by Trevanian
"What! Oh, it's you, Dr. Hemlock. Rotten! That's how things are going! These shitty flowers want nothing but water! Water, water, water! A bunch of turd-eating lushes, they are. Water heads! Say, what kind of swimming suit was that neighbor lady wearing? I could see right through to her boobs. A little cross-eyed, they were. You take a look at this spade! Near bent in half! That's how they make them these days! Not worth a tiny pinch of coon shit! I remember the time when a spade..."
Jonathan mumbled apologetically that everything looked fine, and he sneaked off toward his house.
Once under the cool and reassuring expanse of the vaulted nave, he discovered he was hungry. He compiled a lunch of macadamia nuts, Polish sausage, an apple, and a split of champagne. Then he smoked a pipe and relaxed, purposely not harkening for the ring of his telephone. Dragon would contact him when he was ready. Best just to wait for him.
To distract his thoughts, he went down to the gallery and passed some time with his paintings. When he had taken as much from them as he could just then, he sat at his desk and worked desultorily on the overdue Lautrec article, but it was no good. His mind returned to Dragon's intentions, and to the threatened Pissarro. Without putting it into words, he had known for some time that he could not continue working for CII. Conscience, of course, played no part in his growing disaffection. The only pangs he ever felt over killing a member of the scabby subculture of espionage were resentments at being brought into contact with them. Perhaps it was weariness. Tension, maybe. If only there were a way to support his lifestyle, his home, and his paintings without association with the Dragons and the Popes and the Melloughs...
Miles Mellough. His jaw set at the thought of the name. For nearly two years he had been waiting patiently for fate to give him a chance at Miles. He must not leave the cover of CII until that debt was attended to.
He had permitted very few people to penetrate his armor of cool distance. To those who had, he was fiercely loyal, and he insisted that his friends participate in his rigid views of friendship and loyalty. But in the course of his life, only four men had gotten close enough to merit his friendship, and to run the concomitant risk of his wrath. There was Big Ben Bowman, whom he had not seen for three years, but with whom he used to climb mountains and drink beer. And there was Henri Baq, a French espionage agent who had had the gift of finding laughter in everything, and whose gut had been cut open two years ago. And there was Miles Mellough, who had been responsible for Baq's death after having been Henri and Jonathan's closest friend.
The fourth had been The Greek, who had betrayed Jonathan during a sanction job. Only luck, and a desperate four-mile swim through a night sea had saved Jonathan's life. Of course, Jonathan should have been worldly enough to realize that any man who trusts a Cyprian Greek deserves a Trojan fate, but this did not prevent him from biding his time until he ran across him in Ankara. The Greek was not aware that Jonathan knew who had sold him out—perhaps, being Greek, he had even forgotten the incident—so he accepted the gift of his favorite arrack without hesitation. The bottle had been doctored with Datura. The old Turk who did the job used the ancient method of burning the Datura seeds and catching the smoke in an earthen jar into which the arrack was then poured.
The Greek is now, and will always be, in an asylum, where he sits huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth, humming a single note endlessly.
The score with The Greek settled, only Miles Mellough's debt was still outstanding. Jonathan was sure that one day he would happen upon Miles.
The jangle of the telephone jarred him from his morbid stream of free association.
"Hemlock? Reports are in from Montreal. Good job, pal." Clement Pope's brassy, insurance salesman voice was enough to make Jonathan testy.
"My money wasn't in the mailbox this morning, Pope."
"Well, how about that?"
Jonathan took a deep breath to control himself. "Let me talk to Dragon."
"Talk to me. I can handle it."
"I'm not going to waste time with a flunkey. Get Dragon to the phone."
"Maybe if I came out there and we had a good chat...?" Pope was taunting. He knew that Jonathan could not afford to be seen in his company. With Dragon's necessary seclusion, Pope had become the public face of SS Division. Being seen with him was tantamount to having a "Support CII" sticker on your automobile.
"If you want the money, pal, you'd better cooperate. Dragon won't talk to you over the phone, but he will see you."
