveillance. You were followed wherever you went. And there are photographs of you paying visits to the homes of no less than eleven different women over those two weeks. All these women fit what Pacific’s men colloquially define as ‘drop-dead gorgeous’. Yet, strange to say, none are married or romantically involved. They live quiet, lonesome lives, hold unglamorous jobs. They’re spinsters, before their time. All were interviewed by detectives, and not one had any recollection of a male visitor, but, upon viewing full-face surveillance photographs, each reacted with high emotion, in a manner the detectives described as expressing a range from repugnance to horror. Upon viewing shots of your entering or exiting their premises, these women, as a rule, went right into hysterics.”

Vilenov shook his head slowly, looking more bored than offended.

“Having gained these ladies’ permission,” Abram went on, “their places of residence were forensically sampled. And it was determined, as in the case of Ms. Purly’s apartment, that these residences were all littered with semen deposits, foreign hairs, fingerprints, tracks--you name it. Somebody, whether the good ladies knew it or not, had been very busy.

“The inconclusiveness and rising hysteria--there were two nervous breakdowns right in Pacific Division--prompted a videotaping of Ms. Purly’s apartment. After much cajoling from her landlady, Purly agreed to go along with the setup; to be the bait, if you will. A police technician disguised as a television repairman rewired Purly’s VCR and implanted a camera, its lens positioned behind the remote control sensor’s window. Surveillance equipment was tapped into the unit’s coaxial cable, and the apartment was observed, and videotaped, from the vacated apartment directly above.”

Abram observed Vilenov narrowly. “The surveillance crew captured on videotape someone, who certainly appears to be you, receiving fellatio from Marilyn Jayne Purly. Purly maintains zero recollection of the event.” He raised a hand. “One of the members of this surveillance crew is trained to observe individuals for signs of intoxication, mental retardation, or any inability to respond defensively. It was this man’s professional opinion that Purly was totally out of it, and incapable of self-will. He had a man give the go-ahead to officers below. These agents then burst in and found...nothing.”

“She unlocked the door,” Vilenov snarled. “The b***h set me up!”

For some reason Vilenov’s display of rancor created an abrupt mood shift. Abram’s expression twisted nastily, his intended word of caution erupting as a bark bordering on assault. “Please, Mr. Vilenov! Save your whining accusations for therapy!” Abram just as quickly apprehended himself, and after a hard half-minute continued with forced civility, “Besides, if anybody has some explaining to do it’s the commander at Pacific, who, uncharacteristically, didn’t have the self-control to pull out at the climax, so to speak.” He removed his glasses from a vest pocket and consulted his notebook. “Roland Carre, senior officer at the scene, told the commander over Purly’s phone that the premises were clear of any overt criminal activity--informed him, in essence, that two weeks of surveillance and setup were a bust, that the claimants’ reports were a lot of hooey, that the monitoring specialists were all full of it, and that every man involved in the investigation, himself included, was an amateurish paranoiac in an expensive parade of fools.” Abram returned the glasses to his vest. “This might have been a bit much to swallow at one sitting. At any rate, Carre was reamed over the phone; was told to clean the crap out of his eyes and make the arrest, was told if he wanted to keep his job he’d better get busy and gather every scrap of evidence he could get his incompetent little hands on. Carre immediately assigned a team to the site, and that team was striking gold long before Dottie got your call.

“Oh, and one other thing:

“Purly earlier agreed to help collect a semen sample. At Parker Center that sample now awaits comparison with samples taken from the eleven sites aforementioned. The Purly sample was seized in conjunction with an affidavit--signed on the scene by Purly, a forensic investigator, and Carre...although not a one professes any recollection of so doing.”

“B***h!”

In the corridor a cuffed prisoner whirled on his transporting officer. The two went down biting and kicking, quickly swarmed by deputies. Abram stepped to the window and watched, strangely excited. When he turned back to Vilenov his eyes were burning.

“Therein lies the rub. My investigation took me promptly to the District Attorney’s office, where I went over a copy of the videotape with Mr. Prentis, and discussed the details of your capture and the lack of pertinent records. The DA, Mr. Vilenov, simply has no eyewitness corroboration to any of this. Nothing is conclusive here. Tests for room toxicity were taken immediately. A whiskey bottle and an open jar of ointment were seized, along with an array of smut books and exactly three hundred and seventy dollars in loose cash. The contents of the refrigerator and medicine cabinet, water from the tap...even the air was sampled. Results so far, to the best of my knowledge, are all negative, and the discrepancy between visual and video remains a mystery.” He looked down his nose. “Item: you were filmed by the security camera at Barry’s Liquor half an hour prior to the raid. The tape shows you in a transaction with the clerk involving liquor, magazines, and what looks like most of the drawer. The owner calls Santa Monica police saying he’s been robbed by the clerk, who claims no memory of you or the incident.” Abram shrugged. “Ms. Purly’s apartment was quickly cordoned off for further analysis, leaving only a narrow corridor connecting rooms, so that she could continue living there as compensation for her assistance in this investigation. She reportedly made a beeline for her very black bedroom immediately upon Carre’s departure, and there remains barricaded, quiet as a mouse. My personal impression is that Marilyn Jayne Purly is an incorrigibly disturbed woman.”

