“None whatever.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You can believe me. If I am nothing else, I am utterly honest.”
“The very young and the very old, both so utterly honest. How do you come by it so easily? It’s taken me half a lifetime, and I still haven’t managed it.”
“Perhaps because you think it’s come by so easily, Mr. Sachs.”
“Do you know what I think? I think everyone in this grubby little town is full of shit. What do you think of that, Professor Raines?”
“I think I dislike profanity.”
“Fuck you, Professor Raines.”
He seizes the collar of my coat abruptly, and twists it in his left hand. At the same time, his right hand comes up and he strikes me harshly and repeatedly across the face. He hurls me away from him like a broken twig. I am tempted to whimper. It is as though my father has administered a severe whipping.
“Don’t ever talk to me that way again, Mr. Sachs,” he whispers. “Ever.” He hesitates. “Do you understand me?”
I am angry enough to kill him. I do not answer him.
“Do you understand me?” he repeats.
Sara is not here in this silent wood to see me or to hear me, to lend support or give approval. But I find the courage, or the foolhardiness, nonetheless. I clench my fists and look directly into Raines’s eyes.
“Fuck you, Professor Raines,” I repeat.
He does nothing. He merely nods. Perhaps he is frightened. Or perhaps he is only waiting for another time. He turns abruptly on his heel and limps away from me. The leaves are falling softly everywhere around him, and the sky is still leaden with the promise of snow.
I keep calling Boston.
There is no answer at my son’s apartment. I begin to worry. Have the police broken in on him? Has he been foolish enough to hold onto his cache of marijuana, despite what happened to his friends? It is one o’clock on the Eastern seaboard. I may just catch Eugene before he goes out to lunch. I place the call with the switchboard downstairs, and then hear Bernice’s voice answering on the other end of the long-distance line. She is surprised to hear that I am in Salt Lake City. I tell her that I want to talk to Mr. Levine, and she asks me to wait just one moment His voice explodes onto the line.
“Sam? Where the hell are you?”
“Salt Lake City.”
“That’s pure crap, Sam. Where are you?”
“Crap or not, it’ll have to do, Eugene.”
“Why? What’s going on? Abby's been calling here every hour on the hour. Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What are you doing in Salt Lake City? Or wherever you are.”
“That’s not important. Eugene, I need your help.”
“I think you need a doctor’s help, is what you need.”
“I’ve been trying to reach David at his apartment in Boston, and I can’t get an answer. Some of his friends were arrested on narcotics charges. One of them is thinking of jumping bail David’s considering the idea of going with him if he leaves the country. I’m very worried about it.”
“If you’re so goddamn worried, come on home and take care of it yourself.”
“I can’t Eugene. Will you keep trying him in Boston?”
“Yes, I’ll keep trying him in Boston.” Eugene hesitates. “Where can I reach you, Sam?”
“Ah-ah, counselor. Transparent ploy. I’ll call you at home tomorrow morning.”
“I'll be out tomorrow morning. It’ll have to be tomorrow afternoon. What do you want me to ask David?”
“Find out what his friend is planning to do. And ask him if he got rid of that stuff in his apartment”
“What stuff?”
“He’s got marijuana in his apartment. I’m afraid the Boston police may come around with a search warrant.”
“Dumb bastards,” Eugene says. “Why don’t they leave the kids alone?”
“Yeah, why don’t they? Eugene?”
“Yes, Sam.”
“Will you call him?”
“Of course I will.” He pauses. “Have you talked to Abby?”
“Yes.”
“Sam… is this something I can… I can offer personal advice on?”
“I don’t think so, Eugene. Thanks.”
“It’s not another woman, is it?”
“Why does everyone think the only motive in the world is another woman?”
“When a man suddenly leaves without so much as…”
“Eugene, did you know that in certain primitive cultures, when a man turns forty, he packs up his belongings, picks up his staff, leaves his wife, his family, and his tribe, and goes off into the hills alone? Did you know that?”
“Sam, did you know that in certain primitive cultures, men shove animal bones through their lips and oysters up their ass? Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Where are you, Sam?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon, Eugene. Thanks again.”
It is snowing when I go out for lunch.
The town is still. The university streets have been covered by the silent fall, and all is still save for the sound of automobiles jingling by on tire chains. There is a sense of false peace. It causes me to wonder for only a moment why I am here to do murder.
The university students hurry past, their footfalls hushed.
I am followed to the restaurant, but when I head back for the hotel later, there is no one waiting for me. I am surprised. I check both directions. I scan the hallways across the street. No one. The snow has stopped, and it is bitter cold now. Perhaps the temperature has driven my tail indoors.
In the hotel room, everything looks just as I left it. The telephone, a blank pad, and a pencil are on the bedstand. The pillow is propped up against the headboard. I go to the dresser. My socks and handkerchiefs are in the top drawer. My shirts and undershorts are in the middle drawer. The bottom drawer contains the two nightshirts I brought with me. In the closet, my check jacket and my brown suit are hanging side by side, near my raincoat A pair of brown shoes are on the floor. Four ties and a brown belt are on the door hook. I go into the bathroom. Toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap are on the counter top. Razor, shaving cream, spray deodorant, and comb are in the cabinet. Everything seems in its place, exactly the way I left it. But I cannot shake the certain feeling that someone has been in this room during my absence. I go to the bed and sit on its edge. I lift the telephone receiver and wait until the law student behind the desk answers.
“This is Mr. Sachs in 506,” I tell him. “Were there any calls for me while I was out?”
“No, sir,” he answers. “No calls.”
“Any visitors?”
“There was a young man asking for you.”
“Did he leave his name?”
“No, sir.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was a tall black man, sir.”
“Wearing a fleece-lined jacket and a Stetson?”
“That’s the man.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“He asked whether you were registered, and I told him you were, and he asked me what room you were in, and then went to the house phone.”
“To call me?”
“I assume so, yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Not at all, sir.”
I replace the receiver on its cradle. I do not recall having written anything on the telephone pad, and yet there is a faint impression on its blank surface. I take the pencil in my hand and shade the marks with graphite until a number appears white against the gray: WH 3-5598. I recognize the number at once, and feel suddenly violated. I go immediately to my briefcase and open it. There are a small stack of office envelopes and at least a dozen sheets of stationery in the bag. I remove the top sheet and stare at the letterhead,