"Running Dog" - читать интересную книгу автора (DeLillo Don)

5

It took the cabdriver about sixty seconds to write out a receipt. Moll watched a pair of dog-walkers stop near the curb to give their pets a chance to sniff each other. Cute. She took the receipt and went up the stairs to the front door of the brownstone.

In the vestibule she rang the bell and waited for Grace Delaney to buzz her in. Nothing happened. She rang again. It was after eleven but this was Monday and Grace always stayed until midnight, or later, on Mondays.

Moll had a set of keys. Before opening the door, she peered through the glass panel, her view obscured by the crosshatched metal grating on the other side of the pane of glass.

She entered the building and started climbing to the third floor. She walked with her head twisted to the left and angled upward so that she might see ahead to the landing and the next bend in the staircase.

Both doors on the third floor were locked. She climbed the final flight. Two keys to the door of the outer office. On the second try she fitted each to its respective lock. Only one lock had been fastened.

All the lights were on. She entered hesitantly, calling Grace's name. She walked through the outer area into Grace's office. The usual clutter. Proofs, correspondence, photographs. A bottle of hand lotion on the coffee table. A paper cup nearly filled with vegetable soup.

She stood in the middle of the room, feeling a dim presentiment. Something about to happen. Someone about to appear. She picked up the phone and dialed Grace's home number, if only to break the mood. A recording came on, overamplified and dense: "_This is Grace Delaney. I'm not here right now. No one is here. At the beeping sound, leave your name and number-_"

Of course. Nobody is where they should be. Moll realized how wrong she'd been to feel apprehensive. The action was elsewhere, and included everyone but her. By refusing sexual alliance with Earl Mudger, she'd sealed herself off from the others. That was the effect, intended or not. There was no danger here. No one watched or listened any longer. Security. Why did it feel so disappointing?

She fastened both locks and walked slowly down the stairs and out of the building.

Grace Delaney sat near the immense Victorian birdcage in the lobby of the Barclay, off Park Avenue. She checked her watch several times and eventually walked over to one of the house phones. A man answered.

"I'm checking the vent in the bathroom."

"First you get me here," Grace said. "Then you make me wait."

"I'm in the middle of checking the vent."

"I'm coming up."

"We want to be sure the room's lily white. Don't we want that?"

"We want that."

"Of course we do," he said.

Fifteen minutes later she got off the elevator at 12. The room was located along the main corridor. Lomax let her in. The curtains were drawn. Only one light was on-a small table lamp-and he'd placed it on the floor, apparently to make the lighting as indirect as possible. He helped her off with her coat and hung it in the closet.

"That dress is a winner."

"Second-string," she said. "A relic."

"You know how to wear clothes. Clothes hang well on you. You have a sense of what looks good."

He sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes.

"You're a New York woman," he said. "A classic type."

"Shut up, Arthur, will you?"

"No, really, in the best sense."

She took off her dress and put it over a chair.

"I never thought I'd end up in bed with a man who wears Clark's Wallabees."

"I don't wear them in bed."

"At least they're not Hush Puppies," she said. "Good Christ, think of it."

Lomax stood up to get out of his pants.

"What's wrong with Clark's Wallabees? They're a damn good shoe."

A pair of chambermaids talked and laughed as they walked past the door.

"What about some room service, Gracie? Scotch, bourbon? This is Scotch weather. This is the season."

"I've got my flask."

She sat before the mirror in her bra, panties, stockings and garter belt. A bobby pin was in her mouth as she rearranged her hair. Lomax stood nude, briefly; then he slipped under the covers, watching her.

"Did you have to cancel something?"

"Just Moll," she said.

"My schedule's a super bitch."

"Only I didn't cancel, I just split. Meaning to ask, Arthur. Who was this friend of hers? What friend was she talking about?"

"You mean the collection."

"I told you she had someone who could get her access to Percival's collection."

"Him we forget about."

"Were they lovers?"

"Yes indeedy."

"Where is he now?"

"Doesn't matter," Lomax said. "Far away."

"You seemed rather interested, Arthur, at the time."

"Fact-gathering, that's all."

"And what are the facts?"

"Maybe he gave her access, maybe not. I haven't thought about it lately. Onward and upward."

Grace walked over to his side of the bed. He put his hands on her breasts, over the bra, for a long moment. It seemed part of a set program. Then she went into the bathroom, leaving the door open.

"What happened in Dallas, Arthur?"

He didn't answer. She came out holding her handbag. She took the silver flask out of it and walked over to the far side of the bed. She sat there, removing her stockings.

"What's this lamp doing on the floor?"

"A little mood thing," he said.

