Corbin managed a small smile as he allowed himself to be led into a square old-fashioned bathroom where an oversized tub squatted heavily on clawed feet. Gwen called it her candlelight-and-wine-for-two tub. But this time it would be all for Jonathan. She turned both taps on full and waited for the usual belch of rust to clear before dropping a rubber plug into the drain. Gwen straightened and turned, invitingly pushing open the shower curtain. Corbin seemed hesitant, as if unsure of what he was expected to do next.
“The usual course is to undress,” she observed, “unless one's clothing needs a good soak as well.”
If she had not known Jonathan Corbin so long and so intimately, she would have sworn that she saw the beginnings of a blush. She watched him as he undid his necktie and carefully folded it across a varnished wicker hamper. Next he pulled off his shoes and took pains to place them neatly under a makeup stool. Gwen realized he was stalling but could not think why. The sight of Jonathan's undraped physique was hardly new to her. They'd shared this very tub several times during his first weeks in New York. Now, as she watched, he opened his cuffs and slowly worked the three top buttons of his shirt. Again Corbin hesitated. He stood, eyes averted, fidgeting with the third button, as if reluctant to proceed further while she was in the room. Gwen reached to shut off the taps. In that moment, Corbin made a half turn and, gripping the collar of his shirt, pulled it sweater fashion over his head.
“Why did you do that?” Gwen asked.
It was a small thing, she knew, but it was the latest in a series of small peculiarities in his behavior. How many times had she seen him remove his shirt? Hundreds, certainly. But she'd never once seen him pull it off over his head. Not Jonathan or any other man.
Her question seemed to confuse him. He followed her eyes to the shirt, which he held with one hand against his chest. With his other hand he touched his fingers to the row of still unopened buttons. With a self-conscious shrug, Corbin spread the shirt further over his bare chest, looked uncomfortably at Gwen, and waited.
“Do I gather you'd prefer privacy,” she asked, “or is it just that you don't want me to know your technique for removing trousers?”
Corbin's lips moved but he said nothing.
“You do remember me,don't you?”
Still no answer. Just a look of desperate sadness that told her he knew perfectly well how strangely he was behaving and how much his actions must be troubling her. “I'll bring you your drink,” she said, forcing a smile. She closed the bathroom door behind her.
“You do remember me, don't you?” she'd asked. Corbin bRooded over the question as the hot water eased the spring-taut muscles of his neck and shoulders. The double Scotch, nearly gone, had passed quickly through his empty stomach and was mercifully dulling the edges of his thoughts. Yes, he had remembered her. Of course he remembered Gwen. But there had been times, mostly brief flickering moments, when he remembered her as someone else. A woman he knew but did not know. Margaret. A woman called Margaret.
See, he thought. She even has a name. How unreal could she be if he knew her name, remembered her face, could hear the way she spoke and laughed, and could.almost feel the soft texture of her skin. Margaret. Lovely Margaret. Beloved Margaret. A marvelous young lady. Very much a lady. One who could make him the happiest and most miserable of men all at the same time. Margaret.
Margaret? Margaret, damn it, who are you?
There had been moments on the subway when he thought he was with her. He'd been sitting with her when he rose to give his seat to another lady of... quality? Another lady of quality. And breeding.
There. There was another thing. An expression he'd never used, or even thought, in his entire life. Nor was he in the habit of surrendering subway seats to women, either, unless they seemed old or weak or were carrying babies. But this time it seemed natural, proper. And looking back, he wasn't sure how much quality and breeding that woman had anyway. She reeked of money all right, but she was behaving like a jerk. None of that, however, had even crossed his mind at the time. He was happy, he was with Margaret, and they were going to the house, the brownstone, where Margaret lived. Except this wasn't it. He seemed to realize that only as he stepped through Gwen's front door and recognized the place. And he knew that Gwen had seen his confusion. Or his disappointment. It wasn't Margaret's place and Gwen Leamas wasn't Margaret. But she had been, by God. Just moments before. The woman he helped. The woman he walked with, his arm around her tiny waist, from the corner to this house. That was Margaret.
