The Matlock Paper (12 page)

The four blacks suddenly, in unison, crouched into kneeling positions
away
from the center, their arms slashed to their sides. The young student came crashing down,
face toward the blades
. Two further screams followed. In a fraction of a second, the students holding the huge knives swung their weapons across one another and in an unbelievable display of wrist strength,
caught
the body on the flat of the blades.

The crowd of blacks went wild.

The ceremony was over.

“Do you believe me now?” Williams asked, speaking in a corner with Matlock.

“Whether I do or not doesn’t change what I said. You can’t
do
this sort of thing! It’s too goddamn dangerous!”

“You exaggerate.… Here, let me introduce another guest.” Williams raised his hand and a tall thin black with close-cropped hair and glasses, dressed in an expensively cut tan suit, joined them. “This is Julian
Dunois, Mr. Matlock. Brother Julian is our expert. Our choreographer, if you like.”

“A pleasure.” Dunois extended his hand, speaking with a slight accent.

“Brother Julian is from Haiti.… Harvard Law out of Haiti. A most unusual progression, I think you’ll agree.”

“It certainly is.…”

“Many Haitians, even the Ton Ton Macoute, still get upset when they hear his name.”

“You exaggerate, Adam,” said Julian Dunois with a smile.

“That’s what I just said to Mr. Matlock.
He
exaggerates. About the danger of the ceremony.”

“Oh, there’s danger—as there’s danger if one crosses the Boston Commons wearing a blindfold. The pet-cock of safety, Mr. Matlock, is that those holding the knives watch closely. In the training there is as much emphasis on being able to drop the knives instantly as there is in holding them up.”

“That may be so,” Matlock acknowledged. “But the margin for error terrifies me.”

“It’s not as narrow as you think.” The lilt in the Haitian’s voice was as reassuring as it was attractive. “Incidentally, I’m a fan of yours. I’ve enjoyed your works on the Elizabethans. May I add, you’re not exactly what I expected. I mean, you’re far, far younger.”

“You flatter me. I didn’t think I was known in law schools.”

“My undergraduate major was English literature.”

Adam interrupted politely. “You two enjoy yourselves. There’ll be drinks upstairs in a few minutes; just follow the crowd. I’ve got things to do.… I’m
glad you’ve met. You’re both strangers, in a way. Strangers should meet in unfamiliar areas. It’s comforting.”

He gave Dunois an enigmatic look and walked rapidly away through the crowd.

“Why does Adam feel he has to talk in what I’m sure he considers are profound riddles?” Matlock asked.

“He’s very young. He strives constantly to make emphasis. Very bright, but very young.”

“You’ll pardon me, but you’re not exactly ancient. I doubt more than a year or two older than Adam.”

The black in the expensively cut tan suit looked into Matlock’s eyes and laughed gently.

“Now you flatter
me
,” he said. “If the truth were known—and why shouldn’t it be?—and if my tropic color did not disguise the years so well, you’d know that I was precisely one year, four months, and sixteen days
older
than
you
.”

Matlock stared at the Negro, speechless. It took him nearly a full minute to assimilate the lawyer’s words and the meaning behind those words. The black’s eyes did not waver. He returned Matlock’s stare in equal measure. Finally, Matlock found his voice.

“I’m not sure I like this game.”

“Oh, come, we’re both here for the same reason, are we not? You from your vantage point, I from mine … Let’s go upstairs and have a drink.… Bourbon and soda, isn’t it? Sour mash, if it’s available, I understand.”

Dunois preceded Matlock through the crowd, and Matlock had no other course but to follow.

Dunois leaned against the brick wall.

“All right,” Matlock said, “the amenities are over.
Everyone’s acknowledged your show downstairs, and there’s no one left for me to impress my white skin on. I think it’s time you started explaining.”

They were alone now, outside on the porch. Both held drinks.

“My, aren’t we professional? Would you care for a cigar? I can assure you it’s Havana.”

“No cigar. Just talk. I came here tonight because these are my friends. I felt privileged to be invited.… Now, you’ve attached something else and I don’t like it.”

