expensive. I had figured the army might overlook the forged
vouchers in exchange for a result. But now I wasn’t so sure. I
figured the George V tariff might change their view. It was like
adding insult to injury. We had been there one night, but we
were being charged for two because we were late checking out.
My room service coffee cost as much as a meal in a bistro. My
phone call to Rock Creek cost as much as a three-course lunch
at the best restaurant in town. My phone call to Franz in
California cost as much as a five-course dinner. Summer’s call
to Joe less than a mile away in my mother’s apartment asking
him to get hold of Lamonnier was billed at less than two
minutes and cost as much as the room service coffee. And we
had been charged fees for taking incoming calls. One was from
Franz to me and the other was from Joe to Summer, when
he asked her to check I was OK. That little piece of sibling
consideration was going to cost the government five bucks.
Altogether it was the worst hotel bill I had ever seen.
The multilingual girl printed two copies. I signed one for her
and she folded the other into an embossed George V envelope
and gave it to me. For my records, she said. For my court
martial, I thought. I put it in my inside jacket pocket. Took it
out again about six hours later, when I finally realized who had
done what, and to who, and why, and how.
322
TWENTY
W
E MADE THE FAMILIAR TREK TO THE PLACE DE L’OPIRA AND caught the airport bus. It was my sixth time on that
bus in about a week. The sixth time was no more
comfortable than the previous five. It was the discomfort that
started me thinking.
We got out at international departures and found the Air
France ticket desk. Swapped two vouchers for two seats to
Dulles on the eleven o’clock red-eye. That gave us a long
wait. We humped our bags across the concourse and started
out in a bar. Summer wasn’t conversational. I guess she
couldn’t think of anything to say. But the truth was I was doing
OK at that point. Life was unfolding the same way it always had
for everyone. Sooner or later you ended up an orphan. There
was no escaping it. It had happened that way for a thousand
generations. No point in getting all upset about it.
We drank bottles of beer and looked for somewhere to eat. I
had missed breakfast and lunch and I guessed Summer hadn’t
eaten either. We walked past all the little tax-exempt boutiques
and found a place that was made up to look like a sidewalk
bistro. We pooled our few remaining dollars and checked the
menu and worked out that we could afford one course each,
323
plus juice for her and coffee for me, and a tip for the waiter. We
ordered steak frites, which turned out to be a decent slab of
meat with shoestring fries and mayonnaise. You could get good
food anywhere in France. Even an airport.
After an hour we moved down to the gate. We were still early
and it was almost deserted. Just a few transit passengers, all
shopped out, or broke like us. We sat far away from them and
stared into space.
‘Feels bad, going back,’ Summer said. ‘You can forget how
much trouble you’re in when you’re away.’
‘All we need is a result,’ I said.
‘We’re not going to get one. It’s been ten days and we’re
nowhere.’
I nodded. Ten days since Mrs Kramer died, six days since
Carbone died. Five days since Delta had given me a week to
clear my name.
‘We’ve got nothing,’ Summer said. ‘Not even the easy stuff.
We didn’t even find the woman from Kramer’s motel. That
shouldn’t have been difficult.’
I nodded again. She was right. That shouldn’t have been
difficult.
The gate filled with travellers and we boarded forty minutes
before take-off. Summer and I had seats behind an old couple in
an exit row. I wished we could change places with them. I