Corbin picked up his glass and drained it, then made a face at the taste. Scotch. He'd have preferred hot rum on a day like this. Or maybe a bumper of mulled wine sprinkled with pepper. One or the other. These were the drinks his taste buds expected, even if he'd never so much as tasted either one in his entire life. Corbin wasn't even sure what a bumper was.
Then there was that business about the shirt. Corbin couldn't say why he was suddenly bashful about undressing in front of Gwen, but he knew about the shirt. He only opened the three top buttons because he thought three buttons were all it had. The rest of the shirt was supposed to be solid. Even stiff. Heavily starched. And he pulled it off over his head because that's how a shirt has to be removed when it only opens halfway down and because that's the way he always takes off his dress shirts. Except Corbin knew he never had. Not ever.
The double Scotch and the heat of the water were working together now. On his mind as well as his body. His anxiety began to soften into a sort of floating detachment. It was a more merciful state of mind because it permitted thoughts that he would not otherwise have allowed himself to entertain. And words he would not otherwise have considered if applied to himself.
Such as possession, he thought, or haunting. Such as here's old Jonathan Corbin trying to live his life while somebody else is trying to take it over. A dead man. A ghost. A ghost who starts seeing other ghosts the minute he gets access to Jonathan Corbin's eyes. A ghost who kills when he gets hold of Jonathan Corbin’s arms and legs. A ghost who loves when he takes over Jonathan Corbin’ s heart. A ghost who loves Margaret.
“Who are you, ghost?” Corbin whispered into the steam rising off his chest. “And why do you only come out when it snows?”
But that, Corbin knew, was not exactly right, either. He began to wonder if the ghost had always been there. Just out of sight. During all the times of his life when he did things that made no real sense to him afterward. Maybe even like buying that place in Connecticut. Was that you, ghost? Is it me who feels so good up there? Or is it really you?
And Gwen. Look what I'm doing to Gwen. There's the kind of woman you meet once in a lifetime and I could only let her get just so close. I used to think there was something wrong with me. Something missing. But it isn't something missing. It's something extra. It's you, you bastard. It's you standing at my ear every time I begin to care about someone, saying not this one. This isn't the one. The one you have to wait for is about five feet two, she has wide green eyes with little gold flecks in them, a mouth that always has a little smile, and light brown hair that goes down past a waist you could fit both hands around. I know her now. Margaret. I've seen her. I've even talked to her. But who are you, God damn it?
Who the hell are you?
Corbin did not know that he screamed the question until he heard it echo off the tiles.
Four
As the taxi plowed to a stop outside the Lexington Avenue entrance to Grand Central Terminal, Raymond Lesko dropped a ten-dollar bill into the lap of a surprised Marvin Posey, who had fully expected to be stiffed. The cab company, Lesko was sure, would see no part of the money since the off-duty light had been left on and the meter off for the entire ride. But the ten spot would make the driver less likely to log the trip. Lesko heard the door locks snap shut behind him as he climbed a mound of shoveled snow and stamped into the terminal building.
Inside, the former New York City policeman checked his watch. Half past four. He was ninety minutes early for his meeting w
ith the secretive little man who was funding this particular activity. However, passing that time in one of the station's various bars seemed preferable to sitting in the back of a taxi enduring Posey's prolonged sulk. Lesko bought a copy of the New York Post from a vendor who'd moved his stand out of the storm and proceeded toward the Oyster Bar on the lower level.
The bar, he noted gratefully, was still half empty. This meant that the inevitable series of frozen switches and stalled trains had either hot yet begun or had not been posted. Within an hour the Oyster Bar would be jammed with sullen commuters. Many would not reach their homes at all that night.
