The Empty Glass by J.I. Baker Read Free Book Online

dwindled into nothing as they passed.
    Some didn’t.
    When he finally slept, I reached for the Wild Turkey in the kitchen cupboard, took the Kent pack from my pocket, and carried
The Book of Secrets
to the sofa that faced the window over Wilshire.
    I opened it and read.
    •   •   •
    T he tape moves slowly. You stare at me, eyes wide, the cigarette burning all the way down to your fingers.
    “So,” you finally ask. “What did you read?”
    “Tell me where Max is first.”
    “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
    “Talk about a double standard.”
    “You’re under arrest. How many times do I need to remind you of that? Now, what was in the diary?”
    I say nothing.
    The tape is at 23462.
    You take a long drag, cupping your hand over your mouth, and squint against the smoke. “I will wait for five more minutes.”
    The tape: 23465, 23466, 23467.
    “Time’s up.” You stand, turn the Sony off, carrying all but one unused tape from the room. The door slams with the deep echo of metal. The keys hanging from the ring around your belt jangle as, no doubt, you lock the door.
    Seconds later, the lock clicks again. The guard enters, pasty face and dull eyes, and clears away the evidence:
     
    1. The Smith & Wesson
    2. A vial of Nembutal
    3. A piece of notebook paper reading “Chalet 52” and “July 28”
    4. A stained manila folder containing a number of 8 × 10 photographs
    5.
Amahl and the Night Visitors
    6. A bag of ashes
    7. A new red MEMORIES diary
     
    The guard looks briefly up at me but doesn’t say a thing. He leaves the room and locks the door.
    I hear ticking, footsteps, and then nothing else for hours.

12.
    I t’s hard to tell how much time has passed. There are no windows in the room with the green paint and the ceiling with the light and the fan. I stare at the recorder that is the only thing left—that and the ashtray filled with spent cigarettes but no lighter or matches. It sits on a folded newspaper, dated October 22:
    “Let’s be clear-headed on Communism!” an ad reads. “The League strongly supports the President’s over-due decision to act against the Soviet build-up in Cuba.”
    I sleep, briefly, but I see what I always see when I close my eyes: the drugged woman, crouched on all fours.
    They never turn the light out.
    The Novril is wearing off. I don’t know what time it is—there is no clock—but hours must have passed and the ache is everywhere. I suppose that is why my voice is hard to understand when I finally thread the unused tape into the Sony, clear my throat, and press RECORD :
    “Okay” (I say). “I’ll tell you. The entry I read in the diary was about sex. The man she met at the party, the one she called the General, who wanted to see her house? He showed up at the house. And she showed her house to him. They had sex. Because she believed his lies, just like she believed his brother’s. He wore dirty white socks, okay?”
    Then I shout: “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
    No one responds, so I shout until I am hoarse:
    “She said he wore white socks under his suit! Said he was like a little boy! He came to see her house the morning after the party! They ended up in bed! He ended up—”
    The door opens. You walk in with a plate of food and—thank you, sir—the vial of Novril.
    I reach for it.
    “Grabby! Hang on, now. Eat first. A boy’s got to keep his strength up.” You pick the chicken off the bone in mealy shreds and hold it to my lips, feeding me; when I am finished, you say, “Dessert.”
    Dessert is three Novrils.
    I suck the bitter pills from your fingers; the pain fades, my vision blurs, and the whoosh from the vent on the floor is all I can hear as you adjust your glasses and ask one question. Then another.
    —try to say that I can’t hear you, but you don’t understand. It’s silent except for the sea in my head, the sound from the air vent below.

13.
    F ebruary 2, 11:05 p.m.
The funny thing was the socks they were white. He wasn’t