“Bravo! Bravo!” said Dunois, raising his glass. “You do that very well.… Don’t worry, they know nothing. Perhaps they suspect, but believe me, only in the vaguest terms.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Finish your drink and let’s walk out on the lawn.” Dunois drained his rum and, as if by reflex, Matlock drank the remainder of his bourbon. The two men walked down the steps of the Lumumba Hall, Matlock following the black to the base of a large elm tree. Dunois turned suddenly and grabbed Matlock by the shoulders.

“Take your goddamn hands off me!”

“Listen to me! I want that paper! I
must have
that paper! And you must tell me
where it is!
”

Matlock flung his hands up to break Dunois’s grip. But his arms did not respond. They were suddenly heavy, terribly heavy. And there was a whistling. A growing, piercing whistling in his head.

“What? What?… What paper? I don’t have any paper.…”

“Don’t be difficult! We’ll get it, you know!… Now, just tell me where it is!”

Matlock realized that he was being lowered to the
ground. The outline of the huge tree above him began to spin, and the whistling in his brain became louder and louder. It was unendurable. He fought to find his mind again.

“What are you doing? What are you doing to me!?”

“The paper, Matlock! Where is the Corsican
paper?
”

“Get
off
me!” Matlock tried to yell. But nothing came from his lips.

“
The silver paper, goddamn you to hell!
”

“No paper … no. Haven’t paper! No!”

“Listen to me! You just had a drink, remember the drink?… You just finished that drink. Remember?… You can’t be alone now! You don’t
dare
be alone!”

“What?… What? Get off me! You’re crushing me!”

“I’m not even
touching
you. The drink is! You just consumed three tabs of
lysergic acid!
You’re in trouble, Doctor!… 
Now! You tell me where that paper is!
”

From his inner recesses he found an instant of clarity. From the spinning, turning, whirling spirals of mind-blasting colors, he saw the form of the man above him and he lashed out. He grabbed at the white shirt between the dark borders of the jacket and pulled it down with all the strength he could summon. He brought his fist up and hit the descending face as hard as he could. Once the face was jarred, he began hammering at the throat beneath it mercilessly. He could feel the shattering of the glasses and he knew his fist had found the eyes and crushed the glass into the rolling head.

It was over in a period of time he could never ascertain. Dunois’s body was beside him, unconscious.

And he knew he had to run. Run furiously away! What had Dunois said?… Don’t dare be alone. Don’t
dare!
He had to find Pat! Pat would know what to do. He had to find her! The chemical in his body was going to take full effect soon and he knew it! Run, for Christ’s sake!

But where?! Which way?! He didn’t know
the way!
The
goddamn fucking way!
The street was there, he raced along the street, but was it the
right way?!
Was it the
right street?!

Then he heard a car. It
was
a car, and it was coming close to the curb and the driver was looking at him. Looking at him, so he ran faster, tripping once over the curb and falling into the pavement and rising again. Running, for Christ Almighty’s sake, running till the breath in his lungs was gone and he could no longer control the movement of his feet. He felt himself swerve, unable to stop himself, toward the wide gulf of the street, which suddenly became a river, a black putrid river in which he would drown.

He vaguely heard the screech of the brakes. The lights blinded him, and the figure of a man reached down and poked at his eyes. He didn’t care any longer. Instead, he laughed. Laughed through the blood which flowed into his mouth and over his face.

He laughed hysterically as Jason Greenberg carried him to the car.

And then the earth, the world, the planet, the galaxy, and the entire solar system went crazy.

The night was agony.

The morning brought a degree of reality, less so for Matlock than for the two people sitting beside him, one on either side of the bed. Jason Greenberg, his large, sad eyes drooping, his hands calmly crossed on his lap, leaned forward. Patricia Ballantyne, her arm stretched out, held a cool washcloth on Matlock’s forehead.

“The schvugs gave you one hell of a party, friend.”

“Shh!” whispered the girl. “Leave him alone.”

Matlock’s eyes wandered as best they could around the room. He was in Pat’s apartment, in her bedroom, her bed.

“They gave me acid.”

“You’re telling
us
 … We had a doctor—a real doctor—brought in from Litchfield. He’s the nice fella you kept trying to take the eyeballs from.… Don’t worry, he’s federal. No names.”

