“All right,” he said. His stomach felt worse than ever. He felt like he was going to throw up.
“This place is clean,” Magliore said, “and I know it’s clean. Furthermore, I know you’re clean, although God knows you’re not going to be if you go on like this. But I’ll tell you something. About two years ago, this nigger came to me and said he wanted explosives. He wasn’t going to blow up something harmless like a road. He was going to blow up a fucking federal courthouse.”
Don’t tell me any more, he was thinking. I’m going to puke, I think. His stomach felt full of feathers, all of them tickling at once.
“I sold him the goop,” Magliore said. “Some of this, some of that. We dickered. He talked to his guys, I talked to my guys. Money changed hands. A lot of money. The goop changed hands. They caught the guy and two of his buddies before they could hurt anyone, thank God. But I never lost a minute’s sleep worrying was he going to spill his guts to the cops or the county prosecutor or the Effa Bee Eye. You know why? Because he was with a whole bunch of fruitcakes, nigger fruitcakes, and they’re the worst kind, and a bunch of fruitcakes is a different proposition altogether. A single nut like you, he doesn’t give a shit. He burns out like a lightbulb. But if there are thirty guys and three of them get caught, they just zip up their lips and put things on the back burner.”
“All right,” he said again. His eyes felt small and hot.
“Listen,” Magliore said, a little more quietly. “Three thousand bucks wouldn’t buy you what you want, anyway. This is like the black market, you know what I mean?-no pun intended. It would take three or four times that to buy the goop you need.”
He said nothing. He couldn’t leave until Magliore dismissed him. This was like a nightmare, only it wasn’t. He had to keep telling himself that he wouldn’t do something stupid in Magliore’s presence, like trying to pinch himself awake.
“Dawes?”
“What?”
“It wouldn’t do any good anyway. Don’t you know that? You can blow up a person or you can blow up a natural landmark or you can destroy a piece of beautiful art, like that crazy shit that took a hammer to the Pieta, may his dink rot off. But you can’t blow up buildings or roads or anything like that. It’s what all these crazy niggers don’t understand. If you blow up a federal courthouse, the feds build two to take its place-one to replace the blown-up one and one just to rack up each and every black ass that gets busted through the front door. If you go around killing cops, they hire six cops for every one you killed-and every one of the new cops is on the prod for dark meat. You can’t win, Dawes. White or black. If you get in the way of that road, they’ll plow you under along with your house and your job.”
“I have to go now,” he heard himself say thickly.
“Yeah, you look bad. You need to get this out of your system. I can get you an old whore if you want her. Old and stupid. You can beat the shit out of her, if you want to. Get rid of the poison. I sort of like you, and-”
He ran. He ran blindly, out the door and through the main office and out into the snow. He stood there shivering, drawing in great white freezing gulps of the snowy air. He was suddenly sure that Magliore would come out after him, collar him, take him back into the office, and talk to him until the end of time. When Gabriel trumpeted in the Apocalypse, Sally One-Eye would still be patiently explaining the invulnerability of all systems everywhere and urging the old whore on him.
When he got home the snow was almost six inches deep. The plows had been by and he had to drive the LTD through a crusted drift of snow to get in the driveway. The LTD made it no sweat. It was a good heavy car.
The house was dark. When he opened the door and stepped in, stamping snow off on the mat, it was also silent. Merv Griffin was not chatting with the celebrities.
“Mary?” He called. There was no answer. “Mary?”
He was willing to think she wasn’t home until he heard her crying in the living room. He took off his topcoat and hung it on its hanger in the closet. There was a small box on the floor under the hanger. The box was empty. Mary put it there every winter, to catch drips. He had sometimes wondered: Who cares about drips in a closet? Now the answer came to him, perfect in its simplicity. Mary cared. That’s who.
He went into the living room. She was sitting on the couch in front of the blank Zenith TV, crying. She wasn’t using a handkerchief. Her hands were at her sides.
She had always been a private weeper, going into the upstairs bedroom to do it, or if it surprised her, hiding her face in her hands or a handkerchief. Seeing her this way made her face seem naked and obscene, the face of a plane crash victim. It twisted his heart.
“Mary,” he said softly.
She went on crying, not looking at him. He sat down beside her.
“Mary,” he said. “It’s not as bad as that. Nothing is.” But he wondered.
“It’s the end of everything,” she said, and the words came out splintered by her crying. Oddly, the beauty she had not achieved for good or lost for good was in her face now, shining. In this moment of the final smash, she was a lovely woman.
“Who told you?”
“Everybody told me!” She cried. She still wouldn’t look at him, but one hand came up and made a twisting, beating movement against the air before falling against the leg of her slacks.” Tom Granger called. Then Ron Stone’s wife called. Then Vincent Mason called. They wanted to know what was wrong with you. And I didn’t know! I didn’t know anything was wrong!”
“Mary,” he said, and tried to take her hand. She snatched it away as if he might be catching.
“Are you punishing me?” she asked, and finally looked at him. “Is that what you’re doing? Punishing me?”
“No,” he said urgently. “Oh Mary, no.” He wanted to cry now, but that would be wrong. That would be very wrong.
“Because I gave you a dead baby and then a baby with a built-in self-destruct? Do you think I murdered your son? Is that why?”
“Mary, he was our son-”
“He was yours!” she screamed at him.
“Don’t, Mary. Don’t.” He tried to hold her and she fought away from him.
“Don’t you touch me.”
They looked at each other, stunned, as if they had discovered for the first time that there was more to them than they had ever dreamed of-vast white spaces on some interior map.
“Mary, I can’t help what I did. Please believe that.” But it could have been a lie. Nonetheless, he plunged on: “If it had something to do with Charlie, it did. I’ve done some things I don’t understand. I… I cashed in my life insurance policy in October. That was the first thing, the first real thing, but things had been happening in my mind long before that. But it was easier to do things than to talk about them. Can you understand that? Can you try?”
“What’s going to happen to me, Barton? I don’t know anything but being your wife. What’s going to happen to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s like you raped me,” she said, and began to cry again.
“Mary, please don’t do that anymore. Don’t… try not to do that anymore.”
“When you were doing all those things, didn’t you ever think of me? Didn’t you ever think that I depend on you?”
He couldn’t answer. In a strange, disconnected way it was like talking to Magliore again. It was as if Magliore had beaten him home and put on a girdle and Mary’s clothes and a Mary mask. What next? The offer of the old whore?