“Abram,” Vilenov said with a throwaway glance, “her distress is only beginning.”

“How so?”

The prisoner stood up and sat right back down. He shook his head in frustration. “Just get me out of here, okay? And take all the money you need. You and your good buddy the DA can split it down the middle for all I care.”

Abram squared his shoulders. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” He took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. “Mr. Vilenov, I don’t have the power to arbitrarily orchestrate your release. And as for the DA being my friend, well, that doesn’t make him some kind of crony.”

Vilenov rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Strikes me as sort of funny that a defense lawyer and a district attorney should be so buddy-buddy, that’s all.” Again he spat on the floor.

“Your manners aren’t exactly winning me over, either.”

Vilenov shrugged.

Abram tapped his nails on the table. “Look, we weren’t always so close. Or maybe we were too close. You’re aware of my work as a prosecutor?”

“But money talks, huh, Mr. ex-Prosecutor?”

Abram glared. “With lucidity,” he said softly.

Vilenov rose and began to pace, but halted after only a few steps. With his head down and his fists stuffed in his pockets, he addressed Abram as though the attorney were a child.

“Now don’t you worry about your precious fee, Mr. Abram. That locker holds just a pinch. I’ve got cash stashed all over this city, and I can get more any time I feel like it. Lovely, lovely money. More than you can spend, more than you can count, more pretty green paper than you’ve ever even dreamed of caressing.”

“Really! You’ve certainly got my undivided attention now, Mr. Vilenov. I’m intrigued.”

“So you just get my a*s out of here, now, and later on you and I’ll walk hand in hand into court, and you can flash that famous Lawrence Abram smile. We’re going to need it. I’m telling you, man, this is only the tip of the iceberg. You’re going to be hearing from a slew of...ex-girlfriends.”

“And why, Mr. Vilenov, would all these women wait so long?”

“Be-cause, Mr. Abram, an individual, in the flesh, can produce certain...effects...that can’t be generated by a simple two-dimensional representation.”

Abram raised an eyebrow. “Are you hinting you’ve been threatening women, and that these women will only identify you in person? Meaning, in custody?”

“No! You don’t understand; it’s way more complicated than that. They can only identify me when I’m not around them.” Vilenov cocked his head, affronted. “You know what, Abram? I’m not really sure I approve of your tone. ‘Threatening women,’ indeed. What’s that supposed to mean, dude? Like, I can’t get my way without resorting to intimidation or something?” He smiled vaguely. “Good-looking women are just fruit on my tree. They’re plums for the plucking, Abram, and I’m not ashamed to say I’m one hell of a plucker.”

Abram was speechless, his expression uglier than he knew. His appreciation of propriety, in this one short half hour, had been violated in ways that should have filled a lifetime. In the thundering silence he whispered, with barely contained venom, “I’m sure Marilyn Purly, if she had a voice in the matter, would be first to agree.”

Vilenov exploded. “Just get me out of here! All right? Get me out, get me out, get me out! You’re pissing me off, man! Use your connections, use your charm. Use my money. Just get on with it!”

Abram raised a warning forefinger. “Use your money?” But halfway to Vilenov’s nose the gesture was preempted. His arm fell to his side, dead from the elbow down. Abram forced a few deep breaths, suddenly clammy in his armpits and crotch. When he spoke again his tone was borderline-conciliatory.

“What you don’t understand, Mr. Vilenov, is that my reputation was gained over many years of playing by the book. I earned my stripes through hard work, not through hard cash. And I’m no simple bail bondsman. As I’ve been trying to explain, my investigation included a lengthy dialogue with the District Attorney, who is, understandably, in no great hurry to see you back on the street.”

“I know all about your big bad childhood pal Nelson Prentis,” Vilenov said sourly. “Dueling comrades, battling buddies. Right now I’m the wrong cat to lay that Butch and Sundance bullshit on; your relationship has been the movie of the week for too many years to count. So do me a favor, man. Don’t rewind the same old reel.”

