Malcolm sighed. He had been sitting across from the girl for an hour. From what he found in her purse, he knew she was Wendy Ross, twenty-seven years old, had lived and driven in Carbondale, Illinois, distributed 135 pounds on her five-foot-ten frame (he was sure that was an overestimated lie), regularly gave Type O Positive blood to the Red Cross, was a card-carrying user of the Alexandria Public Library and a member of the University of Southern Illinois Alumni Association, and was certified to receive and deliver summonses for her employers, Bechtel, Barber, Sievers, Holloron, and Muckleston. From what he read on her face, he knew she was frightened and telling the truth when she said she didn’t believe him. Malcolm didn’t blame her, as he really didn’t believe his story either, and he knew it was true.
“Look,” he said, “if what I said wasn’t true, why would I try to convince you it was?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Malcolm paced the room. He could tie her up and still use her place, but that was risky. Besides, she could be invaluable. He had an inspiration in the middle of a sneeze.
“Look,” he said, wiping his upper lip, “suppose I could at least prove to you I was with the CIA. Then would you believe me?”
“I might.” A new look crossed the girl’s face.
“OK, look at this.” Malcolm sat down beside her. He felt her body tense, but she took the mutilated piece of paper.
“What’s this?”
“It’s my CIA identification card. See, that’s me with long hair.”
Her voice was cold. “It says Tentrex Industries, not CIA. I can read, you know.” He could see she regretted her inflection after she said it, but she didn’t apologize.
“I know what it says!” Malcolm grew more impatient and nervous. His plan might not work. “Do you have a D.C. phone book?”
The girl nodded toward an end table. Malcolm crossed the room, picked up the huge book, and flung it at the girl. Her reactions were so keyed she caught it without any trouble. Malcolm shouted at her, “Look in there for Tentrex Industries. Anywhere! White pages, yellow pages, anywhere. The card gives a phone number and an address on Wisconsin Avenue, so it should be in the book. Look!”
The girl looked, then she looked again. She closed the book and stared at Malcolm. “So you’ve got an ID card for a place that doesn’t exist. What does that prove?
“Right!” Malcolm crossed the room excitedly, bringing the phone with him. The cord barely reached. “Now,” he said, very secretively, “look up the Washington number for the Central Intelligence Agency. The numbers are the same.”
The girl opened the book again and turned the pages. For a long time she sat puzzled, then with a new look and a questioning voice she said, “Maybe you checked this out before you made the card, just for times like this.”
Shit, thought Malcolm. He let all the air out of his lungs, took a deep breath, and started again. “OK, maybe I did, but there’s one way to find out. Call that number.”
“It’s after five,” said the girl. “If no one answers am I supposed to believe you until morning?”
Patiently, calmly, Malcolm explained to her. “You’re right. If Tentrex is a real company, it’s closed for the day. But CIA doesn’t close. Call that number and ask for Tentrex.” He handed her the phone. “One thing. I’ll be listening, so don’t do anything wrong. Hang up when I tell you.”
The girl nodded and made the call. Three rings.
“WE4–3926.”
“May I have Tentrex Industries, please?” The girl’s voice was very dry.
“I’m sorry,” said a soft voice. A faint click came over the line. “Everyone at Tentrex has gone for the day. They’ll be back in the morning. May I ask who is calling and what the nature of your business…”
Malcolm broke the connection before the trace had a chance to even get a general fix. The girl slowly replaced the receiver. For the first time she looked directly at Malcolm. “I don’t know if I believe everything you say,” she said, “but I think I believe some of it.”
“One final piece of proof.” Malcolm took the gun out of his pants and laid it carefully in her lap. He walked across the room and sat in the beanbag chair. His palms were damp, but it was better to take the risk now than later. “You’ve got the gun. You could shoot me at least once before I got to you. There’s the phone. I believe in you enough to think you believe me. Call anybody you want. Police, CIA, FBI, I don’t care. Tell them you’ve got me. But I want you to know what might happen if you do. The wrong people might get the call. They might get here first. If they do, we’re both dead.”
