“So they locked you up.”
“So they locked me up,” Danskin said. “I feigned mad ness. I babbled, I recited Heine. Nine years. Here I am.”
They rode in silence for a while.
“But you’re still pissed off.”
“Now more than ever.”
“Are you sorry?”
“I’m sorry I got put away. I’m not sorry I wasted Brucie. The fucking guy would remember me all his life. He’d be a rich doctor or the Secretary of Interior and he’d have this picture in his mind of me being thrown out of Loew’s. I’d rather have done the time.”
He seemed to be growing angry again. His jaw trembled.
“He’d be married to Claire. She’d say, remember the great fuck we had the night you threw that schmuck whatshisname out of the movies?”
Danskin released an asthmatic sigh and relaxed.
“That’s not the way I want to be remembered.”
“When I went to school,” Converse said, “they used to tell us to offer our humiliations to the Holy Ghost.”
“That’s sick,” Danskin said. He shuddered with revulsion. “That’s fucking repulsive. Why the Holy Ghost?”
“I guess He likes to see people fuck up.”
“He must get a kick out of you, huh?”
“I think the idea was to make something balance.”
Danskin shook his head.
“People are so stupid,” he said, “it makes you cry.”
“So what happened,” Converse asked, “after you got out?”
“I came out of there with a Jones, that’s what happened. I was dicking this wiggy nurse and she turned me on. On grass. On acid. On screwing for that matter. She was queer for madmen.
“We’d go down to the swimming pool and shoot dilaudid tabs, then morphine. It was really nice. The shrinks would try to get to me so I’d chew the rug and I’d just smile, man. Just — hello sunshine! They’d look me up and down, going hmmmm hmmmm — you know what I mean? And I’m standing there so fucking loaded I think I’m in Rockaway. They wouldn’t go for that now, but in those days it never occurred to them.
“Finally I hit the street and I know shit from nothing. I got a habit the size of Manhattan Island and no dealer will touch me. I appear and they run, right, because I’m incredibly naive and uncool — I grew up in the fucking mad house. I run after them on the street — Please, please — they say Get lost, Lemme alone, Help — I get one guy who’s so far gone he’ll sell to me, and the fourth or fifth time out — slam! We’re both busted by a spade in an army coat and sneakers.
“So my status was weird because I’m just out of the hatch. I got passed around from one guy to another and I end up in the Federal Building having a long talk with this Irish man. I can have a break if I’ll go out to this college on Long Island and hang with the radicals there. They have me by the balls. On account of the bust they can put me back in the madhouse for life. If I bitch anywhere I’m crazy. If I do what they want, I’ll get maintenance and stay out.
“Well, I went out there, man, and after a while I really got interested. I played a couple of colleges in the East — the Feds passed me from one handler to another and I worked up some far-out shit. Chicks want to rob banks with me. I say Let’s go to Nyack and kill all the cops there, they say Great! I say Let’s blow up Orange Julius — they say Right On.
“I knew some people in the movement,” Converse said. “I don’t think they would have gone for you.”
“You can say that,” Danskin said, “but you never saw me work. I got their scene figured. You’re an American college kid — that means you get anything you want. You get the best of everything that’s in — think it up, you got it. So revolution is in — boots and cartridge belts and Chinese shit. All the rich suburban kids — their parents never bought them cap pistols, now they want to kick ass. Revolution — they gotta have that too.
“The richest fuckin’ people in the richest country in the world — you gonna tell them some little guy in a hole in South America can have something they can’t? Like shit, man. If the little guy in the hole can be a revolutionary, they can be revolutionaries too.”
“Did you get a lot of convictions?”
“I did O.K. I was better in the field than in court, though. I turned some guns, some explosives. What I mostly got them was dope busts — that’s how I got to Antheil.”
“Don’t you think sometimes,” Converse ventured… “don’t you think there ought to be more to life than that?”
“You should talk,” Danskin said. “What have I got to learn from you about what there should be?”
Converse was silent.
“Anyway, it’s interesting. I’m like the Holy Ghost, man. I like to see shit heads fall on their ass.”
“Tell me something,” Converse said after a while. “Did you put that drawing on my wall?”
Danskin laughed, incredulous.
“What do you think I am, a moron? Smitty did that. Did it scare you?”
“Yes,” Converse said. “It did.”
Danskin laughed and pounded on the wheel.
“Why, you simple asshole!” he said. “Good for Smitty.”
_
ANTHEIL WAS WAITING FOR THEM BESIDE A PICKUP TRUCK at a turn in the road. He had parked at the edge of a pine forest; there was a Mexican with him, a somber squab-nosed man in a khaki shirt with a broad-brimmed beige fedora.
Danskin eased the station wagon over the pine needles and parked it beside the truck.
“He’s pissed off,” Smitty said.
Antheil was dressed for an afternoon of outdoorsmanship. In his Roos-Atkins collapsible hat and safari jacket, he might have stepped from the pages of Field and Stream. But he did appear anxious and depressed, red-eyed, pissed off.
He had spent the previous evening on the south side of the border with his lone Mexican companion, whose name was Angel.
When they pulled up, he walked over to their station wagon and looked in at Converse with resigned disgust, as one might inspect a consignment of spoiled meat. Danskin and Smitty got out and stood by apologetically; they seemed to despair of pleasing him.
“What’s the matter with the radios?” he asked them sharply. “I had no idea where you were.”
“They’re not much use,” Danskin said. “The hills are in the way.”
Driving in, they had been trying to make contact on a battery transmitter over the citizen’s band; an elaborate code had been prepared to disguise the substance of their conversations. But there had been no contact, the hills had been in the way.
“Well, I hope you’ll be able to use them going in,” Antheil said. “Otherwise things may get pretty fucked up.”
Angel looked at Danskin and Smitty as though they aroused some dreadful appetite. He bent to the car window to look in at Converse. Converse nodded to him.
Angel was a policeman in the adjoining Mexican state, and in the past he and Antheil had collaborated in matters relating to law enforcement. In the spirit of alianza para progreso, they had gone drinking and Antheil, who prided himself on the knowledgeable finesse with which he handled Latins, had found the evening trying and even dangerous. Sober, Angel was a public man of massive, somewhat grim, dignity. In liquor he became sullen and contentious. Simpatico as he was, Antheil’s Spanish was uneven. Several times in the course of their revels he had inadvertently given offense to Angel in matters which, to his own understanding, were trivial in the extreme. There had been a period during which it appeared that Angel — whom he was after all engaging as a bodyguard — might shoot him. Angel had recounted many stories illustrating his own prowess and cunning as a police officer, and Antheil had been compelled to simulate intense admiration.