That really stung; you could call Abram every name in the book, but no one could demean his family or friends. Vilenov was playing with fire here. Although he was still able to comport himself in a manner generations above Vilenov’s level, the attorney’s calling-out retort came like the snap of a whip. “Apparently, pal, you’ve got one hell of a lot to learn about--”

“Just get me out of here! Okay? Because you’re really starting to bug me, man. Get me out now, Abram! Not tomorrow. Not fifteen minutes from now. Now! Look, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. I’m paying you, for Christ’s sake!”

“Everything isn’t about money! People in this country can’t just buy their way out of legal problems, regardless of what you may have seen in the movies. The I.N.S. is going to want a crack at you, because from the look of things there’s absolutely nothing to show you’re in this country legally. Various departments of health are going to be interested in you, sir. Are you H.I.V. positive? Are you a vector? Mr. Vilenov, there are sexual predation claims of an egregious nature to investigate. What kind of system would just casually release such a suspect? Also, there’s a great deal of cash to be accounted for. I haven’t told a soul, mind you, but I’ll guarantee you the ball is already in motion. Detective work has a way of discovering bits and pieces, both peripherally and by extrapolation, about even the most discreet individual. A person in your position, Mr. Vilenov--if that truly is your name--has to go through channels, has to jump through hoops...and has to wait. I’m telling you right now, there’s just no way in hell you’re going to get out of here without first running a very tight legal gauntlet, no matter who’s representing you. Not even if you’ve got a pass from God Almighty.”

Vilenov looked around the room and smiled cockily. “Look, I can walk out any time I want, so don’t patronize me. And quit trying to spook me with all your legal mumbo-jumbo. People do what I want--always have, always will. And they always remember me in a positive light, no matter what went down. That’s if I want them to remember me at all. I can move men, Mr. Abram, and I can make women. I can do any b***h I please; upright, on all fours, or spread-eagled, and I can make her perform just the way I like.” He let his head fall, and in that instant Abram thought he saw the man’s eyes blaze with a frustration beyond words. He waited. At last Vilenov mumbled, “It’s a gift.” A thought struck him and he looked back up. “You’re a bright boy, Abram. What do you know about pheromones?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s got everything to do with everything.”

The attorney cocked his head and squinted at a tiny smudge on the ceiling. “Biochemistry,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hormones that induce same-species reactions. Very subtle. Glandular emanations, traceable in sweat, urine, breath.” He waved a hand irritably. “Chemistry was not my strong suit.”

“Too bad. You might have learned something.”

Abram scowled. “Been spreading our musk around town, have we? Well...guess what: I didn’t sleep all the way through classes. No microscopic secretion can produce a direct physical reaction. Your imagination’s running away with you.”

“My imagination is firmly ensconced in reality, Abram. I’m not talking about secretions; that’s crowd stuff. I’m talking about a focalized force, an adaptive influence established in maybe one in a billion people.”

“Keep dreaming.”

“It’s no fantasy. All I need is eye contact, and this whole silly-a*s species will carry out my blackest wishes without hesitation...even without my bidding. I can make anybody eat right out of my hand. And I can do it with or without your fancy reputation.”

“You don’t say! Now I’m really intrigued!” Abram rapped on the wall. “But before you unleash your fabulous dark legions, just how do you propose to pull off this awesome escape? Melt the walls? Break through bulletproof glass? Or is Scotty above us somewhere, all set to beam you up?”

“No, funny man. Like I said, I can walk out.”

“Of course you can. So the next logical question would have to be: what are you waiting for? And why do you need me?”

“Because, Mr. Abram,” Vilenov said exasperatedly, “there are now full-face photographs in the DA’s possession, and forensic samples in Parker Center. I need to get my hands on those samples fast, before a real case can be built against me. And the last thing I need is my picture all over the evening news. So it behooves me to make a legal exit; I don’t want to skip out of here as the bogeyman. Now, you’re going to arrange my immediate release. And if my face gets on TV you’re going to stand behind me, and sue the goddamned media if you have to. Then you’re going to work to clear my name so that I may walk around a free man again.”

“Mr. Vilenov...should I choose to represent you I will, at the minimum, guarantee you that in less than seventy-two hours you will be a ‘free man’ again. And, if you’re really all that camera-shy--”

“I don’t have seventy-two hours!”

“Sir! Please! You cannot be held forever! You are incarcerated under hearsay. You are here solely because the investigation’s commanding officer authorized your arrest over the phone on the word of a surveillance specialist, who determined, via an electronic medium, that you were committing rape. And the man saddled with the job of resolving this quagmire already knows he hasn’t got a leg to stand on.”

“Your buddy. Nelson Prentis.”

