“He’s not a cop,” June said. “He’s a regulatory agent. I know him.”
“He’s been harassing my father-in-law. He seems to think Marge is mixed up in a dope ring.”
“Well, you’ve all got my sympathy.” She smiled and shuddered. “Is that what he said? A dope ring?”
“So I understand.”
“That sounds like him.”
“If you were dealing dope,” Converse said, “How come you know what he sounds like?”
“Oh man,” June said sadly, “I don’t want your paranoia. I know the dude, that’s all. The guy I was with,” she said, “he had dealings with Antheil. Antheil has lots of dealings.”
“Why is he a regulatory agent instead of a cop?”
“Because he works for a regulatory agency. And that’s what he calls himself.”
“I see,” Converse said. “He knows everybody, right? He’s got a lot of sources.
He pays them. I don’t know if he stands still for their dealing but I guess he’d have to.
“I made it with Ray, O.K.? Owen was very possessive, he found out about it. After they split Owen got loaded and called Antheil. He had a theory about where they were going.” She watched a throw to first, an easy out. “I think he’s wrong. I hope he’s wrong.”
“Where did he think they were going?”
June shook her head.
“You wouldn’t find it by yourself. It’s way out in the toolies. Anyway, it’s not where they went.”
“All right,” Converse said.
They watched the game.
“Sorry to hear you got Antheil after you. He’s very weird. He’s not your ordinary nark.”
“Why not.”
“He’s a lawyer. He used to work for the civil service commission and for the internal revenue. Then some shit went down and he transferred. He knows a lot of heavy political people, Owen says.”
A lock of Converse’s hair had stuck to his bandage. He tried cautiously to disengage it.
“Do you have anything to drink?”
“I don’t drink. I can give you a hit off a joint.”
Converse declined.
“Did Owen ever mention Irvine Vibert?”
“Could be. I heard the name somewhere.”
Her pale foxy face displayed a shadow of weary amusement. “You look like you just figured out how and why.”
“I just figured out how.” June had taken a joint from her pack of cigarettes. She lit it with seeming absentmindedness. When she passed it to him, he took it and smoked.
“You never should have tried it, friend. Why did you?”
“In the absence of anything else,” Converse said.
The grass took him to Charmian. He had tried it in order to do something dangerous with her. The sex had been poorly because of his fear. When he spoke he could not make her listen; each time he had endeavored to engage her tripping Dixie fancy she had regarded him with such knowing calculation that he sometimes suspected she had the measure of his very soul. He had tried to extend, to surprise. As an act of communication.
“You mean you were broke?”
June had settled on the sofa with her legs tucked beneath her. Her head rested on the sofa back so that her torso was thrust forward and her breasts swelled under the halter. The rosy skin between the base of her breasts and her shorn armpit was firm and trim, without a wrinkle.
“No, I wasn’t broke.”
His belly warmed, his prick rose — it was beyond perversity. He sat desiring the girl — a speed-hardened straw-colored junkie stewardess, a spoiled Augustana Lutheran, compounded of airport Muzak and beauty parlor school. Her eyes were fouled with smog and propane spray.
What a feckless and disorderly person he was. How much at the mercy of events.
“It was just a kick,” he explained. He was communicating again.
And what events. What mercy.
He reached over and took another toke of the joint she was smoking.
“I can dig it. And oh boy, is that a bad way to be.”
She took the joint back gently.
“The way dealing is — scag for sure — you have to be ready to fuck people. You have to sort of like it. Some body goes down on you, does you — you walk on their face.” She set her feet back on the floor and leaned against the arm as though something had made her suddenly sad. “Owen used to say that if you haven’t fought for your life for something you want, you don’t know what life’s all about.”
“That must have been what I was after,” Converse said.
“Well, I hope you’re getting off.”
When she passed him the joint, he eased beside her and she did not move away. She was warm, firm, comfortable. He felt in need of comfort She observed his move without expression.
“You horny?”
“Just going with the flow,” he said.
“Shit, man. Don’t hurt your ear.”
She uttered a little grunt and giggled wearily.
“You see,” he communicated, “it’s like the oriental proverb. There’s a man hanging on the edge of a cliff. Above him there’s a tiger. Underneath there’s a raging river.”
June seemed to be looking at the ceiling.
“And on the side of the cliff,” she said, “there’s some honey. And the man licks it.”
“Owen do that one too?”
“Lemme tell you something,” she said. “I’ve listened to every manner of shit.”
He put his hands under her breasts and breathed into the dry coarse hair behind her ear. When he kissed her neck, she shifted to give him a wasted smile.
“You’re a funny little fucker.”
Converse was over five feet, ten and a half inches tall. He was at least three inches taller than June. No one had ever called him a funny little fucker before. The phrase rattled the shards of his vanity but it also found him out on a level he could not at first identify. He paused with his mouth against the terry cloth over her nipple, the strings of her halter between his fingers. He had been a funny little fucker in the Red Field.
He froze as he had then. He pressed against her as he had against the ground, stunned by the vividness of recall.
“We must read different manuals,” she said.
He sat up and stared at her. She laughed softly.
“Lose the flow?”
“I don’t know…” he began to say. He had wanted to take some comfort; he was tired of explanations.
“That was about as fucked up a come-on as I ever sat still for,” she told him.
“No offense.”
She shook her head amiably, tied her halter back on and looked at her watch.
“You don’t know your mind, that’s all. You don’t know what you want.”
“No,” Converse said.
As he left he thanked her for having Janey and for talking with him. She did not care to be thanked.
“If you ever see Ray — tell him it was Owen that called Antheil. Tell him it wasn’t me.”
Converse assured her that he would pass the message.
“Take care,” she told him as he stepped out into the corridor. “Take a whole lot.”
When his hand touched the elevator signal it touched off the tiniest spark of static electricity. He drew it back and clenched it.
When the elevator came, he got on.
The Red Field was in Cambodia, near a place called Krek. It had been about two o’clock in the afternoon in early May, the hottest time of year. Since dawn, Converse, a veteran wire-service man, and a young photographer had been on patrol with a Cambodian infantry company. The Khmers held hands as they advanced and sometimes picked flowers. They stopped often and when they did Converse would hunt out some shade and sit reading a paperback copy of Nicholas and Alexandra which he had bought in Long Binh PX.
The Cambodians were impossible troops, they clustered and chattered and tried each other’s helmets on. Walking in front of Converse was a little man called the Caporal who carried a Browning automatic rifle decorated with hibiscus. The white hot sun and the empty hours dulled all caution. It seemed that the very innocence of their passage could charm all menace.