For a long time the girl sat still, looking at the heavy gun in her lap. Then, in a soft voice Malcolm had to strain to hear, she said, “I believe you.”
She suddenly burst into activity. She stood up, laid the gun on the table and paced the room. “I… I don’t know what I can do to help you, but I’ll try. You can stay here in the extra bedroom. Umm.” She looked toward the small kitchen and meekly said, “I could make something to eat.”
Malcolm grinned, a genuine smile he thought he had lost. “That would be wonderful. Could you do one thing for me?”
“Anything, anything, I’ll do anything.” Wendy’s nerves unwound as she realized she might live.
“Could I use your shower? The hair down my back is killing me.”
She grinned at him and they both laughed. She showed him the bathroom upstairs and provided him with soap, shampoo, and towels. She didn’t say a word when he took the gun with him. As soon as she left him he tiptoed to the top of the stairs. No sound of a door opening, no telephone dialing. When he heard drawers opening and closing, silverware rattling, he went back to the bathroom, undressed, and climbed into the shower.
Malcolm stayed in the shower for thirty minutes, letting the soft pellets of water drive freshness through his body. The steam cleared his sinuses, and by the time he shut off the water he felt almost human. He changed into his new pullover and fresh underwear. He automatically looked in the mirror to straighten his hair. It was so short he did it with two strokes of his hand.
The stereo was playing as he came down the stairs. He recognized the album as Vince Guaraldi’s score for Black Orpheus. The song was “Cast Your Fate to the Wind.” He had the album too, and told her so as they sat down to eat.
During green salad she told Malcolm about small-town life in Illinois. Between bites of frozen German beans he heard about life at Southern Illinois University. Mashed potatoes were mixed with a story concerning an almost fiancé. Between chunks of the jiffy-cooked Swiss steak he learned how drab it is to be a legal secretary for a stodgy corporate law firm in Washington. There was a lull for Sara Lee cherry covered cheesecake. As she poured coffee she summed it all up with, “It’s really been pretty dull. Up till now, of course.”
During dishes he told her why he hated his first name. She promised never to use it. She threw a handful of suds at him, but quickly wiped them off.
After dishes he said good night and trudged up the stairs to the bathroom. He put his contact lenses in his portable carrying case (what I wouldn’t give for my glasses and soaking case, he thought). He brushed his teeth, crossed the hall to a freshly made bed, stuck a precautionary handkerchief under his pillow, laid the gun on the night stand, and went to sleep.
She came to him shortly after midnight. At first he thought he was dreaming, but her heavy breathing and the heat from her body were too real. His first fully awake thought noted that she had just showered. He could faintly smell bath powder mingling with the sweet odor of sex. He rolled on his side, pulling her eager body against him. They found each other’s mouth. Her tongue pushed through his lips, searching. She was tremendously excited. He had a hard time untangling himself from her arms so he could strip off his underwear. By now their faces were wet from each other. Naked at last, he rolled her over on her back, pulling his hand slowly up the inside of her thigh, delicately trailing his fingers across rhythmically flowing hips, up across her flat, heaving stomach to her large, erect nipples. His fingers closed on one small breast, easily gathering the mound of flesh into his hand. From out of nowhere he thought of the girl who walked past the Society’s building: she had such fine, large breasts. He softly squeezed his hand. Wendy groaned loudly and pulled his head to her chest, his lips to her straining nipples. As his mouth slowly caressed her breasts, he ran his hand down, down to the wet fire between her legs. When he touched her she sucked in air, softly but firmly arching her back. She found him, and a second later softly moaned, “Now, please now!” He mounted her, clumsily as first-time lovers do. They pressed together. She tried to cover every inch of her body with him. His hard thrusts spread fire through her body. She ran her hands down his back, and just before they exploded he felt her fingernails digging into his buttocks, pulling him ever deeper.