He thought of going to the crumbling roominghouse where Lissa had lived. A double advantage to that: he might find her there, his only friend, his only ally, and in any case the place was such an armpit, such a ghastly hole, that he’d be beyond the reach of the slick computerized search processes of the contemporary age. Hiding deep down in a rotting pre-technological subterranea. But there was one huge disadvantage, too. Gomez, knowing about Lissa, knowing that her place was where he’d be most likely to go, would certainly set up a stakeout there. Waiting for him. Too risky. So where, then? He didn’t know.
He walked north. Keeping close to the darkened buildings, trying to attract no attention. One shoulder higher than the other as if he might shield his face that way. Randomly north as night closed in. Or not so randomly. He realized that his feet were taking him up Broadway, across the bridge, into Manhattan North. Toward the only other point on his compass, the vicinity of the network office.
Landmarks of his slender tattered past. Here he had walked that uneasy hopeful Maytime day. One-and-two-and-one-and-two. Step. Step. Feeling clumsy and uncertain within his own body. Trying to be natural about it. This is how Paul Macy walks. Proudly down the goddam street. Shoulders square. Belly sucked in. Opportunity beckons you. A second trip, a second start The bad dream is over; now you’re awake. Step. Step. Coming to an abrupt stop, he turned to his left and picked his reflection off the mirror-bright pilaster beside an office building’s entrance. Wide-cheeked, thin-lipped, standard sort of Anglo-Saxon face. And the girl, coming up behind him, caught short by his sudden halt, crashing into him. Nat, she said. Nat Hamlin, for God’s sake! The long cold needle slipping into his eye. Telling her politely but firmly, I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken. My name’s Paul Macy. People flowing smoothly around them. She was tall and slender, with long straight hair, troubled green eyes, fine features. Attractive in a tired, frayed way. Telling him not to play around with her: I know you’re Nat Hamlin, she said. Leaning toward him, fingertips clutching hard into the bones of his right wrist A baffling sensation in the top of his skull. A sort of intrusion. A tickling. A mild glow of heat. Along with it a disturbing blurring of identity, a doubling of self. The first surfacing of Hamlin, only he hadn’t known that then. Clinging to the side of the building with one hand and making a little shooing gesture at her with the other. Go on. Away. Out of my life. Whoever you were, there’s no room now.
And he hurried on toward the network office. Block after block, and there it was. Grim black tower. Windowless walls. He didn’t go in, not now, certainly not now. Fredericks. Griswold. Loftus. My colleagues. Smith or Jones. The Hamlin over there. One of my favorites, Griswold said. A gift from my first wife, ten years back, when Hamlin was still an unknown. Coughing. If you don’t mind—some cold water. Forgive me. You know, it’s only my first day on the outside. The strain, the tension. No, we’ll keep away from the network office tonight.
And here, the corner of Broadway and 227th, northeast side. Where he met her on a Monday evening. Pacing in a taut little circle. A self-contained zone of tension on the busy street. Looking at him in mingled amazement and delight. Color stippling her cheeks. Eyes fluttering: she’s scared of me, he realized. Oh, Nat, thank God you came! No, he said, let’s get this established once and for all. My name’s Paul Macy. What do you want? We can’t talk here, she said. Not in the middle of a crowd. Where, then? Your place? He shook his head. Absolutely not. Mine, then. We can be there in fifteen minutes. But everything’s filthy, she said, and he said, What about a restaurant? There’s a people’s restaurant two blocks from here, she said. I’ve been having lunch at it a lot. You know it? He didn’t. We could go there, she said. Yes.
I could go there again, too. Now. Now. The sudden call of hunger. Two blocks. Macy walked quickly. One shoulder higher than the other. Reaching the restaurant. A spartan socialist front, a plain glass window. Within, a deep narrow room with tarnishing brass walls and a bunch of sputtering defective light-loops threaded through the thatchwork ceiling. All right Let’s get some dinner. In here he had dinner with Lissa that night. Standing up, turning, walking away from her. And her scream. No! Come back! Paul! Paul! Nat! Her words leaping across the gulf between them like a flight of arrows. Six direct hits. St. Sebastian stumbling in the restaurant aisle. His brain on fire. And Hamlin’s voice, quite distinct, from a point just above his left shoulder.—How could you walk out on her like that, you snotty creep.
So here is where he first manifested himself. Very well. Let’s go in.
He thought he was hungry, and loaded his tray accordingly, stacking it with meat and vegetables and rolls and more. But when he had taken a seat at one of the long tables he found he had no desire for food. He nibbled a little. He let his eyes drift out of focus and disconnected himself from reality. How restful this is. I could sit here forever. But someone was touching his shoulder. A quick impertinent prod, a withdrawal, another prod. Why can’t people leave me alone? One of Gomez’ flunkies, maybe. If I pay no attention perhaps he’ll go away. He tried to sink deeper into disconnection. Another prod, more insistent. A hoarse harsh voice. “You. Hey, you, will you look at me a second? You stoned or something?” Reluctantly Macy let himself slip back into focus. A fat, stale-smelling girl in a gray dress stood beside him. Her face was as flat as a Mongol’s, but her skin was pasty white, her eyes did not slant. She said, “There’s a girl upstairs needs some help from you. You’re the one.”
“Upstairs? Girl?”
“You, yes. I know you. You were in here two, three weeks ago with that girl, that redhead, that Lisa. You’re the one who collapsed, fell flat on your sniffer, we had to carry you out, me and the redhead and the cabdriver. Lisa, her name is.”
“Lissa,” Macy corrected, blinking.
“Lisa, Lissa, I don’t know. Look, she helped you, now you help her.”
A floating film of memory. Standing by the restaurant’s credit console at the end of the counter that other time, authorizing it to charge his account ten dollars for his dinner. And a fat flat-faced girl waiting behind him in line snorting contemptuously. Was he paying too much? Too little? This girl.
“Where is she?” Macy asked.
“I told you. Upstairs. She came in yesterday, she was crying a lot, a big fuss. Passed out, finally. We got her a room and she’s still there. Won’t eat. Won’t talk. You must know her, so you go look after her.”
“But where? Upstairs, you said.”
“The people’s co-op, moron,” the fat girl said. “Where else? Where else do you think?” And strode away.
14
The people’s co-op, moron. Where else? Leaving his laden tray, he went outside and looked around. Of course: there was a hotel associated with the restaurant. Or vice-versa. They shared the building. Stark green-tiled facade; a separate entrance for the hotel, escalator going up, the office on the second floor. In a wide low empty lobby, much too brightly lit, a directory screen offered sketchy information about the present residents of the building. Macy, frowning, checked the M column first. Moore, Lissa? Not there. He glanced at L and, yes, there was an entry for “Lisa,” nothing else, no surname, checked in June 3, eleven p.m., room 1114. There’s a girl upstairs needs some help from you. And how to get upstairs?
A door to his left opened and a blind man came in, moving confidently and swiftly around table and chairs and other obstacles. The sonar mounted in his headband going boing boing boing. Tan jacket, yellow pants, fleshy face, eyes half-closed showing only the whites. “Excuse me,” Macy said, “can you tell me where the liftshaft is?” The blind man, without stopping, pointed over his right shoulder and said. “Elevator’s back there,” and disappeared through a door to Macy’s right. Macy went through the other door. Elevator. Eleventh floor. Up.