Zero Cool, Page 2

  “Please forgive us for doing so,” the man said smoothly, entering the room. The other three men followed. “But this is a matter of utmost urgency.”

  Ross shut the door, feeling strange. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you,” the man said. “My name is Robert Carrini, Dr. Ross. These men are my cousins: George, Earnest, and Samuel.”

  The four men nodded toward Ross politely. Ross nodded back and tightened the towel around his waist. The leader, Robert Carrini, did not seem to notice the towel. He had an immaculate, cultured air; he might have been the curator of a museum or the president of a bank.

  “What can I do for you?” Ross said.

  “We come,” Carrini said slowly, “at a time of tragedy. Great, heartrending tragedy.” He touched his armband absently. “It is difficult to find the words to explain. This has been a shock for all of us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ross said, not knowing what else to say. He felt foolish in his towel, with the others standing around in suits.

  “There has been a death,” Carrini said. “My dear brother. In Barcelona. It was very sudden, a great shock.”

  “What exactly happened?”

  “He died violently,” Carrini said slowly. “My brother always led a violent life, and he died a violent death. We all knew it would happen one day. He was an unhappy, confused young man, and we knew how it would end. But that is not much help when the day finally arrives. So sudden.” He shook his head. “So sudden.”

  Ross paused a moment, then said, “Why have you come to me?”

  Carrini started to answer, but could not. He dropped his head and began to sob silently, his body shaking.

  One of the others came forward, rested a hand on Carrini’s shoulder, and said, “You must excuse Robert. He has still not accepted this, in his own mind. He was very close to his brother, you see. It was hard on him. Doctor, his brother was not a good man. There was trouble all his life.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, with all the legal technicalities …” The man shrugged.

  Ross still did not understand. He waited.

  “The problem,” the man said, “involves taking Stephano back to America, the country he loved.”

  “Why should that be a problem?”

  “He was asked to leave America, five years ago. There are technicalities.”

  “Asked to leave? You mean deported?”

  “It had to do,” said the man carefully, “with an income tax dispute. The government wished to discredit him, so they accused him of not paying taxes. A lie, of course. But they sent him away. Stephano loved America, Doctor. He always said he wished to be buried there. Next to his mother, God rest her soul.”

  “I see,” Ross said gravely.

  “We do not know who shot him, yesterday in Barcelona,” the man continued. “It does not matter. The police will not search for his killer. The Spanish also considered Stephano undesirable.”

  Stephano sounded like everyone’s favorite, Ross thought. He said nothing.

  “We have come to Spain to take his body away. Back to America. This is permitted, but first, there are many technicalities. Many rules and regulations.”

  “Such as?”

  “First,” the man said, “there must be an autopsy.”

  Ross suddenly felt cold. “An autopsy? Why?”

  The man shrugged. “It is the law.”

  “Won’t the Spanish authorities perform it?”

  Now, Robert seemed to pull himself together. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and said, “No, that is not the problem. In order to return to America, the autopsy must be performed by an American doctor.”

  Ross frowned. It all sounded very peculiar. “Wouldn’t you be better off working through the Embassy in Madrid?”

  Robert sighed patiently. “We have tried. They will not help us. They will not lift a finger. They would like to forget that my brother ever existed. They do not want him to return to America—even dead.”

  There was a short pause. Robert began shaking his head again.

  “I could not believe it,” he said, “when I talked to them. They would have blocked his return to America if they could. Fortunately, they cannot. The law permits it. But they have raised every obstacle. For instance, an autopsy by the Spanish police would be valid if papers were authorized by the American consul in Barcelona. But he will not. Nor will he help find an American doctor. He will do nothing.”

  “So you came to me.”

  “Yes. We found a doctor in Madrid who works with the Embassy, but he refused. We searched everywhere for another. But it is so difficult …”

  “Couldn’t you ship the body back and have the autopsy performed in America?”

  “No. Not allowed. It must be performed here, in Spain.”

  Ross shrugged. “I would like to help you,” he said, “that goes without saying. But frankly, I am not qualified. I am a radiologist, not a pathologist. I have attended autopsies, but never performed one.”

  Robert waved his hand impatiently. “You have a doctorate of medicine?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are qualified to practice?”

  “Radiology, yes.”

  “Then it does not matter. The law says that a duly certified American physician must perform the postmortem. It does not stipulate a pathologist.”

  “But gentlemen—”

  “We need your help, Doctor,” said Earnest, very firmly. “You must help us. You must help us return Stephano to America.”

  “I would like to, of course, but—”

  “This is a matter of great importance to me, to my family, to my poor father, who is eighty-seven and slowly dying of cancer. I appeal to you—as a doctor.”

  Ross shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “We realize that this is an imposition on you, professionally,” Carrini said. “But we hope you will make the sacrifice. As one human being to another. As one—”

  “Really, I—”

  “If you perform the autopsy,” Carrini said, “we are prepared to pay you five thousand dollars.”

