The Clouds Roll Away Read Online Free Page A

Because tapes can break or get damaged, agents kept a separate log for each phone line, marking date, time, and every single on-off moment. I’d seen illegible notes blotched with coffee and grease but since September 11, 2001, we recorded digitally in real time, down to a tenth of a second. The work was easier now, but more boring.
    â€œAnything I should know before you leave?” I asked Stan.
    â€œThings stay quiet until about 7 or 8 p.m.”
    I was certain he wanted to say more, but the gray door flew open with a bang and a woman tumbled into the room calling out, “Halloo!”
    She carried a large embroidered bag and headed for the table at a run, hoisting the bag up, letting it land with a thud. She laughed, a high shrill sound. “I cannot believe who they give driver’s licenses to these days; is anyone testing these people? By God’s grace alone I got here in one piece. You must be Raleigh. I’m late!”
    I glanced at Stan. He shifted his eyes to his briefcase, which lay open on the table near the enormous bag. He began stuffing papers, clamping it shut without organizing any of it.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said to the blustery woman. “You must have the wrong room. This is T-III surveillance.”
    â€œLouise Jackson.” She stuck out her hand. “Only nobody calls me Louise. Except my brother. And he’s got Alzheimer’s so even he doesn’t call me that anymore. My name’s Beezus. My sister, may she rest in some kind of peace after what she did to me, she never could get Louise out of her cruel little mouth, and, well, you know nicknames. They stick like toad spit on a good dress.”
    She cocked her head, looking at me carefully. “What do they call you—no, wait, let me guess. They call you . . . Leigh.”
    â€œRaleigh. Just Raleigh.”
    â€œOkay, ‘Just Raleigh.’” She swatted at my arm. “I brought us all kinds of goodies.”
    From the embroidered bag she extracted two thermoses and a series of Tupperware containers, stacking them on the table like a small Eiffel Tower.
    â€œDon’t worry about keeping up your strength. I brought plenty of fuel for us both. I pickled these radishes last summer.” Suddenly she stopped, cocking her head again, like a dog hearing a silent whistle. “You know, before we get started, I better use the little girl’s room.”
    Beezus raced out of the room. I looked at Stan.
    â€œWho is she?”
    â€œBeezus Jackson. She’s cleared for security, but I’ve only seen her organizing files and stuff for Phaup.”
    Ah, the flashing red light. “Was she on phone surveillance before today, or is she a little gift just for me?”
    â€œUm, well, it’s a lot for one person.”
    â€œStan, you’re working alone.”
    â€œYeah.” He stretched out the word, layering it with inflections. “But see, they don’t make a lot of calls on my shift. The gang sleeps most of the day. I’ve got two hours of silence. Your shift’s probably different.”
    I took a deep breath. The stench from the trash gagged me. Or maybe the fact that Stan, a junior agent, only had to work two hours, alone.
    â€œI’m on five hours, Stan.”
    â€œOh.”
    Beezus blew back into the room. “Reporting for duty,” she said.
    Stan’s face held a pained expression, like a gas bubble pressed against his diaphragm. He put one hand on my shoulder. “Good luck,” he said.
    I didn’t even bother. It was just so obvious.
    Luck didn’t exist.

    The next morning I woke from crazy dreams knotted by two alternating threads: the incessant chatter of Beezus Jackson and the peculiar dialect of Ebonics spoken by gangsters. After a long, hot shower in the carriage house, I walked across the courtyard to the mansion on Monument Avenue.
    Built by the Harmons in 1901, the three-story brick was creeping toward serious neglect.