“Pat? How come …”

“You’re a very sweet acid head, Jamie. You kept yelling my name.”

“It also made the best sense,” interrupted Greenberg. “No hospitals. No out-patient records. Nice and private; good thinking. Also, you’re very persuasive when you’re violent. You’re a hell of a lot stronger than
I thought. Especially for such a lousy handball player.”

“You shouldn’t have brought me here. Goddamn it, Greenberg, you shouldn’t have
brought
me here!”

“Forgetting for the moment that it was your idea …”

“I was drugged!”

“It was a
good
idea. What would you have preferred? The emergency clinic?… ‘Who’s that on the stretcher, Doctor? The one screaming.’ … ‘Oh, just Associate Professor Matlock, Nurse. He’s on an acid trip.’ ”

“You know what I mean! You could have taken me home. Strapped me down.”

“I’m relieved to see you don’t know much about acid,” said Greenberg.

“What he means, Jamie …,” Pat took his hand, “… if it’s bad, you should be with someone you know awfully well. The reassurance is necessary.”

Matlock looked at the girl. And then at Greenberg. “What have you told her?”

“That you volunteered to help us; that we’re grateful. With your help we may be able to prevent a serious situation from getting worse.” Greenberg spoke in a monotone; it was obvious that he didn’t wish to expand.

“It was a very cryptic explanation,” Pat said. “He wouldn’t have given me that if I hadn’t threatened him.”

“She was going to call the police.” Greenberg sighed, his sad eyes sadder. “She was going to have me locked up for dosing you. I had no choice.”

Matlock smiled.

“Why are you doing this, Jamie?” Pat found nothing amusing.

“The man said it: the situation’s serious.”

“But why
you?
”

“Because I can.”

“What? Turn in kids?”

“I told you,” said Jason. “We’re not interested in students.…”

“What’s Lumumba Hall, then? A branch of General Motors?”

“It’s one contact point; there are others. Frankly, we’d rather
not
have gotten involved with that crowd; it’s ticklish. Unfortunately, we can’t choose.”

“That’s offensive.”

“I don’t think there’s much I could say that wouldn’t be offensive to you, Miss Ballantyne.”

“Perhaps not. Because I thought the FBI had more important work to do than harassing young blacks. Obviously, you don’t.”

“Hey, come on.” Matlock squeezed the girl’s hand. She took it from him.

“No, I mean that, Jamie! No games, no radical chic. There are drugs all over this place. Some of it’s a bad scene, most of it’s pretty standard. We
both
know that. Why all of a sudden are the kids at Lumumba singled out?”

“We wouldn’t
touch
those kids. Except to help them.” Greenberg was weary from the long night. His irritation showed.

“I don’t like the way you people help people and I don’t like what happened to Jamie! Why did you send him there?”

“He didn’t
send
me. I maneuvered that myself.”

“Why?”

“It’s too complicated and I’m too washed out to explain it.”

“Oh, Mr. Greenberg did that. He explained all right. They’ve given you a badge, haven’t they? They can’t
do it themselves so they pick a nice, easygoing fellow to do it for them. You take all the risks; and when it’s over, you’ll never be trusted on this campus again. Jamie, for God’s sake, this is your
home
, your
work!
”

Matlock held the girl’s eyes with his own, doing his best to calm her. “I know that better than you do. My home needs to be helped—and that’s no game either, Pat. I think the risks are worth it.”

“I won’t pretend to understand that.”

“You can’t understand it, Miss Ballantyne, because we can’t tell you enough to make it reasonable. You’ll have to accept that.”

“Do I?”

“I’m asking you to,” said Matlock. “He saved my life.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Professor.” Greenberg shrugged as he spoke.

Pat stood up. “I think he threw you overboard and tossed you a rope as an afterthought … Are you all right?”

“Yes,” answered Matlock.

“I have to go; I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“No, you go ahead. I’ll call you later. Thanks for the ministrations.”

The girl looked briefly at Greenberg—it was not a pleasant look—and crossed to her dresser. She picked up a brush and rapidly stroked her hair, slipping an orange headband into place. She watched Greenberg through the mirror. He returned the stare.

“The man who’s been following me, Mr. Greenberg. Is he one of your men?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like it.”