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Sunday, Nov 22, 2009
Hanlon cleared his throat. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but I actually did some work for the CIA when I was selling in Belgium and Germany. I was a mule. That's covert ops jargon. You know, a courier. Mule. Get it?"
I said I got it.
Hanlon smiled, remembering. "Got recruited in Brussels, at Rick's. Rick's is a complete replica of Bogart's joint in 'Casablanca.' 344 Avenue Louise, Commune of Ixelles. Very upscale address. It's a hang-out joint for American ex-pats. The guy who worked the territory before me got a hamburger named after him. His case officer picked me up. Always looking for patriotic single men, he said. They paid good money, too, before they cancelled the Cold War."
Hanlon swung around a slow-moving Volvo station wagon. "If I just didn't give a damn, the noises wouldn't matter," he said. "What's a ghost? Nothing. All I got to do is stay away from the garage. And I'm scared as hell to go in there, it makes me want to throw up I get so scared. So what the hell do I do every night? I go into the garage. Why do I do that?" He squeezed his eyes shut. "I lie in bed listening, and now if I don't hear the little bitch, I get up and I creep into the laundry room and I stand at the garage door for hours. Listening." An eighteen-wheeler started to pass us on the left. Reflected in the rearview mirror, its headlamps spread harsh white light slowly over Hanlon's face, exposing it. His pupils shrank in eyes bloodshot and pouchy from sleeplessness. "I hit her," he said.
"What?"
"I was driving. It was dark. She just walked into the road before I could do anything about it. Maybe she was committing suicide, I don't know."
"You killed her. With your car." Classic: a ghost pulled back by a guilty conscience. I didn't bother saying, You lied about not knowing her! Haunted people lie a lot.
"This was in Germany," Hanlon said. "I didn't know what to do. I dragged the body into the bushes on the side of the road. She didn't have any ID, there was no point calling in the accident. They don't like foreigners, you know. The Germans don't. None of the Euros do. They all feel this kind of contempt for Americans. Those Germans, they've forgotten about getting their asses kicked in '45." Hanlon's hands were shaking on the wheel. "It was her fault," he said. "I didn't think she'd find me, not back here in America. But she did. She did." His voice was hoarse. "What the hell does she want?"
"You," I said.
