"My DNA?" Yossarian repeated, with a brain bewildered. "I confess I'm baffled."
"That's your deoxyribonucleic acid, Mr. Yossarian, and contains your entire genetic coding."
"I know it's my deoxyribonucleic acid, God damn it! And I know what it does."
"No one else can fake it. It will prove you are you."
"Who the hell else could I be?"
"Lending institutions are careful now."
"Mr. Gaffney, where will I get that sample of my DNA to submit with my mortgage application for a house I don't know about that I will never want to buy?"
"Not even in East Hampton?" tempted Gaffney.
"Not even East Hampton."
"There are excellent values there now. I can handle the DNA for you."
"How will you get it?"
"Under the Freedom of Information Act. It's on file in your sperm with your Social Security number. I can get a certified photocopy-"
"Of my sperm?"
"Of your deoxyribonucleic acid. The sperm cell is just a medium of transportation. It's the genes that count. I can get the photocopy of your DNA when you're ready with your application. Leave the driving to me. And indeed, I have more good news. One of the gentlemen who is following you isn't."
"I will resist the wisecrack."
"I don't see the wisecrack."
"Do you mean that he isn't a gentleman or that he isn't following me?"
"I still don't see it. Isn't following you. He is following one or more of the others who are following vou."
"Why?"
"We will have to guess. That was blacked out on the Freedom of Information report. Perhaps to protect you from abduction, torture, or murder, or maybe merely to find out about you what the others find out. There are a thousand reasons. And the Orthodox Jew-excuse me, are you Jewish, Mr. Yossarian?"
"I am Assyrian, Mr. Gaffney."
"Yes. And the Orthodox Jewish gentleman parading in front of your building really is an Orthodox Jewish gentleman and does live in your neighborhood. But he is also an FBI man and he is sharp as a tack. So be discreet."
"What does he want from me?"
"Ask him if you wish. Maybe he's just walking, if he's not ther on assignment. You know how those people are. It may not be yQu. You have a CIA front in your building masquerading as a CIA front and a Social Security Administration office there too, not to mention all those sex parlors, prostitutes, and other business establishments. Try to hold on to your Social Security number. It always pays to be discreet. Discretion is the better part of valor, Señor Gaffney tells his friends. Have no fear. He will keep you posted. Service is his middle name."
Yossarian felt the need to take a stand. "Mr. Gaffney," he said "how soon can I see you? I'm afraid I insist."
There was a moment of chortling, a systematic bubbling suffused with overtones of self-satisfaction. "You already have seen me, Mr. Yossarian, and you didn't notice, did you?"
"Where?"
"At the bus terminal, when you went below with Mr. McBride. You looked right at me. I was wearing a fawn-colored single-breasted herringbone woolen jacket with a thin purple cross-pat tern, brown trousers, a light-blue Swiss chambray shirt of finest Egyptian cotton, and a complementing tie of solid rust, with matching socks. I have a smooth tan complexion and am bald on top, with black hair trimmed very close at the sides and very dark brows and eyes. I have noble temples and fine cheekbones. You didn't recognize me, did you?"
"How could I, Mr. Gaffney? I'd never seen you before."
The quiet laughter returned. "Yes, you did, Mr. Yossarian, more than once. Outside the hotel restaurant after you stopped in there that day with Mr. and Mrs. Beach following the ACA-CAMMA meeting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In front of the Frank Campbell Funeral Home across the street. Do you remember the red-haired man with a walking stick and green rucksack on his back who was with the uniformed guard at the entrance?"
"You were the redheaded man with the rucksack?"
"I was the uniformed guard."
"You were in disguise?"
"I'm in disguise now."
"I'm not sure I get that one, Mr. Gaffney."
"Perhaps it's a joke, Mr. Yossarian. It's told very widely in my profession. Maybe my next sally will be better. And I really believe you ought to call your nurse. She's back on the day shift and free for dinner tonight. She can bring that friend."
"Her roommate?"
"No, not Miss Moorecock."
"Her name is Miss Moore." Yossarian reproved him coldly.
"You call her Miss Moorecock."
"You will call her Miss Moore, if you wish to keep working for me. Mr. Gaffney, keep out of my private life."
"No life is private anymore, I'm sad to say."
"Mr. Gaffney, when do we meet?" Yossarian demanded. "I want to look you in the eye and see who the hell I'm dealing with. I'm not easy with you, Mr. Gaffney."
"I'm sure that will change."
"I'm not sure it will. I don't think I like you."
"That will change also, after we talk in Chicago."
" Chicago?"
"When we meet in the airport and you see that I'm trustworthy, loyal, helpful, courteous, and kind. Better?"
"No. I'm not going to Chicago."
"I believe you will be, Mr. Yossarian. You could make reservations now."
"What will I be doing in Chicago?"
"Changing planes."
"For where?"
"To come back, Mr. Yossarian. From Kenosha, Wisconsin, after your visit to Mrs. Tappman. Probably, you will want to continue to Washington directly for your meetings with Mr. Minderbinder and Mr. Wintergreen, and perhaps Noodles Cook too."
Yossarian sighed. "You know all that about me now?"
"I hear things in my work, Mr. Yossarian."
"Who else do you work for when you hear things about me?"
"For whoever will pay me, Mr. Yossarian. I don't discriminate. We have laws now against discrimination. And I don't play favorites. I'm always objective and don't make distinctions. Distinctions are odious. And invidious too."
"Mr. Gaffney, I haven't paid you yet. You haven't sent me a bill or discussed the fees."
"Your credit is good, Mr. Yossarian, if the credit rating companies can be believed, and you can get that mortgage anytime you want. There are excellent lakefront properties available now in New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey, and good seashore values too in Santa Barbara, San Diego, and Long Island. I can help you with the mortgage forms, if you like, as well as with your DNA. This is a good time for a mortgage and a very good time to buy."
"I don't want a mortgage and I don't want to buy. And who was that friend you mentioned before?"
"Of your nurse?"
"'I have no nurse, damn it. I'm in excellent health, if you're still keeping track, and by now she's a friend. Melissa."
"Nurse MacIntosh," Mr. Gaffney disagreed formally. "I am reading from the records, Mr. Yossarian, and the records never lie. They may be mistaken or out-of-date, but they never lie. They are inanimate, Mr. Y."
"Don't dare call me that!"
"They are not able to lie, and they are always official and authoritative, even when they are in error and contradict each other. Her friend is the nurse in the postoperative surgical recovery room you expressed a desire to meet. Her given name is Wilma but people are prone to call her angel, or honey, particularly patients as they emerge from anesthesia after surgery, and two or three physicians there, who now and then entertain ambitions of, as they put it, not I, getting into her pants. That may be a medical term. You may be joined by Miss Moore."
"Miss Moore?" Yossarian, with senses awhirl, was finding (t still harder to keep up. "Who the hell is Miss Moore?"
"You call her Moorecock," reminded Gaffney, in a dropped tone of admonition. "Forgive me for inquiring, Mr. Yossarian. But our listeners have not picked up sounds of sexual activity in your apartment in some time. Are you all right?"