Choosing a stool at one end, Raymond Lesko ordered a Heineken and nursed it as he reviewed his notebook, leaving an account of his expenses until last. This completed, he unfolded his New York Post, whose four-inch headline shouted the single word blizzard, and then flipped to the sports pages, where he began a hopeful assessment of the play-off chances of the New York Knickerbockers. Only forty-five minutes and two Heinekens had passed when he felt a presence at his right shoulder.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dancer,” he said without turning.
How long the smaller man had been watching him, even following him, Lesko did not know. It was the habit of Mr. Dancer, who apparently had no first name, to arrive early for their meetings. He would wait unseen for Lesko's appearance and then choose a place of conversation where, Lesko presumed, there would have been no opportunity for prearranged eavesdropping.
“There is a satisfactory table in the corner,” came the tight little voice. Lesko heard a note of irritation in it. Good, he thought. Let the little bastard wonder if I've been watching him as long as he's been watching me. He picked up his beer and newspaper and turned to join Dancer, who was already seated, an attache case partly open on the table in front of him.
“May I be assured, Mr. Lesko,” he began, offering no greeting, “that I have not been under your surveillance?”
“You hire a detective, you hire his instincts,” Lesko replied offhandedly. “But no, I haven't been tailing you.” He didn't add that if he ever did, this turkey would never know it.
“You understand that any such attempt would be in serious violation of our working arrangement? That it would be grounds for immediate and uncompensated dismissal?”
“I've answered your question, Mr. Dancer.” At least all I'm going to, Lesko thought. The simple truth about knowing you were behind me is that you sponge on enough Aramis to have every fairy within fifty yards sniffing at your ass.
Dancer grunted, indicating acceptance of Lesko's reply at some level, and began fingering a device inside his attache case that made soft clicking sounds. Lesko knew what it was. He was being scanned for recording devices and very likely being recorded himself. He used the time to study the man who sat across from him. It was, Lesko knew, a basically unrewarding exercise, since barely a hair on Dancer's head changed from one meeting to the next. He wore a dark blue, expensively tailored three-piece suit. Dancer must have had six more just like it, plus perhaps a ledger-lined blue pinstripe for his wilder moments. His shirts were invariably white and well starched, probably from either Brooks Brothers or Sulka. His ties were always a solid maroon, except for one lapse when he wore a recognizable club tie. He wore untasseled loafers by Bally of Switzerland on feet that were exceptionally small, even for a man of Dancer's unexceptional height. His body was squash-court lean, maybe tennis-court lean, thought Raymond Lesko, noting the callus on the inside of Dancer's right thumb. On the wrist above it, Dancer wore a gold Patek Philippe watch with a black face, blank, no numerals, which seemed an admirable fit to his personality. His hair was freshly trimmed, probably twice a week by one of those barbers who make office calls. Lesko guessed his age at thirty-eight, although he could possibly have been ten years older.
“Are you drinking anything?” Lesko asked, although he perfectly well knew the answer.
”A Perrier, please. Two slices of lime.”
Lesko mentally rolled his eyes as he signaled the waitress. The little twerp even drinks designer water.
“Your report, if you please.” Dancer moved his case to one side of the table, having propped the lid from inside so that it remained open a half inch. Lesko pretended not to notice. He opened his notebook to a paper-clipped page well short of his most recent entry.
”I have a pretty good fix on the subject's history. How deep do you want to hear it?”
“All of it,” Dancer told him. “Assume I know nothing.”
The ex-cop waited while the Perrier and another beer were set on the table along with a bowl of fresh peanuts.
“The subject's full name is Jonathan T Corbin. He was born—”
“What does the T stand for?”
“Nothing. Just an initial on his birth certificate. No period after it, as in Harry S Truman. If it ever stood for anything, nobody who's alive seems to know what it was. Anyway, Jonathan T Corbin was born in Evanston, Illinois, on the twenty-fifth of December, 1944. A Christmas baby.”
“You're certain?” Dancer stiffened slightly.
“About which part?”
