BLIND TRIAL by Brian Deer (good books to read for adults .txt) 📕

the northeast corner of San Francisco, was the classiest place Ben ever stayed. The company’s travel office booked him a “King Bed Bay View” on the twenty-seventh floor, with a king-size bed and bay view. Other features included a fifty-five-inch screen, minifridge, and coffee maker. Plus—most crucial on this bright Thursday morning—a wall of floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains.

Housekeeping woke him at 11:28. Lights on. “Excuse me.” Lights off.

When he heard the door shut, he rolled onto his back, spread his legs wide among the bed’s cool cotton, and stretched both arms to their limit. After last night’s caper with the gift for Murayama, he’d collapsed unconscious more than fallen asleep. And now, as the memory of those hours flooded back, he realized he hadn’t taken off his socks.

From Potrero Hill, he’d driven downtown and parked near Fourth and Stevenson. Then he’d carried the gift into the Marriott Marquis: an Uber guy delivering a meal. With the key card Hoffman gave him, he entered 815 and hit the light switch with an elbow. He knelt beside the bed, yanked open a drawer, and lifted a spare pillow to the carpet.

Then he let the brown package slide from inside the transparent bag, inside the yellow bag, stuffed the pillow back, shut the drawer with a foot, and folded both bags into his pockets. He unrolled a wad of bathroom tissue, rubbed everything he’d touched, killed the lights, opened the door, and scoured the handles.

Welcome to San Fran. Enjoy.

Spreadeagled in bed, he gazed into darkness, and diagnosed the throbbing in his head. At two in the ayem, he’d driven back to Potrero Hill, seen the lights in her apartment on the corner were out and the other white Sentra still parked. At two-thirty, he pulled over in the Tenderloin district and spent forty minutes on the Tinder app. And at nearly four o’clock—almost seven in Atlanta—he opened the door to the space in which he lay, his blood pumping half-and-half coke.

Now he folded his arms and hugged his chest. Every molecule of his body felt drained. Reaching down, he massaged his thigh adductors, moving upward in circular movements. He kneaded his belly, and up between his ribs, then his shoulders, neck, and temples.

Breathe in, breathe out. One. Breathe in, breathe out. Two. Breathe in, breathe out. Three.

His brain hurt.

Before hitting the sack, he’d fiddled with his phone and installed the BerneWerner app. Then he searched on Google for “Centralia Illinois” and a menu of sites came up. According to Wikipedia, it was sixty miles east of St. Louis, Missouri, with an Amtrak service to Chicago, via Effingham and Homewood, or to New Orleans through Memphis and Jackson.

Nine… ten… fifty… whatever… He rolled onto his side and groped for a switch, then slowly… slowly… but too, too, fast, the lifesaving curtains edged open on the day, and a fierce summer brilliance filled the room.

King bed. Check. Bay view. Check. Sore head. Check, check, check.

AT 13:06 he was slumped at a table in the hotel’s One Up restaurant. Sat stiffly opposite in a black suit, white shirt, and red tie ensemble: the object of his recent attention.

Murayama giggled over a purchase that morning: an Elvis Presley movie on disk. “Race car driver gets money for engine.” The cover line: Viva Las Vegas.

Ben moved slowly, thought more slowly, and spoke more slowly than that. “Staying downtown, then?”

“They find me a nice hotel,” the Jap in a Suit yelled.

“They’ll take good care of you, I bet.”

They studied the menu, skipping to main courses: Cuban Mojito Sandwich; Grand Turkey Sandwich; Straus Grass Fed Grilled Hamburger; Margherita Flatbread; Citrus Alfredo Pasta; Open Flame Corn Risotto.

“Beautiful city,” Murayama shouted.

“Not been here before. You got business here, or something? What gives?”

“Too far to go home and come back. I go to Washington Monday, Nagoya Wednesday. I think I fly too much. Do you also?”

Ben shook his head and wished he hadn’t as a searing ache burnt between his ears. “Me? Carbon footprint of a three-legged hamster. My idea of travel is Walmart.”

“That’s in America?”

“I think so.”

“Nice.”

“You’re back to DC then? Something going down?”

“Ho, ho. You are funny.” The Jap laughed like the last hundred gallons hitting a storm drain. “Monday is BerneWerner’s announcement. I will not want to miss that. A big moment for Trudy Mayr.”

“You think?”

“As we say in my country, ‘One last thrill on the way to the cemetery.’”

“Probably sounds better in Japanese.”

Ben ordered a burger. Murayama: the turkey sandwich. To drink: a big bottle of water.

“Going along to cheer, huh?”

“Ho ho. We have a saying in Japan. ‘Saru mo ki kara ochiru.’”

“Uh-huh?”

“Even monkeys fall from trees.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you may be very, very good. Like a monkey. Best at what you do. Yes. And make a mistake even so. One day, happy. Next day, boom.”

“Now if you weren’t such a nice guy, I’d say that sounds like a threat.”

“No, no, no. Sanomo years behind BerneWerner. Years. I mean only, ‘Who knows?’ Might happen to any of us. Maybe I fall from a tree.”

“A rope might help with that.”

Underneath the table, Murayama crossed his legs. “You are here with Trudy Mayr. Tell me, who does she see? I don’t think she travels so much.”

Ben finished chewing a cold French fry. “Hey, don’t ask me. I’m only a helper here. Only here for general advice.”

“Trudy Mayr takes advice from you? Be careful what you say.”

Ben’s Samsung beeped. He turned from the table. WhatsApp: Sumiko Honda.

I’ve an idea

Pls call me rt away

He didn’t want to call her. Not now, or ever. But if he didn’t, what complaints might follow? He cast a shrug at the Jap and tapped the phone. “What’s happening? I’m in a meeting. Need to be quick.”

“Look, I’m sorry to disturb you.” She sounded shifty enough. “But you didn’t come to the center this morning. And Dr. Mayr didn’t either. Is she okay?”

“Who knows? Probably getting over last night. Probably had an all-nighter with some random senior.”

“I thought you’d be with Hiroshi.”

“Exactly.”

“Has he said anything interesting?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t