"When?"
"Right now. He wants you to take a train in as soon as possible."
"All right. But remind him that I am depending on that money."
"I'm just sure he knows that, buddy-o." Pope hung up.
Someday, Jonathan promised himself, I'll be alone in a room with that bastard for just ten minutes...
Upon reconsideration, he settled for five.
NEW YORK: June 11
You're looking especially attractive this afternoon, Mrs. Cerberus."
She did not bother to look up. "Scrub your hands in the sink over there. Use the green soap."
"This is new." Jonathan crossed to the hospital sink with its surgeon's elbow lever instead of the conventional twist tap.
"That elevator is filthy," she said, her voice as scaly as her complexion. "And Mr. Dragon is in a weakened condition. He's near the end of a phase." This meant that he would soon receive his semiannual total replacement transfusion.
"Do you intend to donate?" Jonathan asked, rubbing his hands dry under a jet of hot air.
"We are not the same blood type."
"Do I detect a note of regret?"
"Mr. Dragon's blood type is very rare," she said with evident pride.
"In humans at any rate. May I go in now?"
She fixed a diagnostic glare on him. "Any colds? Flu? Digestive disorder?"
"Only a mild pain in the ass, and that's a recent development."
Mrs. Cerberus pressed the buzzer on her desk, and she waved him into the interlock without further comment.
The usual dim red light was not on, but the rising heat was as stifling as ever. The door to Dragon's office clicked open. "Come in, Hemlock." Dragon's metallic voice had a weak flutter in it. "Please forgive the absence of the red light. I am more than usually fragile, and even that dim light is painful to me."
Jonathan groped forward for the back of the leather chair. "Where is my money?"
"That's my Hemlock. Directly to the point. No time wasted with the conversational amenities. The slums have left their mark."
"I need the money."
"True. Without it you will be unable to meet your house payments—to say nothing of purchasing that Pissarro you covet. By the way, I hear there is another bidder on the painting. Pity if you lost it."
"You intend to hold out on me?"
"Permit me an academic question, Hemlock. What would you do if I were to withhold payment?"
"Light these." Jonathan slipped his fingers into his shut pocket.
"What have you there?" There was no worry in Dragon's voice. He knew how thoroughly his men searched everyone who entered.
"A book of matches. Do you have some idea of the pain it's going to cause you when I strike them one by one?"
Dragon's thin fingers flew automatically to his eyes, but he knew that his colorless skin would afford little protection. With forced bravado he said, "Very good, Hemlock. You confirm my confidence in you. In future, my men will have to search for matches as well."
"My payment?"
"There. On the desk. Actually, I intended to give you the money all the time. I kept it only to assure your coming here to listen to my proposition." He laughed his three arid ha's. "That was a good one with the matches!" The laugh changed into a weak, wheezing cough, and for a time he could not speak. "Sorry. I'm not really well."
"To put you at ease," Jonathan said, slipping the chubby envelope of bills into his coat pocket, "I should tell you that I don't have any matches. I never smoke in public."
"Of course! I had forgotten." There was real praise in his voice. "Very good indeed. Forgive me if I have seemed overly aggressive. I am ill just now, and that makes me tetchy."
Jonathan smiled at the uncommon word. Occasionally Dragon's alien English was betrayed by just such sounds: odd word choices, overpronunciations, mishandlings of idiom. "What's this all about, Dragon?"
"I have an assignment you must take."
"I thought we talked about that. You know I never take jobs unless I need the money. Why don't you use one of your other Sanction people?"
The pink-and-red eyes emerged. "I would if it were possible. Your reluctance is a nuisance. But this assignment requires an experienced mountain climber and, as you might imagine, men of such talents do not abound within our department."
"I haven't climbed for more than three years."
"We have considered that. There is time to bring you back into condition."
"Why do you need a climber?"
"I could discuss details only if you were willing to cooperate on the assignment."
"In which case, forget it."
"I have a further inducement for you, Hemlock."
"Oh?"
