Free Garcia's Heart by Liam Durcan

slip your mind? All those years you were there, you knew it. How do you think I felt having someoneelse break that story, knowing you hadn’t told me? Well, I think you have more you’re hiding.”
    â€œBelieve me, I don’t.”
    â€œYou have choices, Patrick.”
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œYou can tell me anything, you know that, right? That way you’d at least have some control over how it came out.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œIt’s just that I’ve heard that you might be subpoenaed.” Elyse’s expression was neutral, a sky of imperial greys. “I’ll let you in on a little secret: everybody knows everyone else’s business here. It’s common knowledge that di Costini was talking to you in Boston. I’ve heard rumours that the prosecutors are interested in speaking to you too. Now that you’re here, I wanted you to know.”
    â€œThanks,” Patrick said, as calmly as possible, as he felt the physiologic reaction to a threat engaging inside him. He knew the circuitry: pathways converging on his amygdala that, in response, fired like an automatic weapon, a heartbeat pattering after, spent shell casings bouncing off the floor. He’d never considered being called to testify against Hernan, never thought that coming to Den Haag would make issuing a subpoena such a simple task. He’d been a fool to come. He imagined Elyse watching him for any sign, sneaking a look at his pupils or checking his brow for that first sheen of perspiration. Wondering how much he knew and what could be proved. And then, as if making a compromise to another physiologic reaction, the sense of panic passed. Elyse was just another person across the table. Nothing will happen , he repeated to himself. “Would you like dessert, Elyse?” he said, and felt the moisture on his upper lip.

 
    THREE

    Big bright sun outside the restaurant and Patrick stared up like a tourist taking in a special attraction. The wet Frederikstraat glistened and gave that odd sensation of something clean and filthy at the same time, which to Patrick seemed a pretty good civic motto for any place, even Den Haag.
    The topic of a subpoena had ended the meal, and they’d waited in uncomfortable silence for the waiter to arrive with the check. After that, Patrick excused himself and, without further explanation, got up to leave. Not one to take offence, Elyse announced that she too had other business–trams to ride, threats to make, he thought–and added, to his back as he walked away from her, that she was ending her afternoon with a meeting with someone at the tribunal.
    He tried to flag down a cab on Frederikstraat, but they blew by him like he was waving a meat cleaver. It was nothing personal, he was assured by the cab driver at a taxi stand in front of a hotel two blocks away, no roadside pickups–that was just taxi policy. He sank into the seat and minutes later hewas deposited at the entrance of the Metropole, where Pieter the concierge, Edwin’s shift replacement, made a scene.
    â€œDr. Lazerenko, there are people who are wanting to talk to you all day,” he pleaded, almost breaking into tears at having met the man who had been the source of his grief, the serial MBA threats he had endured, all those identical shouting American voices. Patrick understood that hotel culture must have a tolerance for clients like the one he had become: frightful, messy mysteries, importance gauged by the depth of complication they left behind them, forgiven only because they also trailed certain rewards in their wake. And sure enough, when Patrick promised he’d attend to the messages immediately and thanked Pieter for his attention with a requisite gratuity, the clerk dipped his head as if to acknowledge this understanding. It was wonderful, cleansing them both, like a UN guilt-for-cash exchange program. Then came the elevator ride of mirrors and silence