She takes another helping of rice and pineapple, chews, swallows, breathes, and continues.
“But your version of things is very workable. You’ve got logic on your side and you bet that that was enough. Good bet. I would have sized things up in roughly the same way if I were in your shoes, so to speak. You figure you’ll call me hostile, then, before I can get defensive, you’ll acknowledge the correctness of my hostility, sort of putting us on the same side of the fence. Instant-comrades kind of thing. It’s a nice maneuver. Got a lot of things going for it. It’s kind of compressed, you know. Uses a domino effect. You call out a personality flaw in me, defuse it by labeling the reasons it’s justified, disarm my reaction to it by allying yourself on my side of the fence, and come off like a real sensitive guy, all in one shot. Very good. Let me ask you, is that your standard approach for picking up women? Because I’m sure, God knows, it’s effective, but it just seems like a little bit of overkill, you know. Like using a howitzer to kill a housefly. Haven’t you ever just offered to buy someone a drink? What got to you, anyway? What, did you figure that same ‘hostility’ that annoyed you so much in the briefing room would be a real different thing in the sack?”
She stares at him. She holds her fork out, halfway across the table, like a crude weapon. She can almost see his brain struggling to make a fast decision, whether to continue trying to feign innocence or turn the whole thing into a laugh on him, a “you’ve got my number,” “we can be buddies now” strategy.
He tries a third ploy. He says, “You’re a stunning woman.”
Lenore says, “Yeah, I’m a real piece of work.”
Woo picks up his tuna melt, takes a tiny bite, puts it back on his plate, and wipes his mouth with the paper napkin. They’re both quiet, sizing up the situation. Then Woo says, “What I mean is that you’re correct. I thought I was telling the truth about the nature of your feelings toward the outsiders at this morning’s meeting. I honestly did. But, more importantly, that was secondary to my hopes of seducing you …”
“Seducing you,” Lenore repeats, too loud. “God, listen to how you talk. You’re a real winner, Freddy.”
“Fred,” he says. “Just Fred, please.”
She ignores him, spears a water chestnut and a pepper with her fork.
Woo takes a breath and goes on. “But what I find thrilling, right now, exciting, significant, is the fact that you intuited the actual intention, the hidden meanings, behind my words. You peeled back the first layer, what you wish to think of as a facade, though, again, I promise you it was an honest opinion on my part, but you stripped it away to expose the primary meaning of my message, the core of what I was attempting to communicate. You’re a natural, Detective Thomas.”
“My head is just growing by the minute.”
“What I mean to say is you’re the perfect person for this case. You appear to have a highly evolved sense of what I would call semantic intuitiveness, or, maybe, semiotic intuition, or …”
She cuts him off. “Look, Fred, whatever you think, I’m not a very intuitive person …”
“I beg to differ …”
“I’m just not, okay. I’m the ultimate pragmatist. That’s why I’m great at my job, if you want to know the truth. I find the easiest, most effective way of getting something done, then I just carry that out, follow it down the line. It seems simple to me and I don’t really understand why everyone doesn’t behave in this manner. Right now, what we’ve got to get straight is that fate has thrown us together. Well, fate and Mayor Victor Welby. Now, I don’t know why. Standard procedure would be that you leave us your phone number and we call you up when we’ve got a question. Maybe you make an appearance at a progress briefing. But Miskewitz made it clear that the mayor has other ideas. He wants you and me together on this. He doesn’t share his reasoning with me. So now I’ve got Mr. Ph.D. taking a field trip to Bangkok Park, with me as the tour guide. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I just have to deal with it, figure out what might be the best, most efficient way to achieve our mutual end. Our end is to find out if this Lingo shit has found its way to my street, and if it has, to neutralize its effect on the local environment. You agree with that?”
Woo smiles, pushes his sandwich away. “I like the way you talk. I like the rhythms of your natural speech.”
Lenore shakes her head. “Jesus Christ, you don’t catch on, do you? You know, in your own way you’re a real moron.”
“No, no, Detective,” he says. “I’m very clear on the fact that, from a romantic avenue, you’ve shut me down …”
“A romantic avenue,” Lenore repeats. “Jesus.”
“But from your side of things, you have to try to keep in mind that my life revolves around language. So when I make the statement that I love the way you speak, I’m commenting on a professional level.”
“I’m sure.”
“Now, as to your summation of our mutual problem, yes, I agree.”
“You agree?”
“That our first step is to determine the presence of the drug, to find out if there was any mass production or marketing. Let me ask you. It’s known I consulted with the Swanns while they were still at the Institute. Why aren’t I a suspect?”
“Don’t worry, you are.”
“Then let me say, here at the start, that my contact with them was very brief. We met three or four times at the most. I simply gave them my opinion on certain theoretical questions. If need be, Detective, I can certainly account for my whereabouts at the time of their deaths.”
“Yeah, well, believe me, Freddy, you’re a long shot right now. I’m more inclined to start piecing things together from the distribution end. Down in the Park.”
“Bangkok Park?”
“You ever been?”
“I’m afraid not,” Woo says.
“Not even a drive-through? Little tourist peek?”
“My time is fully claimed, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah, mine too.”
“I’ve heard many of the stories, of course …”
“Of course,” Lenore mumbles.
“Younger colleagues who’ve ventured down …”
“A little excitement, a little spice, little break from the scholarly grind.”
“Exactly.”
“They lose a week’s pay and their Blaupunkts and they think it’s worth it.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I would. Middle-class tourists in the Park piss me off.”
“Of course.”
“Place is a cesspool. Tell your people to stay in the Canal Zone with all the bohemians. They can get their kicks hitting on teenage lesbians with purple-dyed hair and snake tattoos.”
“Now, the Canal Zone I’ve been to …” Woo begins.
“I bet. Listen, Fred, the Zone isn’t the Park. The Zone is all these kids playing artist in the run-down factories that their grandfathers broke their backs in. And that’s fine, that’s okay, I don’t care. If they want to pretend that the Zone is loaded up with truth and danger, great. As far as I can see they’re not hurting anyone. They play zipperhead music and write bonehead plays …”
“Actually, I’ve seen some of the performance pieces and …”
“And read dirty poetry. Super. Have a ball. But Bangkok Park isn’t the Canal Zone. It’s a whole different world. You know that the mortality rate in the Park is four times greater than any other square-mile area in the county? Probably in the whole goddamn state. Are you aware there’s an entire economy that’s completely independent from the rest of Quinsigamond and I’d bet its own little GNP works out at about ten times the city’s total budget? You can’t imagine the kind of cult crap that goes on in there. There’s just a whole culture, a whole different set of … I don’t know. You just have to taste it, you know. Words aren’t going to do it.”