"Sure it's not bugged?"

"I ought to know how to sweep a room by now."

"Sen-si-tive."

"Bastards, I wouldn't put it past them."

She faced him, reclining on top of the covers, the flask between them.

"Which bastards?"

"PAC/ORD."

"Aren't they your bastards, ultimately? Don't you still have a channel?"

"Did I tell you that?"

"As long as it's not the tax man," she said. "As long as you're keeping the tax man away from my door."

Lomax leaned over to lick her navel. Someone pushed a room-service tray along the corridor.

"It's ongoing," he said. "I have to keep fending off. Tax fraud is no joke."

"Pricks."

"Willful omission."

"Isn't there a statute of limitations?"

"Not for fraud," he said.

"This was years ago."

"You were a political. They love politicals and they love big-time mob figures. And they love to make their cases around February or March. Instills fear in the tax-paying public. That's when you see pictures of your favorite mob figure coming down the courthouse steps. Late February, early March."

"Why aren't they content to just seize my bank account or car or whatever?"

"They favor prosecutions in cases like yours. Of course it depends on how much money's involved. You were tied into some very radical adventures, Gracie. You were playing around with some large sums of money. Willful omission. Multiple filing schemes. Terribly naughty girl."

"The movement was a living thing," she said dryly.

"I'll show you a living thing."

"It was one's duty to beat the system."

"You want a living thing?"

"What have they got, exactly?"

"I've seen your paper. They keep the paper. There's all kinds of computerized data. But they keep the paper. There are clear indications of fraud. As I say, I've been fending off. Fortunately for you, there's a chain of mutual interests."

Grace ran the tip of her index finger over his lips. She drank from the flask and passed it to Lomax. Street sounds barely audible. He took a brief surprised swallow.

"This isn't Scotch."

"It's vodka."

"This is Scotch weather."

"Wod-ka."

"Should I call room service?" he said to himself. "Then I'd have to get dressed."

"Tell me about Dallas, Arthur."

"Cold and dark."

"You've dropped wee hints."

"You make me do these things. It's not to be believed, what you make me do."

"What we make each other do."

"It's because I've lost the faith."

"You don't give a rat's ass. I understand, sweet."

"Take off your top, why don't you?"

"Due time, love."

"I don't believe. I used to believe but now I don't."

"I understand, pet."

She turned toward him, moving closer-the flask, in her left hand, resting on his chest.

"It was frankly nasty," he said.

"You tell such charming stories."

"Ain't it the truth."

"Let me get all curled up and toasty and snug."

"What happened, various sets of people were maneuvering for position. That's standard. I stationed myself according to plan, waiting for Earl. This can be a full-time occupation. It happens with him. Fierce enthusiasms. The earth is scorched for miles around. Other times, where is he? He says thus and so but he's not where he's supposed to be, he's in Saudi on some leasing deal. In the meantime I find myself face to face with a guy who has a bullet in his throat. It's very dark. What's going on? After a lot of prodding, I find out he's free-lancing for Talerico, Vincent, a middle-level mobster. Everybody's after the same thing. We knew about the Senator's interest. We knew about Richie's interest, the kid, Armbrister. Now we have the families in all their Renaissance glory. What happens then, a car comes barreling around the corner and I go diving out of sight. I'm underneath a pickup truck, peering out, feeling this is the onset of a midlife crisis."

"The dark night of the soul," Grace said.

"For what, or whom?"

"When the priests stop believing, what does it mean?"

"Of course it was Mudger. He was sitting in the back of an ordinary cab. I crawled out and walked over. Told him what I knew. He suggested I get in, which I did, and we drove off."

"Leaving the man with the bullet in his throat."

"That happens, Gracie."

"Don't call me Gracie."

"Do you want me to call you what Earl calls you?"

"What's that?"

"Never mind," he said.

"What does Earl call me?"

"Take off your top."

"Tough darts, bubie."

She drank from the flask and resettled herself.

"Do I go on?"

"You're in the cab," she said.

"Earl, anyway, tells me he's disillusioned. The whole thing's a mess. Let the families have the goddamn footage. He no longer wants it."

"What does he want?"

"He wants to start a zoo. He wants to buy a huge tract somewhere and build some kind of safariland. Animals running around, people with cameras, I don't know. Part zoo, part natural habitat. He wasn't clear on details. He'd only thought of it on the flight up from San Antonio. It's part of Earl's nostalgia for Vietnam. He had a zoo there."

"I wonder if I'd like him," Grace said. "Moll did and didn't."

"You don't like anyone. Who do you like?"

"She wrote an interesting piece. Uneven and loose as hell. But her best work really. I was genuinely upset."

