by Robert Stone
“Peace was fucking me. He was fucking me bad.”
“Last week we were ready to throw the shit away.”
“He hit me,” Hicks said.
Marge wiped away her tears and touched her forehead. “He hit you?” Her voice rose to an incredulous whine she could not control. “Are you three years old?”
“I was drunk. It seemed like a good idea.”
Marge tried to experience Gerald’s overdose as a good idea. It was not the way she was used to looking at things.
“So fuck Gerald?”
“That’s right,” Hicks said. “Fuck Gerald.”
“For all the obvious reasons.”
“Fuck all the obvious reasons.”
Feeling indifferent to Gerald made Marge cold. She put her sweater on.
“I should have done up when I had the chance,” she said. “I bet I get sick now.”
“Hue City,” Hicks said. “We had guys who were dead the day they hit that place. In the morning they were in Hawaii,’ in the afternoon they were dead. I had six buddies shot to shit in Hue City in one morning.”
“I quit,” Marge said. “Fuck Gerald.”
They did the freeways and Marge tried to map-read in the haphazard light. Near Ontario, a highway patrol car tailgated them for several miles. Sometimes people they could not see followed them from lane to lane, flicking brights.
Twice Marge routed them into wrong turns; they had to stop and reverse in an empty shopping center, in a weed-grown cul-de-sac between two illuminated lengths of wire fencing. Hicks said: “I want to get out of this city.” They drove east toward San Bernardino.
“Now what I do that for?” he asked after a while.
“Revenge?” she suggested. “Honor?”
He said nothing.
“Manhood? Justice? Christianity? Hue?”
“I knocked the fucker loose of his hold.”
Marge turned up the knitted collar of her sweater.
“He didn’t like his hold,” she said. “He felt guilty about it . . . It’s a political thing. Maybe you don’t know about that.”
Hicks laughed silently.
“What I do know . . . we’re fucked now.”
“Well,” Marge said, “you know me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“O.K.,” he said.
“Maybe we should split up?”
“No,” he told her, “we ain’t gonna split up.”
She did not look at him when he said it and she did not answer. It seemed to her that if she thought about pulling out even for a minute, she would be done for.
Please, can I go home now? Craven, chickenshit, and bourgeoise.
Better stay. If you can’t hack it straight up—be a shadow.
Somewhere on 15, in the desert, she had him pull up. He held her for a while; he was exhausted.
“Want me to drive?”
He took a canteen from the back seat and poured water over his hand and slapped it on his face.
“You don’t want to drive, you want to do up. Anyway I know where we’re going now. I know where we can stop.”
It was grossly uncool doing up. Warm canteen water in the canteen cap, the bag open on the floor, a propane lighter too hot to hold. Marge was being a shadow.
“What we need,” she said, popping in her thigh, “is some commitment.”
When she was stoned it was all terrific. The sun came up over the desert—there was tumbleweed and silence. “You are what you eat,” she said.
CONVERSE FOUND THE BUS TRIP BACK TO BERKELEY wearing. On the way to his house he paused on Telegraph Avenue to look over the machines in a used-car lot. Whatever became of him, he reasoned, it was after all California and everything from suicide to civil insurrection required a car to be done properly. Inspecting the price cards, he recalled that he had only what remained of Elmer’s two hundred dollars. In order to cadge more he would be morally bound to write some Nightbeat stories—in order to produce the stories he would have to spend several hours sitting around smoking dope. He decided it was out of the question.
When he arrived at his house and started up the front steps, Mr. Roche came out on the sidewalk and called to him.
“The lock’s been changed,” he said roguishly. “You won’t get in with your key.”
Confronted with Mr. Roche’s happy smile, Converse considered how stimulating it must have been to smash his head against the pavement. In happier times, he might have found a Nightbeat headline in the reflection.
“I paid your rent, for Christ’s sake. What do you want from me?”
“I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Roche said. “I’ll let you in myself.”
He sprang up the steps ahead of Converse and led him toward the front door.
“What about a new key?”
“It’s being taken care of,” Mr. Roche crooned.
They went up to the second floor. Mr. Roche opened the apartment and stood at the door with such deference that Converse might have been the Cardinal Archbishop of Los Angeles. There was someone waiting inside.
“Here he is, captain,” Mr. Roche said. Laughing gaily, he closed the door behind Converse.
It was a tall broad-shouldered man, slightly balding.
“What the fuck!” Converse exclaimed. Quite involuntarily.
“Actually,” the man said, “I’m not a captain at all.” He pulled Converse toward him. Spun partly around, Converse saw that there were two other men in the room. When he had his balance he saw that they were the men with whom he had watched television on the previous evening. The discovery alarmed him so thoroughly that he tried to force his way back to the door. The tall man pinned him neatly and led him to the center of the room.
“Don’t try that again, creep.”
They sat together at the end of his redwood picnic table. They appeared somehow embarrassed and did not look at him.
