“Come on,” he said, a happy impatient child. “Come on.”
“What, uh—what color? What color would you be?”
When the doorbell rang, a little before nine, the three of them were eating dinner at the kitchen table. Jessup had insisted on preparing the meal himself, and then had insisted on Manny and Claire eating it with him, though neither of them had much appetite.
Claire found Manny both fascinating and terrifying. There was a temptation to react to him as though to a willful but charming child, but Manny was no child; he seemed, in fact, to be not human at all, and Claire found she was treating him finally like a charming but unpredictable animal, a pet that might or might not be domesticated. As with an animal, the reasoning processes in Manny’s head seemed both primitive and incomprehensible. And, as with an animal, Claire understood there would be no arguing against him if he should turn on her; as much argue with a leaping mountain lion. The strain of watching his volatile moods and trying to keep out in front of him was fraying her nerves, but distracting her from the large problem of Jessup, who was after all the leader, the mart with the reins of the situation in his hands.
Whatever Manny was high on—and it was clear he’d been taking some sort of drug—the peak had apparently passed during his time in the bedroom, leaving him now in a pleasant cloudy afterglow, his mind turning slowly and coming up with strange materials from the bottom of his skull. The game of Surrealism had been full of a kind of morbid beauty, Manny’s images sometimes being very odd and personal and irrational, but frequently they contained touches of poetry and at times were amazingly indicative of the person he had in mind.
But always dead people. They had taken turns asking the questions, and when Claire had chosen a living woman senator, it had taken Manny a long time to guess who she meant, and then he was angry and upset. “No fair, she’s still alive!”
“You didn’t tell me we were—”
“You can’t use live people! They don’t have any aural So they had remembered only dead people after that.
Jessup had refused to join in the game. Now that his larger game, whatever it was, had moved into a phase of waiting—he expected to have to wait thirty-one hours from Parker’s phone call to Parker’s appearance here— Jessup was surly and uncommunicative. The sparks and flashes of light were deep in his eyes, but they showed as irascibility and bad temper now.
Somehow the meal he’d prepared reflected his mood. It was vaguely Mexican, full of tomatoes and peppers, very hot, and lay in an unappetizing mass on the plate. But Jessup watched the two of them with narrowed eyes, demanding that they eat, and they both ate, Manny making a game out of this too, joking with Jessup about the meal looking like dead people’s stomachs, while Claire mechanically moved the fork from plate to mouth, plate to mouth.
The doorbell both shocked and relieved her; she had no idea who it could be or what it could mean, but it made it possible, at least for the moment, to stop eating. She put the fork down at once, and looked across the table at Jessup.
Jessup was looking twice as irritable as before. He said, low-voiced, “Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t expect anybody?”
“No. Really.”
“If you’re trying something—”
“I’m not,” she insisted. “Really.” She felt she was going to cry; to get away with so many lies, and then to have him about to do something to her for something she hadn’t done—it wasn’t fair.
Jessup got to his feet. “We’ll be close enough to hear,” he said. “Manny, come over here with me.”
The two of them went into the front left corner of the kitchen, where they would be out of sight of anyone outside the doorway. “Answer it,” Jessup said. “If it’s somebody that has to come in, we’re friends, we dropped in for a Mex dinner.”
Claire went to the door and opened it. One of the few things that had bothered her about this house when she’d first seen it was the lack of an entrance foyer, (he main door opening from the driveway directly into the kitchen. She wondered now if that would have made any difference, if a foyer or entranceway would have given her a few seconds in which to whisper a warning to whoever was at the door.
There was no way to tell, and in any case there was nothing but the door. She opened it and a youngish man was standing there, his hair moderately long in what used to be called a pageboy style. He was wearing a sheepskin jacket, his hands were in the jacket pockets, and he was smiling. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Morris. I’m looking for a fellow called Parker.”
Morris. She remembered the name from Parker’s description of the robbery; this was the man who’d stood on watch on the roof. “Mr. Parker isn’t here,” she said, suddenly very nervous, wondering how much Parker had told Morris, wondering if Morris would expose her lies now.
And at the same time she was speaking, she heard Jessup, low-voiced, saying from the corner, “Invite him in.”
“Won’t you come in, Mr. Morris?”
“Well, it’s Parker I’m looking for. He isn’t here?”
“Not right now. Come in, let’s not stand in the doorway.”
“Thanks.” Morris came through the doorway, still smiling, saying, “You expect him back—”
Jessup and Manny were walking forward, both of them smiling. “Hi,” Jessup said. “I’m Jessup. We just stopped in for some Mex dinner.”
Morris kept the smile on his face, but his eyes were suddenly watchful, and his hands came out of his jacket pockets. “Jessup? You a friend of Parker’s?”
“We’re more friends of Mrs. Willis here,” Jessup said.
Morris looked at Claire, who strained to be natural in her appearance and the sound of her voice, saying, “That’s right, they’re old friends of mine. They knew I was all alone here, so they dropped in. That’s Manny.”
Manny grinned happily and said, “Hi, baby. Did you say your name was Morris?”
“That’s right.”
Manny giggled, and poked Jessup. “That’s a coincidence, ain’t it?”
“That’s right,” Jessup said, though he didn’t sound happy about Manny’s saying it. He explained to Morris, “We were looking for a guy by that name a while ago. We were supposed to do a job with him, but we couldn’t find him. Down in Oklahoma, around there.”
“In Oklahoma.” Morris turned his head and said to Claire, “You expect Parker back soon?”
“Well, Mr. Parker doesn’t live here,” she said. If he knew the truth, she hoped he was fast enough to adjust. He looked as though he probably was. “But I do expect to see him—”
“Later tonight,” Jessup said. “In fact, we figured we might play a little cards later on, when he got here.”
“Or Surrealism,” Manny said. To Morris he said, “You ever play Surrealism?”
“Once.”
“Really? Isn’t it great? This lady here is great at it, ain’t you?”
“Not as good as you are,” Claire said. She even managed a smile.
Jessup said, “Hey, why don’t we eat? Morris, you hungry? You like Mex?”
“I could eat.”
“You all sit down,” Claire said. “I’ll set the place.”
She tried to maneuver herself into a position where neither Jessup nor Manny could see her face, so she could signal Morris somehow, but Jessup kept turning around in his chair, watching her, asking brightly if he could help. She saw that Morris watched Jessup and Manny with slightly narrowed eyes, suspicious in a small way, but not at all sure something was wrong.
Food was dished out for Morris, and then they all sat down again, Claire facing Morris, Jessup to her left, Manny to her right.
Jessup said, “How come you’re looking for Parker? Business?”
“In a way,” Morris said.
Jessup gave Claire a brief noncommittal glance, then said to Morris, “I guess everybody knows to come here if they want to see Parker.”