“How does this make me ruthless? Isn’t self-preservation more important than—”
“Shut up and listen to me!” Diane said. “All those years, God, all those years and this was what you were becoming! This! I watched when you crushed Di Angelo to get the cutting-room-foreman job, and I watched while you smashed half a dozen men in that factory to get to the top, and I watched while you ruined Robinson, and I was ready to watch on this Boston thing, knowing you’d throw the Old Man, and Benjamin, and how many others into the street! With resignations, Doug? Would you have allowed them to resign? Oh, God!” She covered her face with her hands, unwilling to sob, unwilling to show any sign of weakness.
“This is a different thing entirely,” King said.
“No, this is the same damn thing! The same pattern! Over and over and over again. People just don’t mean anything to you any more, do they? You just don’t care about anything but yourself!”
“That isn’t true, Diane, and you know it. Haven’t I always given you whatever you wanted? Haven’t I been a good father to Bobby? A good husband to—”
“What have you ever given to me or Bobby? A roof? Food? Trinkets? What have you ever given of yourself, Doug? When have I ever meant more to you than your business? What am I now but a good bed companion?”
“Diane…”
“Admit it to yourself! You said the business was your life, and you meant it! Nothing else matters a damn to you! And now you’re ready to murder a boy! After all these years, you’ve arrived! You’re finally ready to murder an innocent little boy!”
“Murder, murder, you throw the word around as if—”
“It’s murder! Pure and simple! You can call it what you want, but it’s murder! You are about to commit a murder and, goddamnit, this time I won’t watch you do it!”
“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
“I mean this, Doug. I mean you’ll pay those kidnapers.”
“No. I won’t, Diane. I can’t.”
“You can, Doug, and you will. Because you’re going to have to choose between your business and something besides Jeffs life.”
“What?”
“If you don’t pay them, Doug, I’m leaving.”
“Leav—”
“I’m taking Bobby and I’m getting out of this house.”
“Now, come on, Diane, you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re…”
“I know exactly what I’m saying, Doug. Pay those men, because I don’t want to be anywhere near you if you don’t! I don’t want to be anywhere near something that’s turned rotten and filthy.”
“Diane…”
“Rotten and filthy,” she repeated. “Like one of the machines in your factory. A filth-clogged—”
“Honey, honey,” he said, and he reached out for her. “Can’t you—”
“Get away from me!” she shrieked, and she pulled away from his grasp. “Not this time, Doug. This time you don’t drag me into bed and make everything all right that way! I don’t want your hands on me, Doug. This time you’re doing murder, and I’ve had it—right up to here!”
“I can’t pay,” he said. “You can’t ask me to.”
“I’m not asking, Doug,” she said coldly. “I’m telling. When those men call tomorrow morning, you’d better have the money for them. It had better be ready and waiting for their instructions, Doug. It had better be.”
“I can’t give it to them,” he said. “Diane, I can’t pay. You can’t ask me to.”
But she had already walked out of the room.
* * * *
10
Morning.
The city slumbers. The piercing cold is designed for late sleeping. It couples with the blackness outside to make the bed a sanctuary. There are cold floors in this city, and no one is anxious to touch them with bare feet.
The alarm clocks begin to ring when it is still dark. There is no sign of the sun yet. The stars are beginning to flee the vault of the night, but there is no spark of warmth on the horizon to the east. The morning is filled with blackness, and the alarm clocks penetrate the gloom with their staccato rings and persistent hums, their automatically tuned music, Good morning, America, it’s time to rise and shine.
Go to hell, and the hands reach out to silence the never sleeping voices of time, go to hell, and a shoulder is turned into a warm blanket, flesh touches flesh, George, it’s time to get up.
Mrmmbbb.
George, honey, it’s time to get up.
The Georges of the city slip from beneath the blankets, leaving the warm womb of the connubial bed, their toes touching icy floors. The Georges of the city shiver and dress quickly, and the water in the tap (hot or cold, it makes no difference) all feels as if it is rushing from an icy mountain stream. It is a chore to shave. The light in the bathroom casts a cold eerie glow. The wife and kids are still asleep, and there is something unnatural about being the only person awake in the apartment, one of a million Georges who are awake throughout the city, performing their early-morning toilets. It is still cold in the apartment, but the radiators are beginning to bang now, and soon there will be the hiss of heat, the penetrating smell of heat. The coffee pot in the kitchen is beginning to perk, and the rich aroma of the brew will invade the apartment soon. Even the water from the tap feels a little warmer now. But best of all, the sun is coming up.
It rises without a problem. Boldly, it peers over the edge of the night, wearing a halo that turns the bowl of the sky upon itself, sends it rushing away, spikes of yellow intimidating the deep blue, fiery oranges boldly pushing at the night, rising, rising, like a giant suddenly standing, the sun touches the east, lines the edges of the building with sudden yellow, washes the River Harb in gold, covers the streets with warmth, no problems has the sun, no complexities, it is simply a matter of rising, it is simply a matter of shining. Good morning, America, it’s time to rise and shine.
The neon lamps blink in sudden weakness against the overwhelming power of the sun. In the empty canyons of the city, the traffic signals click monotonously. There is no traffic; the reds and greens are meaningless. There are no pedestrians to heed the Walks and Don’t Walks. Reds and greens flash, and the sun’s single hot eye reflects on the countless glass eyes of the traffic signals, lights the windows of the tall buildings so that they gleam eastward with a hundred torrid glares.
A blind man taps his way along the pavement.
On the river, the traffic comes to life. The Georges of the river wake to the smell of brine and the smell of cooking bacon. The whistles begin to hoot up and down the curving waterfront. On a Navy vessel, reveille is piped over the loudspeaker system.
The street lamps go out.
There is only the sun now.
A patrolman makes his silent rounds, trying the knobs of stores, leaning close to the plate-glass doors, peering into shops. He glances at his watch. Five-forty-five. In a few hours he will be relieved on post.