“My counterpart. The District Attorney. Mr. Prentis is aware you’ve been placed behind bars without cause, and realizes your release is imminent. As I keep trying to explain, you are, right now, being held for a variety of ulterior reasons--a murky mess which can and will be cleared by patience and application.” He glanced at his watch. “Mr. Vilenov, the DA is the county’s top prosecutor, and I am, if I may be so bold, the county’s top defense attorney. In any case built against you the burden will be on the prosecution, not the defense. So relax. I’m going to work this out with Mr. Prentis, I promise you.”

Vilenov sneered, nastily and pugnaciously. “You guys just leave me a few bucks for cab fare, all right?” His eyes glinted.

For a moment Lawrence Abram saw red. When his mind had cleared he said, quietly, “I think this interview’s gone on just about long enough.”

Vilenov nodded. “Me too.” He looked directly into Abram’s eyes and the attorney almost fainted. “So this is what’s going to happen, Abram. You’re going to accept my generous cash offer, and you’re going to attain my immediate release. You will represent me in this matter so that I am quickly cleared of any and all charges, and so that my name and face are not open to public censure. I will be able to move about freely. You are going to begin preparing my case, pronto. And that means all your other clients can just go to hell. You’ll get your facts, and you’ll do your interviews, and you’ll make my defense rock-solid. You’ll get on the tube and let everybody know that these claims are all bullshit, man, pure bullshit. You’re going to profess my innocence. Right? You are about to devote every ounce of your time, talent, and energy to making me look good. If your pal the DA gets on my back, you’re gonna jump right in his face. I’m your buddy now!” Vilenov rolled the tension from his neck while Abram fried. “So you’ll be smart. But you’ll play dumb if you have to. You won’t have enough good things to say about me, Larry. Additionally, I am authorizing you to pull from that locker whatever funds you deem necessary. Okay? Necessary is the operative word here. My money is for my defense--not for your leisure. So you just keep your fat sticky lawyerly paws clean! Don’t test me on this, man; don’t even think about it. You’ve been warned. Should the locker’s working capital become exhausted I will direct you to another site. But understand this: you are working for me. After this is all over you won’t have to like me, or care if I live or die. But for right now you and I are, as you so succinctly put it, ‘on the same side.’ Got it?”

With those final two syllables Abram felt his back slammed against the cold brick wall. His hands found the table’s edge and gradually pulled him forward. He swayed before the prisoner, sweat rolling down his face.

Vilenov studied him dispassionately for a while. Finally he drooped his head between his knees and spat. “Now go on, legal boy. Pull some strings. Call your chummy-a*s pal and get me the hell out of here.”

While Vilenov’s head was lowered Abram slammed shut his eyes and turned his back on the man. “F**k you!” he snarled, and before the wave of primitive fury could drag him under cried, “Guard!”

The door instantly swung inward. Vilenov was seized and led cursing from the room. Abram steadied himself against the stainless steel table, waiting for the stampede of savage emotions to subside. He would not reopen his eyes. Clenching his teeth, he slapped his palms against the wall, felt his way to the pay phone, and began fishing through his pockets for change.

* * *

The swaggering deputy made a point of banging the gate as he entered the cell house, all set to show the loudmouthed prisoner just who was who. In this particularly virile profession, this particularly short, skinny, and pigeon-breasted deputy boldly bore, in addition to his unimposing physical stature, the compound curse of a freckly face, buck teeth, jug ears, and overall cherubic expression. His compensatory scowl and blustering manner only worked against him, so he scowled a little deeper, stomped a little harder.

“Hey you, now just you chill out in there! Now, I mean it. You got me? You just stop all that darned hollering, buddy, or you’re gonna wind up with something to really holler about!”

Vilenov glared through the bars, and the deputy mellowed at once. Three other prisoners in the cell house--two bald, heavy-set, highly tattooed Latino gang members and a burly, bearded bar fighter--sat quietly on a stainless steel bench against the wall.

“Why am I still in here?” Vilenov demanded. “Where’s my attorney? Where’s Lawrence Abram?”

“I’m...not sure, sir.”

“Well...go find out!”

The deputy rang out the gate and reappeared in ten minutes. Vilenov was pacing the cell house, in and out of the wide-open individual cells. The moment the gate was open he stopped pacing and gored the deputy with his eyes.

“Sir, you’ve,” the little deputy stammered, “sir, you’ve been ordered held indefinitely, sir. Sir, there’s no sign of Mr. Abram, sir.” He stood slouched at an angle, perspiring heavily and sniffling.

Once Vilenov had renewed his pacing the deputy slunk back out, gently shutting the gate behind him. After a while Vilenov turned to meet his three cellmates’ eyes. As if cued, they slid down the bench, pressed tightly together. Vilenov sat on the vacated space, rested his chin on his locked hands, and began to think.