It's going to stay your manuscript, you mean.
Oh sure, very clever, Kent. Go to work on the frightened writer, give me a few good ones right now while I'm up against the ropes. I'm worried about this trial, you see, I really am. I don't know what's happening down there, I haven't heard anyone in these past four days mention the fact that Catchpole is worthless so long as The Paper Dragon is credited to James Driscoll; that anyone reading my play will say, "Why this was stolen from that novel, what was the name of it, it's a direct steal," instead of the other way around. I've heard a lot of arguments in these past four days about diminishing the value and so on, and I've learned all about Driscoll's creative process, but no one has brought up my creative process, the months of hard work I put into that play, the pain each time they asked me for another change, the gradual metamorphosis to what the play became, and the hope, the constant hope that someday someone would recognize what I'd done, but no, not even there, not even in that court of law. It's been Driscoll, Driscoll, Driscoll, The Paper Dragon is the glittering success, and Catchpole is the shabby little beggar hanging around the fringes of the trial. So get in here, Kent. Get in here with your fag-got wrist hanging and tighten your hand into a fist for just a few good ones, a few short sharp ones to the gut. This is a good time to take Constantine. He doesn't know whether he's coming or going, he doesn't know whether to dig one grave or two, let's finish him off once and for all, pow, pow, it's going to stay your manuscript, kid, pow, that's the way, it's now or never, kid, wham, again, again, we can't force you to make the changes, zap, whack, bam, but you can't force us to produce it, either, you get it, kid? wise up, kid, make the changes, kid, pow.
I don't know, he thought. I just don't know.
If I could climb inside McIntyre's head for just a minute, listen to his thoughts and get some sort of inkling, just a clue is all I need, how can I plan on anything if nothing's sure, if it all depends on the opinion of one man?
Ten million dollars.
Look, Oscar, ten million dollars.
Look, Stuart, the book really was stolen from me.
Look, everybody! Look!
He was suddenly chilled to the bone. His face was cold and wet, and his shoes squished water with each step he took. He ran across Sixth Avenue, hurdled the slush against the curb, and spotted a bar in the middle of the block. He walked toward it hastily, glanced through the plate-glass window, and then went inside. Taking a booth near the juke box, he pumped a handful of coins into the machine, and ordered a double scotch.
The city's buildings thrust their broken illumination upward into a sky black with rainclouds, reflected themselves downward again against shining black asphalt. Each brilliant red and green traffic light, each glowing amber street lamp, each twisted tube of orange neon found its echo on the sleek wet surface of the street, so that the city seemed to reverberate with light, seemed to shimmer with light pierced by slanting silver needles of rain. The rain fell remorselessly. It beat noisily upon rooftops and skylights, rattled in gutters and drains, raged in windswept fury across the avenues, hurled its light-smashed slivers against pavement and street. Crumbling pieces of snow splashed away from the banked slush, twisted and whirled like paper boats in the dark curbside torrent, tumbled toward sewer grates, plunged underground in cascades of paper scraps and broken sticks.
They stood in the teeming rain under Jonah's big black umbrella, trying to get a taxi, listening to the irregular beat of the falling drops. There was an insular quality to their corner haven, the secrecy of an attic hiding place. Sally leaned against him, her arm looped through his as they watched the oncoming traffic, Jonah signaling now and again to cabs he thought were free, only to discover they were either carrying passengers or showing their Off Duty signs. But there was no sense of urgency to Jonah's attempts, and Sally exhibited no impatience when, after ten minutes, he still had not succeeded in getting a cab. They began walking idly up Sixth Avenue, looking at the rows of diamond rings in lighted pawnshop windows, stopping to study an old gold locket in one of the smaller antique places, window-shopping cameras and books and phonographs and hardware and records and sewing machines and paint and practical jokes, pausing to study menus taped to restaurant windows, strolling up the avenue as though it were springtime and they were visiting a bazaar.
He had told her at dinner that he'd contacted Santesson late that afternoon and asked him to call off the dogs. He had no doubt now that this was what accounted for the success of the evening, the pleased and somehow flattered smile Sally wore all during the meal, the way she held his arm in easy intimacy now as they walked up the avenue. He could remember walking through the rain with Christie, her hands thrust into the pockets of her white raincoat, a yellow kerchief on her head, the black bangs fringing her brow, her eyes dancing with delight. They had gone to see four movies that day, one at the Roxy, another at the Capitol, a third at the Strand, and the last in a fleabag on 42nd Street, necking furiously in each one. And then they were out in the rain again, and he held her elbow and helped her to pick her delicate way through the puddles, and she said to him quite suddenly, "Jonah, I will never love anyone but you."
And then, one thought linked to the other, one image repeating the other the way the Dunseath looks repeated themselves generation after generation, fading, he thought of Amy. Last week, he had seen a ring in a jewelry shop window on East 61st, a beautiful tiny cameo set with a single diamond. He had known immediately that it would make a perfect Christmas gift for Amy, and would have purchased it on the spot had the shop been open. He had written down the name of the place, and then tucked the card into his wallet, intending to return at the earliest opportunity. But something had always intruded, the ring (he hoped) still sat in the jeweler's window, and Amy would be home tomorrow. He wanted to present it to her when he picked her up at the station, a harbinger of the holidays, welcome home, Amy, Merry Christmas, my darling. He would have to pick it up tomorrow, after court broke, there'd still be time. If only life weren't so goddamn cluttered, he thought, if only everything didn't scream at you from a hundred different directions, all the cheap merchandise in these store windows, a thousand shabby Santa Clauses shaking their bells, a million late shoppers rushing past, a lifetime rushing past. He would have to pick up the ring tomorrow, yes, after court broke. They would undoubtedly be out early; the summations would not take long.
"There's one!" Sally said suddenly.
"Where?"
"There! Quick!"
He saw the cab, and began running for it just as a little man in a dark green trenchcoat leaped off the curb and began signaling wildly to the driver. There was no doubt in Jonah's mind that Sally had seen it first, but even if there had been a question of priority, he did not intend losing the cab. He ran past the little man just as the cab pulled to a stop. Clamping his fingers around the door handle, he said "Sorry," without looking at the man, and then signaled to Sally, who immediately came off the curb to join him.