"One of our former employees—an erstwhile friend of yours, I believe—is involved in the affair." Dragon paused for effect. "Miles Mellough."
After a moment, Jonathan said, "Miles is none of your business. I'll take care of him in my own way."
"You are a rigid man, Hemlock. I hope you don't break when you are forced to bend."
"Forced how."
"Oh, something will occur to me." There was a heavy flutter in his voice and he pressed his hand against his chest to relieve the pain. "On your way out, would you ask Mrs. Cerberus to come to me, there's a good fellow?"
Jonathan pressed back into the shallow entrance to Dragon's office building, trying to avoid the rain which fell in plump drops that exploded into a haze on the sidewalk. The liquid roar eclipsed the city's babble. An empty taxi came slowly up the street, and Jonathan jumped out to take his place in a line of supplicants who waved and shouted as the cab cruised majestically by, the driver whistling contentedly to himself, doubtless contemplating some intriguing problem of Russian grammar. Jonathan returned to the shelter of his meager cave and looked out glumly on the scene. Streetlights came on, their automatized devices duped into believing it was evening by the darkening storm. Another taxi appeared and Jonathan, knowing better, nevertheless stepped forward to the curb on the outside chance that this driver was not independently wealthy and had some mild interest in profit. Then he saw that the taxi was occupied. As he turned back, the driver sounded his horn. Jonathan stood still, puzzled and getting wetter. The driver beckoned him over. Jonathan pointed at his chest with a foolish "me?" expression on his face. The back door opened and Jemima called out, "Are you going to get in, or do you like it out there?"
Jonathan jumped in, and the cab turned out into traffic, disdainfully ignoring trumpeted protests from the car abreast that was forced into the oncoming stream.
"I don't mean to drip on you," Jonathan said, "but you really do look lovely. Where did you come from? Did I mention you look lovely?" He was boyishly glad to see her again. It seemed that he had thought of her often. But probably not, he decided. Why should he?
"I saw you step out," she explained, "and you looked so funny that I took pity on you."
"Ah. You fell for an ancient ploy. I always try to look funny when I'm drowning in the rain. You never know when some passing stewardess will take pity on you."
The cabby turned and looked over the back of the seat with classic indifference to competing traffic. "That'll be double fare you know, buddy."
Jonathan told him that was just fine.
"Because we ain't supposed to pick up two fares in the rain like that." He deigned to glance briefly at the oncoming traffic.
Jonathan said he would take care of it.
"Hell, everybody and his brother would be picking up the whole damned city if we didn't charge double fare. You know that for yourself."
Jonathan leaned forward and smiled at the driver politely in the rearview mirror. "Why don't we divide up the labor here? You drive, and we'll talk." Then he asked Jemima, "How do you manage to look so calm and lovely when you're starving to death?"
"Am I starving to death?" The harlequin flecks of gold danced with amusement in her warm brown eyes.
"Certainly, you are. Its a wonder you haven't noticed it."
"I take it you're inviting me out to dinner."
"I am that. Yes."
She looked at him quizzically. "Now, you know that when I picked you up in the rain, I didn't pick you up in all the possible senses of that phrase, don't you?"
"Good Lord, we hardly know each other! What are you suggesting? How about dinner?"
She considered it a moment, tempted. Then, "No-o, I think not."
"If you hadn't said no, what would your second choice have been?"
"Steak, red wine, and a small tangy salad."
"Done." Jonathan leaned forward and told the driver to turn south to an address on Fourteenth Street.
"How about making up your mind, buddy?"
"Drive."
When the taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant, Jemima touched Jonathan's sleeve. "I saved you from melting. You are going to buy me a dinner. And that's it, right? After dinner everybody goes home. Each to his own home. OK?"
He took her hand and looked earnestly into her eyes. "Gem, you have very fragile faith in your fellow man." He squeezed the hand. "Tell me about it? Who was he—the man who hurt you so?"