"Earl calls you FCB."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a joke name. Doesn't mean anything. Earl made it up. Actually we both made it up."

"I don't think I'd like him."

"You wouldn't like the Senator either. You don't like anyone."

"I'm old and tired," she said.

"The Senator is also out of the running. On to something else. A touch more traditional."

"Who cares? Do I look as though I care?"

"You're still young," Lomax said. "I'm the one who's old. I feel old."

"You're younger than I am, Arthur, and I don't even care."

"I feel old. I'm the old one. Forget chronology. If I were a dog I'd be only six years old, chronologically, but I feel ready for the meat machine."

Grace removed her brassiere and lay facing the ceiling. Lomax put the flask on the small table by the bed. His radio pager started beeping. This was a small device he'd lately taken to carrying everywhere. It was in the closet right now, in his coat pocket. Unlike the pagers generally in use, this one operated within a radius of one thousand miles from the originating signal. Activated by computer, the device enabled Earl Mudger to contact Lomax wherever he was, whatever he was doing, within that radius. When the beeping started, Lomax was to call a certain number and receive whatever instructions had been prepared for him.

The noise stopped after fifteen long seconds. Grace looked over at him, waiting for some reaction.

"I'll tell you who I give credit to," Lomax said.

He clasped his hands behind his head.

"Who are the only ones who believe in what they're doing? The only ones who aren't constantly adjusting, constantly wavering-this way, that way. Being pressed. Being forced to adopt new stances."

"The families," she said.

"They're serious. They're totally committed. The only ones. They see clearly, _bullseye_, straight ahead. They know what they belong to. They don't question the premise."

"Are they still in the running then?"

"They _are_ the running," Lomax said. "There's just that old lunk, the art dealer, who's probably sitting on the film can himself, thinking all he has to do is arrange an auction."

"What does FCB mean?"

Lomax glanced over at her, a hint of small bitter amusement in his face.

"You're sure," he said.

"Tell me, yes, I'm curious."

He pulled his right hand out from behind his head and used the middle finger to groom first one sideburn, then the other.

"Flat-Chested Bitch," he said.

Her mouth went tight. Supine, she rolled rightward, swinging her left arm up and over to deliver a roundhouse blow to the area just above his right eye. He folded up, oddly, as though he'd been hit in the groin. Both hands covering his right eye, he turned away from her, his body compact, close to the edge of the bed.

"It's a joke name," he said.

The second blow, a hammerlike left, caught him behind the ear. The radio pager began beeping again.

"It doesn't mean anything," he said. "It's just the way we communicate, in abbreviations, in codes sometimes. We give everybody a different kind of name. Some are a lot worse than yours."

Grace lay back on the bed, listening to the paging device emit its programmed series of noises. Her mouth was still rigid but she was breathing normally, as though spasms of violence were common in her life.

Moll sat in the tub, trying to turn the pages of the early edition of the _Times_ without getting them wet.

Interesting item back near the obits.

Learned today that Senator Lloyd Percival was married last Thursday in Bethesda, Maryland, hours after his divorce became final.

Bride is Dayton (DeDe) Baker, 20, a specimen trainee at the Medical Museum of the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology, Washington, D.C.

Funny but puzzling.

Ceremony performed in the meditation suite of the Stone Hollow Country Club by the Rev. Penny W. Parker, founder of the Humanist Missions.

Jesus.

The story, amid some typographical chaos, went on to quote the Senator, 6i, as saying today that he felt "reborn, revitalized-ready to attempt bold new ventures." He was interviewed with his wife before the couple left for the airport, en route to an undisclosed destination.

The next day at the office, on an impulse, Moll looked for the story in the late city edition. She found that a paragraph had been left out of the earlier version. She filled in the rest by walking down the ball and checking the magazine's files.

The bride's father was the late Freeman Reed Baker, a well-known authority on Persian art and culture. He was also the central figure in a scandal involving the disappearance, fifteen years earlier, of rare examples of ancient erotica- carpet-weavings, textiles, metalwork-from a legendary private collection in Isfahan.

I am beginning to understand.

At the time of the apparent theft, Dr. Baker had been special curator of the so-called Forbidden Rooms, a restricted area of the collection.

Very sexy stuff.

He died of natural causes three years ago in eastern Turkey, still under a cloud of suspicion. The treasures have not been recovered.

Back in her cubicle, Moll wondered if Lightborne had seen the story. If so, he'd be saying a mental farewell to Lloyd Precival. The Senator has clearly abandoned fortress Berlin, _Nazis in motion_, preferring the reassurances of desert stillness. The art of mystics and nomads. Old-fashioned contentments.