He stared at me, as if I'd said something stupid. "Because he listened. Right after the Hitler canonization, I called him and told him it had bothered me. And he listened. I could tell he was taking me seriously. He made an appointment to speak to me. I was going to show up, but something came up- another dungeon."
"Why'd you tell him your name was Merino? Why'd you tell me you were Mr. Silk?"
Wrinkled forehead. "You spoke to Harrison? Maybe I'll visit him after all."
A sick feeling flooded me. "He doesn't know anyth-"
"Don't fret, fool, I'm fair, always have been. I gave all of you the same chance I gave Harrison. But the rest of you flunked."
"You never called me," I said.
Smile. "November thirtieth, nineteen seventy-nine. Two p.m. I have a written record of it. Your snotty secretary insisted you only treated children and couldn't see me."
"She wasn't supposed to screen- I never knew."
"That's an excuse? When the troops fuck up, the general's culpable. And it was a chance you didn't even deserve- a lot more than I got, or Delmar, or any of the other loved ones. You muffed it, bro."
"But Rosenblatt," I said. "He did see you."
"He was the biggest hypocrite. Pretending to understand- the soft voice, the phony empathy. Then he revealed his true colors. Quizzing me, trying to get into my head." Coburg put on an unctuous look: " 'I'm hearing a lot of pain… one thing you might consider is talking about this more.' " Fury compressed the light brown eyes. "The phony bastard wanted to give me psychoanalysis to deal with my conflicts. Hundred-buck-an-hour couch work as a cure for political oppression because he couldn't accept the fact that he'd worshiped Hitler. He sat there and pretended to hear, but he didn't believe me. Just wanted to mess with my head- the worst one of all, bye-bye birdie."
He made a shoving motion with his free hand and smiled.
I said, "How'd you get him to see you outside his office?"
"I told him I was bedridden. Crippled by something Hitler had done. That piqued his interest, he came right over that evening, with his kind looks and his beard and his bad tweed suit- it was hot but he needed his little shrink costume. The whole time he was there, I stayed in bed. The second time, also. I had him bring me a drink… serving me. It was a really muggy day, the window was wide open for air. Tissue box on the ledge- karma. I pretended to sneeze and asked him to get me a tissue." Shove. "Fly away, hypocrite bird."
Other people's houses. A financial man… A farm in Connecticut. Did that mean an apartment in New York City? And her such an educated woman.
She a lawyer, he a banker.
I said, "The apartment belonged to your mother and stepfather."
He shook his head joyfully. "Clever little Alex. Mrs. Lyndon would be so proud… Mummy and Evil were in Europe, so I decided to crash at the old homestead. Rosenblatt's office two blocks away… karma. Eight floors up, have a nice flight."
Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm J. Rulerad. Cold people, Shirley Rosenblatt had said. Unwilling to let a private investigator search their place. Guarding more than privacy? How much had they known?
"You left burglar tools behind," I said. "Did you need them to get in, or were you just setting it up as another East Side burglary?"
He tried to mask his surprise with a slow, languid smile. "My, my, we have been busy. No, I had a key. One keeps looking for home sweet home. The big Brady Bunch in the sky…"
"Stoumen and Lerner," I said. "Did they meet with you?"
"No," he said, suddenly angry again. "Stoumen's excuse was that he was retired. Another flunky shutting me out, did I want to speak to the doctor on call- you people really don't know how to delegate authority properly. And Lerner made an appointment but didn't show up, the rude bastard."
The unreliability Harrison had spoken of: it had affected his work- missed appointments.
"So you tracked them down at conferences- how'd you get hold of the membership lists?"
"Some of us are thorough- Mrs. Lyndon would have liked me, too- what a kindly old bag, all that midwestern salt-of-the-earth friendliness. Research is such fun, maybe I'll visit her in person someday."
"Did Meredith help you get the lists?" I said. "Was she doing publicity for the conventions?"
Pursed lips. Tense brow. The hand wavered. "Meredith… ah, yes, dear Meredith. She's been a great help- now, stop asking stupid questions and get down on your knees- keep those hands up- keep them up!"
Moving as slowly as I could, I got off the couch and kneeled, trying to keep a fix on the gun.
Silence, then another impact that shook the glass.
"The dog's definitely chops and steaks," he said.
The gun touched the crown of my head. He ruffled my hair with the barrel and I knew he was remembering.
The weapon pressed down on me, harder, as if boring into my skull. All I could see were his shoes, the bottoms of his jeans. A grout seam between two marble tiles.
"Say you're sorry," he said.
"Sorry."
"Louder."
"Sorry."
"Personalize it-"I'm sorry, Andrew.' "
"I'm sorry, Andrew."
"More sincerity."
"I'm sorry, Andrew."
He made me repeat it six times, then he sighed. "I guess that's as good as it's going to get. How are you feeling right now?"
"I've been better."
Chuckle. "I'll bet you have- stand up slowly- slowly. Slo-o-o-wly. Keep those hands up- hands on head- Simon says."
He stepped back, the gun trained on my head. Behind me was the couch. Chairs all around. An upholstered prison, nowhere to go… a run for it would be suicide, leaving Robin to deal with his frustration…
The dog throwing himself, harder…
I was upright now. He stepped closer. We came face-to-face. Licorice and rage, lowering the gun and pushing it against my navel. Then up at my throat. Then down again.
Playing.
Choreography.
"I see it," he said. "Behind your eyes- the fear- you know where you're going, don't you?"
I said nothing.
"Don't you?"
"Where am I going?"
"Straight to hell. One-way ticket."
The gun nudged my groin. Moved up to my throat again. Pressed against my heart. Back down to my crotch.
Taking on a rhythm- the musician in him… moving his hips.
I was altered…
Groin. Heart. Groin.
He poked my crotch and laughed. When he raised the gun again, I exploded, chopping the gun wrist with my right hand as I stabbed at his eye with the stiffened fingertips of my left.
The gun fired as he lost balance.
He landed on his side, the gun still laced between his fingers. I stomped on his wrist. His free hand was clamped over his face. When he pulled it free and grabbed at my leg, his eye was shut, bleeding.
I stomped again and again. He roared with pain. The gun hand was limp, but the weapon remained entangled. He struggled to lift it and aim. I dropped my knee full force on his arm, got hold of the hand, tugging, twisting, finally freeing the automatic.
My turn to aim. My hands were numb. I had trouble bending my fingers around the trigger. He slid across the carpet on his back, kicking out randomly, holding his eye. Blood ran over his hand. His escape was blocked by a sofa. Flailing and kicking- he looked at me.
No- behind me.
He screamed, "Do it!" as I ducked and wheeled, facing the hallway.
The smaller gun in my face. A woman's hand behind it. Red nails. Coburg shouting, "Do it! Do it! Do it!" Starting to get up.