  There was a silence in the room. Ross paused, frowning. The story had sounded peculiar; now, it seemed almost sinister. That was a lot of money for an autopsy. A hell of a lot of money.

  “You are generous, but—”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “No, really—”

  “Then twenty.” Robert Carrini spat out the words. “It is important to us.”

  Ross felt suddenly frightened. It was too much, incredibly too much. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “If I could afford more than twenty thousand dollars,” Robert said, “I would pay it. I would pay fifty or a hundred thousand to see Stephano buried in his homeland. The homeland which treated him so cruelly, so unfairly.”

  Ross shook his head. “I’m sorry, gentlemen.”

  Robert stood and looked hard at Ross. “You must.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You will not reconsider?”

  “No.”

  “Then we are lost.” Carrini sighed and turned to the others. They stood and filed silently out the door. Carrini was the last to leave.

  “Please,” he said. “Please reconsider.”

  Ross shook his head.

  “Then may you rot in hell,” Carrini said, and slammed the door shut

  Outside, in the hall, the men removed their black armbands. One of them said to Carrini, “What do you think?”

  “Very successful,” Carrini said. “He will be fine. You say he has no family?”

  “None.”

  “And he is here purely for a vacation? No friends, no relatives with him?”

  “None.”

  “Then if something should go wrong, it will be very tidy,” Carrini said. “Perhaps a drowning—his body will wash ashore weeks later. It happens all the time.” He smiled slowly.

  The four walked out of the hotel.

  3. Drinks and Sympathy

  “MY GOD, Y
OU LOOK AWFUL. Has something happened? Here, drink this.”

  Angela pushed her vodka and lime across the table to him. He gulped it quickly.

  “That’s better,” she said. “God, you look awful. Been seeing ghosts?”

  “Worse than that,” he said. He nodded to the waiter, and ordered another round of drinks. Doubles. The A.M.A. said drinking to relieve stress was a sign of early alcoholism. But the hell with the A.M.A.

  “I came to Spain,” he said, “to get away from all this. I came for a vacation.”

  Angela nodded. She was dressed casually in purple polka dot stretch pants and a loose overblouse with a scoop neck. A very scoop neck.

  “I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “I want nothing to do with it.”

  “To do with what?” she said.

  “The autopsy.”

  “What autopsy? You’re talking nonsense. Have another drink.”

  The drinks came. He sipped the second, sat up, and tried to pull himself together. She watched him quietly, waiting. Finally he said, “Some men came to see me this afternoon. About an autopsy.”

  “Like the man on the beach?”

  “Yes, but these were different. These men wanted me to do it. They offered me twenty thousand dollars.”

  She whistled softly. “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them no,” he said. “By that time, I was scared. They were very genteel sorts, very quiet and polite. But I gather he was some sort of gangster.”

  “Who was?”

  “The one who died.”

  “The autopsy one?”

  “Yes. Apparently he was shot in Barcelona yesterday.”

  She suddenly snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I remember reading something about that. Sit tight.”

  She left the bar and returned a few moments later with a newspaper. She thumbed through it quickly and folded it back, then handed it to him.

  “Here. Look at this.”

  Ross read the story. Stephano Carrini, forty-four, deported American. Underworld contacts. Expelled from the United States after conviction for six hundred thousand dollars in tax evasion on an illegal gambling racket. Shot dead by unknown assailant in a bar in Barcelona.

  “What do you know,” he said.

  “He was a nasty one,” Angela said. “He was in England for a while, after leaving America. He was mixed up with the hoods in Brighton. Then they threw him out of England as well. Something about narcotics; I don’t remember.”

  “Sounds pleasant.”

  “I think you were wise,” she said, “not to get involved.”

  Ross sipped his drink and nodded.

  “Do you think they’ll leave you alone now?”

  “I hope so.”

  “So do I,” she said.

  He looked at her, feeling the drinks begin to hit him. She seemed very worried and concerned about him; he liked that. She adjusted her blouse, and he said, “What do you call that outfit?”

  “This,” she said, “is a patented man-getter.”

  “Looks more like a coming-out party to me.”

  She smiled. “After spending all day at the beach, it seems silly to hide your tan.”

  “If I were your father, I’d tan your hide.”

  “But you’re not my father.”

  “No,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s true.”

  There was a short silence.

  “You’re staring again,” she said.

  “Sorry. I was thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About my pass.”

  “Pass?”

  “Yes. I’m going to make a pass at you soon.”

  “That will be interesting,” she said.

  “Just warning you.”

  “Do I need a warning?”

  “Well, you know. Prior notice, that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said.

  “With open arms?”

  “That depends. I don’t usually like passes.”

  “You’ll like this one.”