The tall man released Converse and produced a badge. Converse, in spite of his alarm, took the trouble to examine it closely.
“Come on,” the agent said.
Converse followed him into Janey’s bedroom. Antheil closed the door and sat in an armchair under the devil drawing. He wore a tweed jacket over a dark blue turtle-necked jersey and he had a robust mod mustache. He looked rather like a sympathetic young dean at an eastern liberal arts college. He looked like a friend of Charmian’s.
“What’s the matter with you? What are you so scared of?”
“What have you got?” Converse said.
At that moment, it was not fear he was experiencing. The sight of Antheil brought Charmian back to him with particular clarity. Something of her honeyed aura clung to the man’s tweed.
Converse was not ready for anger. What he felt was awe.
The agent smiled at him.
“You know what I was just reading? I was just reading your play.”
They were agreeable to look at, Converse thought. Antheil and Charmian. Big and elegant and expensive.
“I thought it was out of print.”
“Sure, but we have it. I liked a lot of it. I didn’t like the main character though. I didn’t think he was much of a marine.”
“No,” Converse agreed.
“I mean it doesn’t have to be the halls of Montezuma. But the guy was a real jellyfish, wasn’t he?”
He seemed to be waiting for an answer.
“I mean I couldn’t sympathize with a character like that.”
“Not everyone did.”
“I guess you were supposed to like him because he was against the Marine Corps. But if he was against the Marine Corps why didn’t he do something about it? Like refuse an order. Or go over the hill. You’d respect him more if he did something like that.”
“That would be a different play,” Converse said.
Antheil shook his head thoughtfully. He looked, not unkindly, into Converse’s eyes.
“That character—is that what you’re like? Is that you in the play?”
“No,” Converse said.
“Maybe a little?”
Converse shrugged.
“My questions are crude, huh? I don’t read as much drama as I should.”
He touched Converse lightly on the arm.
“Hey, little June’s a cookie, right?”
“What?”
“I said,” he enunciated slowly, “little June is a cookie.”
“She’s all right.”
“What did she have to say?”
Converse thought about it.
“To me—nothing. I thought she was sort of crazy.”
“She’s got some very bad friends in this town. Did you know that?”
“On some level.”
Antheil chuckled.
“You’re one wise cocksucker, aren’t you?”
Converse tried to brace. There was nothing to brace on.
“You know what I think on some level? I think you smuggled a shitload of heroin into this country.”
He did not try to answer.
“I think you’re the kind of smart cocksucker who writes a tear-jerk play against the Marine Corps and then turns around and smuggles heroin.”
“I deny that,” Converse said. “No more literary conversation until I call my lawyer.”
“You’re a classy one,” Antheil said with a disgusted smile. “Who’s your lawyer?”
“Benjamin Whiteson. Thirty-five Columbus Avenue.”
“Whiteson? Whiteson’s a Communist, you asshole. He can’t help you. What—seriously—do you think you’re going to do?”
“I haven’t made any plans.”
“I have a plan for you,” Antheil said. “I think I’ll just let you run loose. I guarantee you’ll be picked off the street within twenty-four hours.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Did you think about who you were cutting in on, running scag? The bike clubs. The black dudes in Oakland. The syndicate. I think I’ll feed them your ass.”
“Tell me this,” Converse said, “who are those guys out there?”
“Do you know those men?”
Converse did not answer. Antheil was delighted; he laughed.
“That’s all right, baby, I know you know them. Jesus, they really put the fear of God into you, didn’t they? Well they’re tame rats, Jim. They’re nothing compared to what you’ve got coming on the street.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re my witnesses. They’re cooperating in the investigation.”
“I see,” Converse said.
“You know the customs they have around here for dealing with clowns who try to take a piece of the trade?”
“It doesn’t concern me.”
“They’ll shoot you full of STP and put a blowtorch to your balls.”
“I’ve heard the stories,” Converse said.
“See, that’s all they do is deal dope and fuck people over. They spend a lot of time thinking up new wrinkles. I can see to it they get you.”
Through the bedroom window, Converse could see Mr. Roche hosing down the lawn behind his bungalow. Mr. Roche appeared to be singing.
“What do you think of your wife and Hicks?”
“I feel left out.”
Antheil looked at him as though a part of his face were missing.
“I’d say you took a fucking.”
“Look,” Converse said. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“You must be stupid. You’re not left out where I’m concerned.”
“What does that get me?”
“Maybe it gets you put to sleep. Or maybe you get to live your crummy little life.”
Converse laughed.
“What’s the matter with you? You think I’m being funny.”
“No,” Converse said. “I know what you’re being. You’ve got my number.”
Antheil watched him in silence for a moment.
“You better believe it,” he said.
“Oh I do,” Converse told him. “I do.”
“You’re an educated man. You turned yourself into an animal for dirty payoff.”
“I don’t admit that,” Converse said.
“You turned yourself into an animal for a dirty payoff. Where’s your daughter? Don’t you care about her?”
