The Frenchman's chin went up, went down. He shut the desk drawer. "In that case, on consideration, perhaps I will not," he said.
"Good. Jesus. What're you, some kind of idiot?"
"Well, one feels obligated to make the attempt, you know. Foolish, especially in a man my age, but there you are. The demands of custom and dignity are slow to die."
"Adalian sent this guy," said Bishop, who couldn't have given less of a shit.
"This…"
"The customer I'm here about. Adalian sent him to you. He's a specialist."
The gargoyle knew the man at once. Bishop could see it in his eyes. Still, he put on a little show of ignorance. A couple of Frenchy gestures with his clawlike hands as if he were pulling the memory out of the air. Or Belgian gestures, or whatever they were. Then he started a whole point-of-honor routine. Which was a laugh.
"You have to understand, my friend," he said. "A business like mine depends very much on discretion. If my customers can't rely on me to keep their various purchases confidential…"
"I understand," said Bishop. "Forget it. I apologize for asking."
"Truthfully?"
"No, I was kidding. If you don't talk to me, I'm gonna put you in the hospital."
"Ah. Very witty."
"Thanks. And listen, I don't envy you. It's a clear-cut choice, but it's not an easy one. You talk to me, this specialist guy will kill you for sure, if he finds out and if he lives. But he might not find out. And he might not live. On the other hand, if you don't talk to me, I probably won't kill you. But I will fuck you up in a seriously painful and permanent way. And I'm sitting here right now and there's no chance I'm leaving. So you decide."
The Frenchman thought about it. He swiveled back and forth slightly in his tattered green chair. He thought about the man whom Adalian had sent, the ghost with the mannequin eyes. He thought about the way the man's features had been impossible to describe even to himself, impossible to retain in his memory. The ghost man could return tomorrow and the Frenchman would not recognize him. He could walk through the door or approach him on the street or deliver a package to his house, and he would not know who he was until it was too late. It was not a reassuring thought.
On the other hand, here was this man Bishop sitting here-sitting here, as he himself pointed out, right now. A lifetime of doing business with mercenaries, hit men, terrorists, and lunatics had given the Frenchman certain insights into their various characters. This Bishop, he thought, had a little bit of all of them in him. And when he said he would cause the Frenchman serious suffering, the Frenchman had no doubt he was telling the absolute truth.
In the end, though, one had to take one's chances. That was business. That was life. If Bishop and the ghost came face-to-face, the Frenchman judged it even odds which one would survive the meeting. That meant he had a 50 percent chance of being killed by the ghost if he spoke, and a 100 percent chance of being hurt badly by Bishop if he kept silent.
"He purchased three guns," he said. "Three?" said Bishop, surprised.
"A 9mm SIG P210 with a modified magazine release. A 1911-based compact. 45. And the Saracen."
"The Saracen." Bishop obviously knew the gun. He was quiet for a second. Then he said, "That new Belgian thing, the little one?"
The Frenchman nodded with as much gravity as his purple paisley shirt would allow.
"That's a lot of firepower," said Bishop. "That's all for one job?"
"Ah," said the Frenchman, with a wave of his hand. "He didn't share with me the particulars, you know."
"Sure. And he didn't say anything that might've given you a clue."
"My friend, believe me when I tell you, my customers are very close-mouthed when it comes to their enterprises. And this one…"
The Frenchman didn't have to finish. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Bishop said. He nodded. He sat thoughtfully awhile, staring at the Frenchman but clearly looking straight through him.
The Frenchman found it disconcerting and unpleasantly suspenseful. He had told Bishop everything he knew. He worried that Bishop would not believe him and would work him over just to make sure.
But after a moment, the intruder nodded again. He stood to go. "All right," he said. "Anything else you can tell me?"
The Frenchman tried not to sigh too loudly, but he was very relieved. He had judged the man aright. There was coldness and cruelty in him, but a certain fairness too. He had his code, such as it was, the way these people did. Mercenaries, hit men, terrorists, even lunatics-they all had their codes, or at least they liked to think so. The gunrunner felt a warm flood of gratitude and affection toward Bishop. Getting through the day uninjured was no small thing to him, given his advanced age and cowardice.
"Well, I can tell you this," the Frenchman offered in the flow of his emotion. "I have had many dealings with people in this business, yes? I have provided materiel to many men who do what this man does. I have seen men of great competence and expertise, and he is no doubt one of them, as are you, I can see. But never-never-have I ever witnessed anyone so… what is the word? Sans caracteristique. Nondescript, that is it. You might turn your back on him a moment and turn back and be unable to say it was he."
Bishop looked down at him, bored, indifferent. "Yeah?" he said after a moment. "So?"
The Frenchman leaned forward in his chair, leaned past the image of the leather-and-sodomy girls on his computer. He set his elbows on the burn-scarred desktop, lay his hands together at his chin as if in prayer. "So when it is on between you," he said. "Be aware, yes? The man is like a ghost. He can be right in front of you-right in front of you, and you will never see him coming."
Part Three
Cats and Mice
21.
I followed Emma.
I woke up that morning in the white tangle of Sissy's fast embrace, in the smell of her, the older-woman perfumed smell that I was drunk on, that had me spellbound. My face was tucked into the hollow of her throat, and my dick was hard as rock against her thigh as she lay sleeping. Almost at once, I started thinking about Emma, fantasizing about walking along some street with Emma, holding Emma's hand, standing on Emma's doorstep at the end of a date and kissing her, drawing her into my arms, moving my hand inside her blouse. And so it went, until I wanted Sissy desperately, Sissy because… well, because Sissy was there-right there in the flesh when I was hard and crazy with love for Emma.
She liked it that I woke her up, that I couldn't wait. It made her laugh that I was so aroused, that I was inside her before she was even fully conscious. I looked down at her, trim and pink and white beneath me, her eyes swimming with tears, her lips parted on her small whispering cries. I looked down at her and thought if I couldn't have Emma I would die.
When I was getting dressed to leave, she called to me, "Where are you off to so early, sweetie? Aren't you gonna come in to the office with me?"
I was in the bedroom, standing in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of her closet door. She was calling to me from the bathroom, calling over the noise of running water. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my clothes in her closet, my jeans, my slacks and button-down shirts, hanging among those schoolgirl outfits of hers, the white blouses, the pleated skirts. It was all so comfortable, so domestic, as if our lives were already thoroughly intermingled, as if the deal were already done. I despaired at the sight of it. I would never get free of her, never.
"I gotta go to Berkeley, remember?" I called back to her. "On the case for that guy, that professor guy, the one who says his daughter is avoiding him. I'm supposed to follow her."
I heard her shut the water off. "What?" she called.
"I have to follow the professor's daughter. "