“Never mind. Please continue.”
“Parents,” Lesko read, turning his notebook up toward an overhead light, “were the former Agnes Ann Haywood of Wilmette, Illinois, and Captain Whitney Corbin. The father never saw him. He was an Army Air Corps pilot, reported missing in action in Europe on November sixth, 1944. Later confirmed killed.”
“Positive identification?”
“Enough for the army. There were civilian eyewitnesses to a crash and burn just outside of Antwerp. The local Resistance ended up with his dog tags and turned them over to American Intelligence a month or so later.” But a funny question, Lesko mused. Why should Dancer care about being sure the Corbin guy's father bought the farm?
“Do you have a marriage date for the parents?”
And there's another one, he thought. But as a matter of fact, he did. “The parents were married by a Cook County Justice of the Peace on June thirtieth, 1944. The baby was already three months in the oven. The captain had been home between tours in March of the same year, which is obviously when Jonathan T Corbin was conceived. I don't know how the father pulled it off in time of war, maybe because he won a few medals, but he wrangled a compassionate leave and the army sent him home long enough to get married and also to do a short war bond tour around Evanston and some other Chicago suburbs so it shouldn't be a total loss. After about ten days they shipped him back to his fighter escort base in Bury St. Edmunds. That's in England. East Anglia.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Lesko.” Dancer pursed his lips in an expression meant to assure the ex-cop that he had a passing knowledge of English geography. “Kindly continue.”
“That's it for the father. He won one more medal for shooting up a troop train and another one for getting killed. The University of Notre Dame, where he went, put up a plaque in their trophy case with some of his medals and a baseball MVP he won there in the early forties. As for the mother, Agnes Haywood Corbin stayed home with her own parents, had the baby, and after about two years she got married again to a lawyer named George Satterthwaite. Satterthwaite bought a house in Winnetka and the two of them raised the kid.”
“As a Satterthwaite?”
“Funny you should ask,” Raymond Lesko answered, this time saying it out loud. “The records were a little confusing at first. What happened was that Satterthwaite adopted the kid and then filed for a legal name change. Judges won't usually let a stepfather do that, but Satterthwaite knew his way around the courts and he found one who would. It turned out to be a waste of time because the kid changed it back to Corbin, Jonathan T, just before he started high school. The second petition for a name change said he wanted to keep his blood identity and, besides, Jonathan Satterthwaite was too much of a mouthful. Try saying it fast after you've had too many Perriers.”
Dancer waved off the suggestion with an impatient flick of his fingers. In his eyes, and in
the nervous tapping of his knuckles, Lesko saw a curious mixture of excitement and annoyance. It was the body-language equivalent of a slap to the side of one's head when he learns something he should have known all along. As in, So that's where the goddamned kid was. Lost in a bunch of legal papers and some lawyer's ego trip. Lesko had the clear impression that he'd just earned his fee.
“Anyway,” he continued, “the kid finished high school and then followed his real father to Notre Dame. Father's footsteps all the way. Good grades, played most of the same sports. Made co captain of the baseball team. He wasn't the star his old man was, but Corbin's thing was really boxing. Real good record as an intercollegiate light-heavy. He was going out for the 1968 Olympic trials until mononucleosis knocked him on his ass. Otherwise, never knocked out, never off his feet. He still puts on the gloves over at the New York AC. This guy's no pansy even if his head's not always on straight.”
Dancer's eyebrows ticked upward. “You found a history of that?”
“Of what?”
“Irrational behavior. Compulsiveness. Paranoia.”
Lesko studied the smaller man. “Who said anything about that?”
“Have you or have you not?”
Lesko hadn't. Not really. Not in Corbin's past, anyway. Well, maybe one little thing. ”I talked to one of his teachers who remembers him getting counseling for what they call an identity crisis these days, but the problem doesn't seem to have been serious. The teacher wouldn't have even mentioned it except I told him I was doing a government security check.”
Time Out of Mind Page 4