Would he have had the same thought two weeks ago? Probably not, he thought; probably he would have sensed their boredom and resolved to dedicate more time to the neighborhood athletic league: “What these kids need is an interest. We need to set up some ball teams. Now let’s get a committee together and raise a little money for equipment.”
It was no longer the answer. Why should play-at-war games attract them when they had real wars to go to?
These were new thoughts for him and he wasn’t comfortable with them but they kept crowding everything else out of his mind. By the time they passed Lincoln Towers he was deep into a fanciful daydream about a ball-team of vicious teenagers to whom Paul was supplying high-explosive shrapnel grenades, disguised as baseballs, designed to annihilate teenage gangs.
He paid through the little tilt-slot in the plexiglass and got out on the corner. He was about to cross the street when his eye fell on a convertible parked in front of the supermarket. Part of the roof had been slashed open; it hung in gaping shreds. Probably there had been some item of minuscule value visible on the back seat; someone had pulled a knife, ripped the car open, reached in and stolen the object. People ought to know better than to park canvas-topped cars on the streets...
He stopped, drew himself up. What the hell kind of thinking is that?
Do we have to give up every God damned right we have? Do we have to let them scare us into giving up everything?
Fallen rain gleamed on the street like precious gems. He looked over toward the river — along the block, under the concrete of the West Side Highway. The lights of a boat were sliding past. Out there on the filthy river in a boat you’d be safe.
Safe, he thought. And that’s all we have left to shoot for?
The light changed and he had crossed the street and stepped up onto the sidewalk before he saw the man standing in the shadows right by the corner of the building. Standing against the wall, shoulder tilted, arms folded, smiling slightly. A black man in a tight jacket and a cowboy hat. As lean and efficiently designed as a bayonet.
Paul’s toes curled inside his shoes. His hair rose; the adrenalin pumped through his body and made his hands shake. They stood face to face with a yard of drizzling rain between them. The black man never stirred. Paul turned very slowly and put his foot forward and walked up the street with the sound of his heart in his ears.
A panel truck was parked in front of his apartment house, facing the wrong direction for the traffic; there was a police parking ticket on its windshield but it hadn’t been towed away: someone had slipped a few dollars to someone. Paul stopped beside the truck and used its big outside mirror to look back along the street. The black man stood where he had been, indistinct in the shadows. Streaming sweat, Paul went into the building.
The man’s smile: did he know who Paul was? Was he one of the ones who had killed Esther?
He was letting his imagination run away with him. Come on, get a grip on yourself. Kids, Carol had said. Teenagers. This guy was full-grown — he wasn’t one of them. Probably his amusement had been purely the result of Paul’s all-too-obvious fear; probably he was an intellectual, a playwright or a musician who’d just decided to post himself on that corner and see how long it would take the cops to roust him along — some sort of experiment to prove something about white bigotry.
Paul thought about going back outside and telling the guy it wasn’t a very wise experiment. If I’d had a gun in my pocket and you’d looked at me like that you might have been in a lot of trouble, fella. It was only a fantasy; there was no possibility of his going back outside. He nodded to the doorman and went back to the elevator.
A common enough fantasy though, I’ll bet. If I’d been there when that guy slashed that roof — if I’d seen it happen, and I’d been armed at the time...
8
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Ives?”
“Have a seat, Paul.”
Ives was the remaining survivor of the three nimble-penciled accountants who had founded the firm in 1926. It had moved uptown in stages from Beaver Street to Forty-third. The old man’s office was a repository for oddments of decor from each of the firm’s stopping places. An antique stock-ticker, a pair of grandmother clocks and four hideous gilt cherubs as wall decorations. The furnishings were pleasantly mismatched, the products of several different decades and levels of company prosperity: in one corner sat a modern Danish chair, a mock-Victorian step-end table, and a brass floorlamp from the ‘Twenties with a plain, cheap shade.
It was a huge office, plushly carpeted, occupying five hundred square feet of corner space with enormous windows on both exterior walls — a good view of the U.N. Building and the East River.
Paul pulled a chair forward and sat. Ives said, “How’s your daughter getting along?”
“Not much change from last week, I’m afraid.”
“A crying shame,” the old man said. “I certainly hope she pulls out of it.”
“The doctors have every confidence she will.”
“Yes. Well. Still I expect you’re very worried and anxious about her.”
“Yes, naturally.”
“There is something I can do to help — or to be exact, to help you to help yourself. That’s why I asked you to come by. It’s a job for you, and there ought to be a sizable bonus in it if everything works out as it should. I’m sure the hospital expenses are quite heavy for you — I realize you’ve got that major-medical policy, but all the same there are always considerable expenses the insurance won’t cover.”
“Yes sir, that’s quite true. I’ve had to dip into our little securities portfolio.”
“Then this ought to help handily.”
“I appreciate your consideration, Mr. Ives, but I’d prefer not to accept charity.”
“Nothing of the kind, Paul. You’ll earn it.” Ives had his elbows on the leather arms of his high-backed swivel chair. He steepled his fingers and squinted, making it clear he was going to be strictly business about it. “Of course it’s this Amercon situation. I had a call from George Eng this morning. Their board of directors wants to proceed in the direction he outlined to you a few weeks ago.”
“A merger with Jainchill Industries, you mean.”
“Yes. Howard Jainchill was here in the city last week and George Eng had several meetings with him. Everything seemed to go reasonably well, but of course they can’t sit down to do any serious dickering until the two companies have examined each other’s books. Naturally that’s where we come in, as Amercon’s accountants.”
“We’re to go over the Jainchill figures.”
“Yes, quite. Of course the Jainchill home-office is out in Arizona.”
Paul got a very straight look; Ives went on: “I thought, frankly, a trip away from the city might be good for you at this juncture.”
“Well, I hadn’t thought about it but it might be a good idea,” Paul said uncertainly.
Ives seemed to be waiting for a rider to the statement. When Paul added nothing the old man said, “Well then, that’s settled, you’ll fly out with George Eng the end of next week.”
“It’s very kind of you, Mr. Ives, but on a matter this big, shouldn’t one of the senior members handle it?”
“Not necessarily. It’s your kind of job.”
“Well, I’d like to be sure it’s not going to — cause friction.”