She laughed, and the cab driver asked if they were going to get out or not. As Jemima dashed into the restaurant, Jonathan paid the cabby and told him he had been a real brick. Rain and traffic obscured the last word, so the driver stared at Jonathan for a moment, but he decided it was wiser to drive off in a wheel-squealing miff.
The restaurant was simple and expensive, designed for eating, not for gazing at the decor. Partly because he felt festive, and partly to impress Jemima, Jonathan ordered a bottle of Lafite.
"May I suggest 1959?" the wine steward asked, with the rhetorical assumption that his guidance was impeccable.
"We're not French," Jonathan said, not taking his eyes from Jemima.
"Sir?" The arch of the eyebrow had that blend of huff and martyrdom characteristic of upper echelon servants.
"We're not French. Prenubile wines hold no fascination for us. Bring a '53 if you have it, or a '55 if not."
As the steward departed, Jemima asked, "Is this Lafite something special?"
"You don't know?"
"No."
Jonathan signaled the steward to return. "Forget the Lafite. Bring us an Haut-Brion instead."
Assuming the change was a fiscal reconsideration, the steward made an elaborate production of scratching the Lafite off his pad and scribbling down the Haut-Brion.
"Why did you do that?" Jemima asked.
"Thrift, Miss Brown. Lafite is too expensive to waste."
"How do you know, I might have enjoyed it."
"Oh, you'd have enjoyed it all right. But you wouldn't have appreciated it."
Jemima looked at him narrowly. "You know? I have this feeling you're not a nice person."
"Niceness is an overrated quality. Being nice is how a man pays his way into the party if he hasn't the guts to be tough or the class to be brilliant."
"May I quote you?"
"Oh, you probably will."
"Ah-h—Johnson to Boswell?"
"James Abbott McNeill Whistler to Wilde. But not a bad guess."
"A gentleman would have pretended I was right. I was right about your not being a nice person."
"I'll try to make up for it by being other things. Witty, or poetic perhaps. Or even terribly interested in you, which, by the way, I am." His eyes twinkled.
"You're putting me on."
"I admit it. It's all a facade. I just pretend to be
urbane as an armor for my vulnerable hypersensitivity."
"Now I'm getting a put-on within the put-on."
"How do you like being on Flugle Street?"
"Help."
Jonathan laughed and let the con lie where it was.
Jemima sighed and shook her head. "Man, you're really a social buzz saw, aren't you. I like to put people on myself by skipping logical steps in the conversation until they're dizzy. But that sort of thing isn't even in your league, is it?"
"I don't know that you could call it a league. After all, there's only one team and one player."
"Here we go again."
"Let's take time out for dinner."
The salad was crisp, the steaks huge and perfect, and they washed them down with the Haut-Brion. Throughout the meal they chatted lightly, allowing the topic to pivot on a word or a sudden thought, ranging from art to politics to childhood embarrassments to social issues, clinging to a subject only so long as there was amusement in it. They shared a sense of the ridiculous and took neither themselves nor the great names in art and politics too seriously. Often it was unnecessary to finish a sentence—the other predicting the thrust and nodding agreement or laughing. And sometimes they shared brief, relaxed silences, neither feeling a need to keep up conversation as a defense against communication. They sat next to a window. The rain alternately rattled and relented. They made ludicrous guesses about the professions and destinations of the passersby. Without recognizing it, Jonathan was dealing with Gem as though she were a man—an old friend. He drifted with the stream of conversation honestly, forgetting the pre-bed banter that usually constituted the basis of his small talk with women.
"A college teacher?" Gem asked incredulously. "Don't tell me that, Jonathan. You're undermining my stereotypes."
"How about you as a stewardess? How did that ever happen?"
"Oh, I don't know. Came out of college after changing majors every year and tried to find a job as a Renaissance Woman, but there wasn't a heading like that in the want ads. And traveling around seemed like a possible thing to do. It also struck me as kind of fun to be the first black stewardess on the line—I was their public relations Negress." She pronounced the word prissily, ridiculing those who would use it. "How about you? How did you happen to become a college teacher?"