“You’re a classy one,” Antheil said with a disgusted smile.
“Who’s your lawyer?”
“Benjamin Whiteson. Thirty-five Columbus Avenue.”
“Whiteson? Whiteson’s a Communist, you asshole. He can’t help you. What — seriously — do you think you’re going to do?”
“I haven’t made any plans.”
“I have a plan for you,” Antheil said. “I think I’ll just let
you run loose. I guarantee you’ll be picked off the street within twenty-four hours.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Did you think about who you were cutting in on, running scag? The bike clubs. The black dudes in Oak land. The syndicate. I think I’ll feed them your ass.”
“Tell me this,” Converse said, “who are those guys out there?”
“Do you know those men?”
Converse did not answer. Antheil was delighted; he laughed.
“That’s all right, baby, I know you know them. Jesus, they really put the fear of God into you, didn’t they? Well they’re tame rats, Jim. They’re nothing compared to what you’ve got coming on the street.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re my witnesses. They’re cooperating in the investigation.”
“I see,” Converse said.
“You know the customs they have around here for dealing with clowns who try to take a piece of the trade?”
“It doesn’t concern me.”
“They’ll shoot you full of STP and put a blowtorch to your balls.”
“I’ve heard the stories,” Converse said.
“See, that’s all they do is deal dope and fuck people over. They spend a lot of time thinking up new wrinkles. I can see to it they get you.”
Through the bedroom window, Converse could see Mr. Roche hosing down the lawn behind his bungalow. Mr. Roche appeared to be singing.
“What do you think of your wife and Hicks?”
“I feel left out.”
Antheil looked at him as though a part of his face were missing.
“I’d say you took a fucking.”
“Look,” Converse said. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“You must be stupid. You’re not left out where I’m concerned.”
“What does that get me?”
“Maybe it gets you put to sleep. Or maybe you get to live your crummy little life.”
Converse laughed.
“What’s the matter with you? You think I’m being funny.”
“No,” Converse said. “I know what you’re being. You’ve got my number.”
Antheil watched him in silence for a moment.
“You better believe it,” he said.
“Oh I do,” Converse told him. “I do.”
“You’re an educated man. You turned yourself into an animal for dirty payoff.”
“I don’t admit that,” Converse said.
“You turned yourself into an animal for a dirty payoff.
Where’s your daughter? Don’t you care about her?”
“Sure I care about her. She’s wherever Marge left her: I don’t know where.”
“Terrific for the kid.”
Antheil stood up with an expression of indignation.
“Listen, Converse,” he said earnestly, “no Commie lawyer is going to save you. None of your lame maneuvers are going to save you. But I can — I can keep you alive. If I want to.”
“I see,” Converse said.
“I want to hear about your wife. What can you tell me about her?”
Converse thought about Marge and what there was to tell Antheil about her.
“She worked for a theater in the city. Before that she worked in the Anthropology Department at U.C. She studied acting in New York a long time ago.”
Antheil sat down again. He shook his head in controlled impatience.
“I know all that shit, man. I know about her whole funny family. I want you to tell me what you want to tell me.”
Therapy, Converse thought. He had once been to a session of encounter therapy; the other participants had informed him that he was cold and remote. Someone had applied to him the term “automation-like” and they had tried to force him under a mattress.
So the last seventy-two hours were only the California sensibility continued by other means. Lots of confrontation between liberated psyches, lots of free associating.
He tried, wanting to tell Antheil something about Marge and then discovering what it might be. Esalen style.
“She’s half Irish and half Jewish.” he said. That usually went over — it had social content and an element of popular humor. Marge was driven to fury whenever he mentioned it in company.
“I’m trying to treat you like a human being,” Antheil said, “but you’re a fucking animal. Wait till you’re up to your neck in sand and the Bay’s coming in on your face — then get clever.”
Converse hastened to apologize.
“I mean,” Antheil said, “I want to know how to deal with her. Is she the kind of bitch who’d burn her own husband and split with a boyfriend and love every minute of it. Or is she a victim of circumstances? You know what she’s like.”
Something of the concerned public servant had crept into his manner. Converse felt that he was being offered a choice of responses. If he wanted her back, Antheil would offer to preserve her from the blowtorch. If he wanted revenge, there would be some of that.
“I think,” Converse said, “that she’s pretty moral basically.”
Antheil looked thoughtful for a moment, then his whole some features expanded in a grin.
“Yeah?”
“She’s been under a psychiatrist’s care.”
Antheil put a hand over his face and laughed heartily.
“Oh Jesus,” he cried. His good humor was nearly infectious. “What a couple of yo-yos you are. You must have been out of your minds, the two of you. A psychiatrist’s care!” It took him a moment to regain his composure. “Well listen — if you show me it’s worth it to me, I can take care of both of you. But you better do what you’re told.”
“If I’m in trouble, I’d like to square it.”
“You’re in plenty of trouble, my friend, and so’s your crazy old lady. If you act in good faith you might get out of this with your skin on. If you bullshit me, I’ll see you die.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to help us get in touch with her.”
“I wish I could,” Converse said. “But as I explained to your witnesses out there, I don’t know where she is.”
“So I gather,” Antheil said sympathetically, “but we think we do.”
“Then why not get in touch with her yourselves?”
“The people she’s with are as bad as it gets. When we go in there, there won’t be much conversation. If you could get to her — persuade her to help us out — things might go a lot better for both of you.”
“Who are the people she’s with? I thought it was Ray Hicks.”
“Do you know Those Who Are?”
“No,” Converse said.
“They’re very nasty people. They’re friends of Hicks’.”
“I don’t want to be facetious,” Converse said, “but what is it they are?”
“Everything,” Antheil said. “Dealers, faggots, extremists. Scum of the earth.”
“What do they mean, Those Who Are?”
“I don’t know,” Antheil said, “and I don’t give a shit.
You want to help us out or you want to take your chances on the street?”
“I’ll talk to my lawyer.”
“No, you won’t, friend. You won’t talk to anyone — I won’t take the chance. If you want to square it, we’ll keep you where we can save you from yourself. And you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
“Suppose I walk out? Right now.”
“I told you what’ll happen to you.”
“Suppose I walk out anyway.”
“You can’t,” Antheil said. He seemed genuinely angry for the first time during the interview. Converse elected to preserve what remained of the fiction of volition.