"Gee, thanks."
"No. You really are. You kind of go through these hot flashes and do irrational things."
"Such as what?"
"Such as going to the park."
"That's irrational?"
"Of course it is. That's the kind of thing you should call Edelman about. If there's going to be an exchange of the suitcase for money, then the police should be there, not you."
"This is different."
"No, it's not. It's menopausal."
She clicked David Letterman back on. He was being coy as usual because the topic was sex, a subject he seemed to find disgusting.
I lost it then. It all came down on me and I lost it and I grabbed the remote bar and thumbed through several other channels and as the channels flipped by-pro wrestling, an Alan Ladd movie, William Bendix, a severely hair-sprayed man discussing Wall Street-as the channels flipped by, she moved over to her side of the bed and put her face in the pillow.
It took me two or three long minutes to say it. "I'm sorry."
"'Right." She started to cry softly.
I leaned over and kind of kissed her arm. "I don't mean to take it out on you."
She kept facing the wall. "I get so damn discouraged about us when you push me away like that. You've been doing it since you walked through the door."
"I want to ask you something."
"What?" Sniffling now.
"I want to know if you'll let me inspect your underwear."
"You bastard," she said.
But she laughed. Or at least she sort of did.
Several times the next morning I thought of calling Edelman. Once I even got into a phone booth. Dialed. Waited while they put me on hold. Ready to tell him what I knew. But then I hung up and got back in my car.
In the afternoon I went into the American Security offices to pick up my paycheck.
Bobby Lee gave me some fudge that she'd made for Donna, and Diaz, the kid who'd put the choke hold on the Nam vet, gave me some grief.
In the back room, Diaz said, "You ever seen these?"
His smirk said it all. He was going to pull something out of his windbreaker pocket that was going to irritate the hell out me and he was going to love it.
"Diaz, I'm really not up to it today. All right?"
"Here," he said.
He brought his hand out. Over his knuckles were the metal ridges of brass knuckles.
"No more choke holds, man." He looked proud of himself. "Just these babies."
I put my hand out, palm up.
"Give them to me."
"What?"
"I want them, Diaz, and right now."
"Bullshit. They're mine. I paid for them with my own money."
I didn't say anything more. Just went over to the intercom phone and picked it up.
"Hey, what're you doing?"
"I’m going to fire you, Diaz."
"Hey asshole."
"Don't call me asshole, Diaz. You understand?" I punched a button. "Bobby Lee. Is he in?"
Diaz grabbed my shoulder. "Jesus, all right, here they are."
"Never mind, Bobby Lee," I said.
Diaz threw the knucks down on the table. They clanged.
"Enough people are getting hurt and dying these days, Diaz. We don't need to help it along."
I heard it in my voice and so did he. The same tone I'd heard in Evelyn Dain's voice. A kind of keening madness.
Diaz surprised me. He said, "You okay, man?"
"Why don't you just get out of here?" I sensed tears in my voice.
But Diaz, bully-proud in his bus driver's uniform, just stood there and said, "Man, listen, we have our arguments, but they don't mean jack shit. I mean, you're a decent guy. You know?"
I sighed. "Thanks, Diaz. For saying that."
"You let shit get to you all the time. You shouldn't. I worry about you. Everybody here does, man. The way it gets to you."
He came over and patted me on the back. "Can I tell you something?"
"All right."
"You look wasted. You got the flu or something?"
''No."
"Bad night?"
"I'll be all right, Diaz. I appreciate your concern."
But it hadn't been concern at all because as he pushed between me and the table, I saw his right hand go behind his back and lift the knucks and start to slip them into his back pocket.
I brought my fingers up and got him hard by the throat, hard enough that he couldn't talk.
"You got ten seconds to get out of here, Diaz, you understand?"
He nodded.
"And if I find you're using any weapons, including knucks or choke holds on the job, you're out. You understand?" He nodded again.
When I let go, he said, "You need some nooky, man. Or something. You need something, man, and you need it fast."
He said this in a raspy voice. I'd dug into his throat pretty hard.
When he got to the door, he said, "Some night, Dwyer, you and me are going to face it off. You know that?"
But I didn't say anything to Diaz. He was young and hot and worried about his honor. I was thinking of Karen Lane and Dr. Evans and Gary Roberts and wondering if there was any honor left that was even worth worrying about.
Chapter 30
In my apartment I clean and oiled my.38, checked the snap on the shiv I'd once lifted off an extremely successful pimp, and then slid on Diaz's knucks just to see how they felt. They felt good. They really did, and I knew I wanted to use them, in just the same eager bone-smashing way Diaz wanted to use them.
It was five o'clock then and I watched "Andy Griffith" on cable and wished there were a real Mayberry and Aunt Bea and Opie and Floyd the barber and Ang and Barney because I'd go down there and see them all and maybe stay a year or two. And then it was six o'clock and the news came on, AIDS and teenage suicide and crooked local politicians, and I started staring out the window at the spring rain, chill and silver on the window, and the whipping night trees beyond. And then it was seven and cable ran a "Three Stooges" episode before the ball game started, and I just sat there staring at Shemp's face, a face that even as a kid had made me sad, the gravity of the eyes, the frantic deals he tried to make with a world that needed to make no deals at all with his kind. Then I picked up Karen Lane's copy of Breakfast at Tiffany's and looked through it for the fifth time, hoping to find something enlightening in it. But it was nothing more than it seemed to be-the favorite book of a girl from the Highlands who saw in Holly Golightly the perfect escape, the one person who seemed to do exactly what she wanted-lie, cheat, steal, care about no one but herself-and be loved for it. Holly might be fine for gentle little books and arch romantic movies, but I'd known a few Hollys in my days and they weren't forgiven or indulged forever. They were punched or even killed or they just moved on, and by age thirty-five the things in them that had been cute or fetching just looked silly and empty, and a meanness overtook them then. Go into half the bars in this town and you'll see women who used to be Holly Golightly. Now they're just drunks with evil mouths and sour memories. "She ought to be protected against herself," said a character on page 104, and I thought about that, about how Karen had needed that. And then I started wondering about the suitcase again and what was in it and thinking that maybe she was trying to protect herself with whatever it held. Then it was eight o'clock and I put a bowl of Hormel chili on the hot plate and crunched up about ten saltines in it. Then it was eight-thirty and I had two cold generic beers and went back to checking my.38 and my shiv and my knucks and knowing I was ready, knowing I needed this. Then it was nine and I went down and got in my Toyota and drove out to Pierce Point.
Chapter 31
The small scarred houses of the highlands were dark in the rain as I followed the street leading to Pierce Park. The business district came next, and even in the rain glow of neon and wet pavement it looked shabby, the windows with beer signs and the porno shops with long posters of fat strippers promising the least redeeming of pleasures.