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  They finished the drinks, and went into the dining room for dinner. They began with gazpacho, sprinkling the cold soup with onions, peppers, and tomatoes. Then they had pollo con ajillo, chicken with garlic, and a bottle of Portuguese red wine.

  “My God, we’re going to stink after this,” Angela said.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Neither do I.” She looked at him across the table. “I like you,” she said.

  “I like you, too.”

  They exchanged a direct look, and then she turned away and began eating again.

  “I don’t really mean that,” she said. “Just forget it. Too much wine.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Don’t push. I hate pushy men.”

  He said nothing more for a time; she seemed depressed. Over dessert, however, her spirits improved, and when they returned to the bar for brandy and coffee, she seemed happy and bubbling.

  “Promise me,” she said as they entered the bar, “that you won’t make a pass here. I hate passes in bars.”

  “You seem to hate lots of things tonight.”

  “Not really.”

  “Where should I make my pass?”

  “Someplace private,” she said.

  They sat down. The brandy came. They had two, then a third. While they were waiting for them, he said, “We could have them in my room.”

  She smiled. “We could have them here.”

  “Yes, but there’s an excellent view from my balcony.”

  “But it’s dark.”

  “I could show you my etchings.”

  “I never look at the etchings of strange men.”

  The drinks came.

  “We could walk along the beach.”

  “It’s against the law to do it in public,” she said. “Besides, the sand …”

  He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “If you come to my room,” he said, “I’ll tell you a joke. Privately.”

  “A good one?”

  “The best.”

  “I detest bad jokes. All that waiting, and no punch line.”

  “This one has a good punch line, I promise you.”

  “Does it take long to tell?”

  “That depends.”

  “Is it worth waiting for?”

  “Definitely.”

  She said, “I don’t know. I’ve heard some pretty bad jokes in my time.”

  “From men with no sense of humor,” he said.

  She smiled. “Will I laugh very hard?”

  “You will be convulsed with laughter.”

  “It sounds like an awfully good joke.”

  “It is, it is.”

  She finished her brandy and set it down. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  The room was dark, warm, and close. She sighed and rubbed up against him. He put his arm around her shoulder, and she placed her head next to his. He smelled her hair, her skin, her perfume.

  “Want to hear another one?”

  She smiled contentedly. “Not right now. I’m all laughed out.”

  “Was the punch line good?”

  “Devastating,” she said. “Now stop fishing for compliments. I want to lie here and think.”

  “About what?”

  “About you. And your sense of humor. I didn’t know doctors were like that.”

  “I’m an exception.”

  “I’ll say.” She snuggled up against him.

  Half an hour later, she was sleeping peacefully. The phone rang. Ross, on the edge of sleep, answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Ross. This is Robert Carrini.”

  “Yes.”

  “About our little conversation today. You neglected to mention you had spoken with someone previously.”

  “Previously?”

  “Yes. On the beach. You spoke with a man. What did he offer you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”


  “Whatever he offered, we will match, and increase by twenty percent. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Really, he didn’t—”

  “Dr. Ross. This is no time for foolishness. I intend that you shall perform the autopsy on my brother. There is no alternative.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. I regret to inform you that should you continue to refuse, or attempt to leave Spain, or to contact anyone, we will be forced to kill you.”

  Ross said nothing.

  “Is my meaning clear?”

  “Quite clear.”

  “Good night, then.”

  The phone was dead.

  He lay in bed, awake, for a very long time. He wondered what he had done to deserve this, and he wondered if it were some kind of elaborate practical joke cooked up by the other radiologists attending the conference, and he finally decided it probably was not a joke at all.

  In the middle of the night, he awoke. Angela, sleepy-eyed and soft, was shaking his shoulder.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  “You were lying in bed moaning,” she said, “and gnashing your teeth.”

  He shivered. His body was coated in sweat. “I was dreaming,” he said, “that everybody was trying to kill me.”

  She smiled in the darkness. “Silly boy,” she said. “You were having a nightmare.”

  She kissed him.

  “Go back to sleep,” she said.

  He did.

  4. A Small Autopsy

  IN THE MORNING, AFTER BREAKFAST with Angela, he left her at the beach and walked through the town. He wanted to be alone and to think.

  Tossa was a town built in layers, each as fragile as an eggshell. Along the water, the town was gay and colorful, rich with the money of tourists from a dozen nations, crammed with pretty girls and greasy men, noisy discotheques, and expensive restaurants. Farther back was a layer of hotels, quiet, whitewashed, new, and modern.

  And then there were no more tourists, only natives, living in tiny stucco houses clumped around narrow cobbled streets which smelled of garbage, urine, and cooking oil. Clothes hung out to dry from wrought iron balconies; fat women shouted to each other and laughed; and small children ran naked, playing hide and seek.

  As Ross walked, a slim man in a plaid sport shirt appeared, carrying a towel draped over one hand. The man was dressed as a tourist but carried the towel like a waiter; it was an odd combination.