“Sure I care about her. She’s wherever Marge left her: I don’t know where.”
“Terrific for the kid.”
Antheil stood up with an expression of indignation.
“Listen, Converse,” he said earnestly, “no Commie lawyer is going to save you. None of your lame maneuvers are going to save you. But I can—I can keep you alive. If I want to.”
“I see,” Converse said.
“I want to hear about your wife. What can you tell me about her?”
Converse thought about Marge and what there was to tell Antheil about her.
“She worked for a theater in the city. Before that she worked in the Anthropology Department at U.C. She studied acting in New York a long time ago.”
Antheil sat down again. He shook his head in controlled impatience.
“I know all that shit, man. I know about her whole funny family. I want you to tell me what you want to tell me.”
Therapy, Converse thought. He had once been to a session of encounter therapy; the other participants had informed him that he was cold and remote. Someone had applied to him the term “automation-like” and they had tried to force him under a mattress.
So the last seventy-two hours were only the California sensibility continued by other means. Lots of confrontation between liberated psyches, lots of free associating.
He tried, wanting to tell Antheil something about Marge and then discovering what it might be. Esalen style.
“She’s half Irish and half Jewish,” he said. That usually went over—it had social content and an element of popular humor. Marge was driven to fury whenever he mentioned it in company.
“I’m trying to treat you like a human being,” Antheil said, “but you’re a fucking animal. Wait till you’re up to your neck in sand and the Bay’s coming in on your face—then get clever.”
Converse hastened to apologize.
“I mean,” Antheil said, “I want to know how to deal with her. Is she the kind of bitch who’d burn her own husband and split with a boyfriend and love every minute of it. Or is she a victim of circumstances? You know what she’s like.”
Something of the concerned public servant had crept into his manner. Converse felt that he was being offered a choice of responses. If he wanted her back, Antheil would offer to preserve her from the blowtorch. If he wanted revenge, there would be some of that.
“I think,” Converse said, “that she’s pretty moral basically.”
Antheil looked thoughtful for a moment, then his wholesome features expanded in a grin.
“Yeah?”
“She’s been under a psychiatrist’s care.”
Antheil put a hand over his face and laughed heartily.
“Oh Jesus,” he cried. His good humor was nearly infectious. “What a couple of yo-yos you are. You must have been out of your minds, the two of you. A psychiatrist’s care!” It took him a moment to regain his composure. “Well listen—if you show me it’s worth it to me, I can take care of both of you. But you better do what you’re told.”
“If I’m in trouble, I’d like to square it.”
“You’re in plenty of trouble, my friend, and so’s your crazy old lady. If you act in good faith you might get out of this with your skin on. If you bullshit me, I’ll see you die.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to help us get in touch with her.”
“I wish I could,” Converse said. “But as I explained to your witnesses out there, I don’t know where she is.”
“So I gather,” Antheil said sympathetically, “but we think we do.”
“Then why not get in touch with her yourselves?”
“The people she’s with are as bad as it gets. When we go in there, there won’t be much conversation. If you could get
to her—persuade her to help us out—things might go a lot better for both of you.”
“Who are the people she’s with? I thought it was Ray Hicks.”
“Do you know Those Who Are?”
“No,” Converse said.
“They’re very nasty people. They’re friends of Hicks’.”
“I don’t want to be facetious,” Converse said, “but what is it they are?”
“Everything,” Antheil said. “Dealers, faggots, extremists. Scum of the earth.”
“What do they mean, Those Who Are?”
“I don’t know,” Antheil said, “and I don’t give a shit. You want to help us out or you want to take your chances on the street?”
“I’ll talk to my lawyer.”
“No, you won’t, friend. You won’t talk to anyone—I won’t take the chance. If you want to square it, we’ll keep you where we can save you from yourself. And you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
“Suppose I walk out? Right now.”
“I told you what’ll happen to you.”
“Suppose I walk out anyway.”
“You can’t,” Antheil said. He seemed genuinely angry for the first time during the interview.
Converse elected to preserve what remained of the fiction of volition.
“Where do you want me to go?”
“Out of town. Not too far.”
“This can’t be legal.”
“You let me worry about that. I’m pretty good in court.”
“O.K.,” Converse said.
Antheil relaxed visibly.
“You’ve just done something smart for a change. Maybe you’re getting smarter.”
“I hope so,” Converse said.
“I don’t want you to panic,” Antheil said playfully. “I’m going to ask Mr. Danskin and Mr. Smith to come in now.”
He opened the door that led to the living room.
“Mr. Danskin,” he called. “Mr. Smith.”
Mr. Danskin and Mr. Smith entered with the air of men performing a mildly disagreeable obligation. Antheil turned to Converse.
“I think you all know each other.”
“It’s great to see a real loser really lose,” the bearded man told Converse. He was Mr. Danskin.
“I just told him he was getting smarter,” Antheil said.
Mr. Danskin shrugged.
“Who said he wasn’t smart?”