“I mean, you know what that’ll do to him.”
“Yes, David, I know.”
“So he’s going to leave the country. The point is should I go with him or not? He’s my best friend”
“Are you asking my advice?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him not to jump bail. If he does, he adds an additional charge to all the others. And if he goes to a foreign country, he can be extradited.”
“They can extradite for drugs, huh?”
“Yes, son.”
“Still, Pop, he’s my best friend.”
“David… friends come and go.”
“Pop, please don’t give me that shit.”
“All right. But you’ll be traveling with a fugitive. And the way things are now in this country, guilt by association is as real as it was dining the McCarthy era.” I hesitate. I don’t know what more to tell him. I am suddenly very fearful for him. “David,” I say, “leaving the country is a cop-out I don’t want you to cop out”
“Deserting a friend is a cop-out, too,” he says.
“David…
“Especially when the goddamn stuff was planted.”
“That’s his allegation.”
“Hank says it was planted, and he wouldn’t lie to me.” He pauses. He is trying to think of what to tell me next When he finally speaks, it is not as a twenty-year-old young man; it is as a child sitting on my knee. “Pop, it isn’t fair.”
“I know it isn’t”
“What shall I do?”
“What about your apartment?”
“What about it?”
“Is there any stuff there?”
“Yes. Some pot, that’s all.”
“Get rid of it”
“I will.”
“And make sure you don’t let anybody in who might…”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow. I want to know what Hank intends doing. And you, too.”
“Can’t I call you, Pop? I may be in and out…”
“No, I can’t give you the number here.”
“What?”
“I said I can’t give you the number here.”
“Why not?”
“I’m at a client’s house, and I can’t divulge his name.”
“Oh,” he says. I know he does not believe me.
“I’ll get to you tomorrow. Be very careful, son.”
“Don’t worry,” he says.
“Good night.”
“Good night, Pop.”
I hang up. The tissue I hung over the painting’s eyes has come loose and is dangling from one comer. I pour myself another drink. I suddenly wish the train would arrive tonight It is getting later and later and later. We are losing them all, we are losing our sons. We are sending them to war, or sending them to jail, or sending them into exile, but we are losing them regardless — and without them there is no future.
I sit drinking steadily.
My conversation with David has dissipated the fine good high I was building, but I am soon on the right road again, drinking myself stiff and silly. I feel like calling my mother. I feel like calling her and saying, Guess what little Sammy grew up to be, Mama? An assassin, how do you like them apples? We have assassinated all the good guys in this country, Mama, and now I am about to knock off one of the bad ones, even the score and change a little history into the bargain. What do you think, Mama? Are you proud of me, Mama?
I am crying when the telephone rings. I am crying, and I do not know why.
“Arthur?”
“What do you want, Sara?” I look at my wrist watch. It is two o’clock in the morning.
“I tried to get you earlier,” she says. “Your line was busy.”
“So it was. Here I am now, What is it?”
“Don’t be angry, Arthur,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“I’m sorry, anyway.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
“Roger called me just a little while ago.”
“Who?”
“Roger.”
“Who the hell…? Oh, Roger. How is old Roger? How are all the Indians doing down there in Arizona?”
“He’ll definitely be here for Thanksgiving.”
“Good, I’m glad. Give him my regards when he arrives, will you?”
“Arthur, I am sorry. I am truly sorry. Please believe me.”
“I believe you, Sara.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
“No, no, no need,” I say. “I’ve got a very important job to do. It’ll require all my time and energy. I.ll be occupied morning, noon, and night. Don’t worry about me, honey. You worry about old Roger, okay? Old Roger’s the one you have to worry about, not me.”
“Arthur…”
“Good-bye, Sara darling,” I say, and quietly replace the phone on its cradle.
(Even fantasies must end.)
Friday, October 25
I am being followed.
My follower is a tall black man wearing black boots, Levi’s, a brown fleece-lined leather jacket, and a white ten-gallon hat. His garb is not unusual. This is a Western town, and cowhands roam the streets together with university students, giving the place the look of a motion picture lot where various costume pictures are being shot simultaneously and the actors are milling about dressed for diversified roles.
My follower is not Seth Wilson. He is too tall to be Seth. I never get a close look at his face, but he has broad shoulders, a narrow waist, a long rangy stride. He rolls cigarettes with one hand. He is altogether a very frightening mean-looking son of a bitch. I am certain that Seth Wilson has put him on my tail and that he will beat me up in an alley one night for having dared to touch the fair Sara Horne.
I lead him across town and back again. He is expert at his job, and I cannot shake him. All I gain for my efforts is a working knowledge of the town’s geography and a backache. When I return to the hotel, I take the elevator up to the second floor, get out quickly and look through the large window to the street below. My follower is just entering the lobby. I ring for the elevator again and proceed to the fifth floor and my room. There is a message under the door. Professor Raines has called. I dial his number and he says he would like to meet me, if I am free. I tell him that I am. I do not mention the follower.
I change into my raincoat and take the steps down to the hotel basement. Chambermaids are carrying clean sheets wrapped in brown paper. A bellhop wheels a serving cart past me and into the elevator. I find a fire door leading to the adjacent hotel garage. I move through lines of parked automobiles and then peek into the street toward the hotel marquee. My follower is nowhere in sight. I hastily leave the garage, turning left away from the hotel At the corner, I turn left again and hail a taxicab.
It is difficult to imagine Cornelius Raines as the mastermind of an assassination plot. He is a frail man in his late sixties. He walks with a barely perceptible limp, favoring his right leg. We have agreed to meet at the university’s arboretum, and it is there that I find him pacing anxiously, even though I am five minutes early. He greets me effusively, but his pale blue eyes remain guarded and passive. We walk past trees tagged by the university’s Biology Department. The color here is pleasant, but not as effusive as it had been in the ravine yesterday. The sky, too, has turned an ominous gray. It looks as if it might snow. Raines limps along beside me. He wears a black coat with a small black fur collar, a black Homburg. I keep thinking he should be carrying a cane.
He is slow to get to the point I begin to wonder why he invited me here. At last, he says, “I know you don’t get along with Hester.”