A lesson that Trevor the accountant was learning, for though he had no one to blame but himself for where he was (this irrational pursuit of a phantom called delight, he must be mad!), what he discovered there was not of his doing, nor could he have foreseen it. His emergency was this: finding himself, a respected middle-aged accountant, married, alone in a motel room with a young girl in raggedy shorts whose name he didn’t even know and, lying on the floor in his own blood, a wounded man, more or less naked and possibly dead, a gun on the bed and clothing scattered about, ambulance and police cars pulling up outside, sirens screaming. “Gosh, I’m so scared!” gasped the girl, dropping what she was carrying and throwing herself into Trevor’s arms, the bare arms around his neck frightening him nearly as much as the body on the floor or the red and blue lights flashing against the window blinds. “Thank goodness I’m with someone who knows what to do in situations like this!” Trevor’s knees had turned to butter, his brains too, and he had to bite his cheeks to keep from crying. “You’re so cool, man! Just grinning like that!” The police were hammering on the door. “Hey! Who’s in there? What’s going on? Open up!” “Don’t let them know I’m here!” the girl cried, and grabbing up an armful of clothing again, she ducked into the bathroom, blowing him a last-second kiss, just as the door exploded inward and men in white jackets, others in gray and blue, some with their pistols drawn, came crashing into the room. “There he is!” The butter melted and he sank to the floor, but was soon hauled, roughly, to his feet again. “Shoot him if he moves!” “That your shotgun, killer?” “No!” he whimpered, as something hard and pointy bruised his ribs.
“Ow!” His bladder gave way and a wet warmth spread to his knees. “It’s — it’s all a mistake! She—!” “She—? She, who?” “Wait a minute. Ain’t that John’s business manager?” “Trevor—?! What the hell are you doing here?” “I–I’m not, I don’t, it’s not what it—a client!” he gasped, churning up the head butter. “What—?!” “He, you know, a p-policy! Insurance! I, uh, I had to—!” “You’re tellin’ me you’re here to service a fucking insurance policy—?!” “I hope for old Dutch’s sake it’s a good one,” grunted one of the ambulance men lifting the motelkeeper onto a stretcher. “The poor bastard’s had the best part of him blown clean away!” “Yeah, pretty much tore his right hand off, too!” “Is he alive?” “Barely. He’s lost buckets.” “Lucky he had that two-way radio Otis give him, what with all the phonelines around here took out.” “Hey, this broken glass is weird! Look! One side’s like a mirror, but the other—” “Hold on, whose purple pants are these? These fruitbags yours, buddy?” “No!” “Anything in the pockets?” “Some golf tees. Keys. A pack of rubbers. No, wait! A billfold! Well, I’ll be goddamned!” “Who is it?” “These here are old Waldo’s pants!” “Jesus, you think he left without them?” “If he did, he shouldn’t be hard to find.” “Shit, John’s not gonna like this!” “No, but just the same we’ll have to get a warrant out.” “Yeah, well, later. We’re due over at the Tavern. Otis will be pissed if we don’t hustle our butts over there.” “What about all this shit?” “Grab it up and bring it along!” “Trevor, we oughta lock you up but we don’t have time. So, you go home and stay outa trouble now, goddamn it, and we’ll talk to you tomorrow, you hear?” He nodded bleakly, feeling the nausea rise again, and then he was alone in his wet pants on a bloodstained floor littered with broken mirror fragments, staring into the messy darkness of the little room beyond, which seemed to be reflecting his own dark messiness within. Alone, but not for long. Marge’s friend Lorraine poked her head around the door, then jumped inside and slapped the door shut with her hips. “Don’t look!” she shrieked, and only then did it register on him that she was wearing nothing but a shirt, tails tugged down between her thighs with both hands. She glanced around wildly, then loped leggily into the bathroom, high-stepping through the broken glass. “No! Stop!” he cried, but too late. Would this folly never end? He stumbled over, abashed, to explain what was beyond explanation, but when he looked there was no one in there but red-faced Lorraine, tying a towel on and screaming at him that he was a sick voyeuristic pervert, get the hell out! What was worse, she was right. She threw a toilet plunger at him and everything went black. Had he gone blind in the other eye as well? If so, so be it. Trevor had seen about all he ever wanted to see.