He smiles as if the answer should be obvious. “I’m a displaced person, Sylvia. Before I settled in Quinsigamond, I was often a transient. Often a victim of some very brutal forms of repression. Buffeted by forces I could not always see. Forgive the pun.”
“Go on.”
“You are not the only frightened person in this city. I am not a free agent. I have compromised to the point where I owe allegiances and favors to a multitude of conflicting clients. To everyone but myself. People seem to think I’m the nexus where they can find satisfaction. Attain some unattainable artifact of their desires. Believe me, Sylvia, I know what it’s like to be scared and confused.”
“You haven’t given me a single reason why I should trust you.”
“I’m not sure,” he says, “what I could give you that would be adequate. That would make you believe my intentions are simple and benign. I’ve lived in Quinsigamond for a number of years now, Sylvia. I was here before you were born. But I’ll always be a foreigner in this city. The advantage of that fact is that I see a good many things the natives miss. And I’m a blind man, so I hear much that the sighted are deaf to. I’m a receptacle of information. Much of it is rumor and gossip. But some percentage of it is of value.”
She studies him, this awkward, slightly bent old man with odd, papery skin, long fingers, brittle, white, birdlike hair. Flanked this way, by the deserted plaza in the distance, the sky looking like it was about to press down on him, all she can think is what a wonderful picture he’d make.
“Last night,” she says, “I met a man who claimed to be Terrence Propp. Was he telling the truth?”
There’s no hesitation. He says. “He is what he claims to be. Don’t judge him too harshly.”
“I never said anything about judging him at all,” she says. “He tried to warn me away from Hugo Schick. Is that good advice?”
“Schick,” he says, seeming to consider his words, “is a megalomaniac. He is also a man of some talent. But then, there is no law, natural or otherwise, that says artists have to be ethical people. Schick may be a pathological liar. And he appears to consume all but the strongest individuals in his path. To be honest, Sylvia, I can’t see the benefit of an association with Mr. Schick.”
“Which one is running me through the maze, Quevedo?”
“The maze?”
“You want to help me? Then answer some of my questions. Like who made sure I got the Aquinas? Why was I supposed to find those pictures? What happened to Jack Derry? How did Propp know I’d be at the Halloween block party?”
He waves his right hand, a kind of fluid stop sign.
“Slow down, Sylvia,” he says. “Yes, I want to help you. But understand, my child — I’m sorry, excuse me — understand that, like everyone else, I’m at the mercy of my age and my culture. I may well know a bit more than you about both Mr. Schick and Mr. Propp. And I confess that I can’t prevent myself from making certain judgments concerning their behavior, their attitudes, the wreckage both seem to leave in their wake. A man of my particular sensibility might use phrases like irresponsible cad, like self-consumed scoundrel. Possibly, I could use a word like deviant or perhaps, in some case, even pervert. These words might be applied to one or both of the men in question. But Sylvia, they are not limited to those men. The world is full of callous and cruel men.”
“You have a problem getting to the point, Mr. Quevedo.”
He closes his eyes, nods. “Perhaps,” he says, “your greatest threat does not come from either Schick or Propp.”
“I found Rory Gaston in my apartment last night—”
“He’s a sad and deluded figure, but not a dangerous one.”
“Should I be afraid of you, Quevedo?”
He lets out a quick blast of a laugh, a high-pitched, one-syllable bleat. “I’m an old man at the end of a tiring life, Sylvia. Admit the obvious.”
“You’re saying Perry. You’re saying you know something about Perry.”
The white eyes just stare at her and she knows he’s got nothing more to say.
“Perry would never hurt me,” she says. “He’s not even aware of what’s been going on in my life.”
“I must get back to the store,” he says, gives a little bow, turns on his heel and starts to walk away across the lot. Sylvia doesn’t try to stop him. She doesn’t say a word. When he gets to the edge of the plaza, the rain begins to fall and she watches him turn up the collar of his suitcoat before he disappears around the corner.
She turns on the radio. She searches the drawers for an eraser so she can rub out all of Cora’s crossword answers. She picks up one of the romance novels that someone’s always leaving behind in the booth, opens it randomly and reads a page.
… Yes,” Simone said as she turned away from the sight of Pierre disappearing down the beach, “if I can’t have you, my love, I can still paint you!” She picked up her palette and straightened the canvas on the easel. She began to mix the colors once again, swirling shades together the way she had been taught so long ago in Paris, but now her eyes began to fill with the sting of tears and the dabs of bright paint spread out before her began to blur and …
She throws the book in the trash bucket. The courier truck pulls up to the window and she slides the bubble open. She’s never seen this driver before. He doesn’t say hello. He’s writing furiously on a clipboard which he suddenly heaves at her, almost hitting her in the face. She signs for the delivery and hands him back the board and the courier passes her a fat packet of film envelopes held together with thick rubber bands. Then he drives off, leaving the Shack engulfed in a cloud of carbon monoxide. Sylvia closes the window completely, which she hates doing even when it rains. She unbands the envelopes and sits them in her lap and starts to alphabetize them.
The phone rings and she jumps and the envelopes fall onto the floor. She starts to scoop them back with one hand and answers the phone with the other.
“Snapshot Shack, this is Sylvia. Can I help you?”
“A heart and lung machine and total forgiveness would be a start.”
It’s Perry. She knew the call would come but she’s still dreading the next three minutes.
“You survived,” she says.
“Barely. You just can’t do this after you turn thirty. I’m going to be hurting for a week.”
“Well, you couldn’t let the district attorney think you were a lightweight.”
“Eddie’s out of my league. Never again. I’m just not a Scotch drinker,” a pause, then, “How are you feeling, Syl?”
“Much better,” she says. “I just needed some sleep.”
“You were gone when I got in this morning.”
“I got to work early. I wanted to beat the rain.”
“I’m really sorry, Syl. That was really juvenile last night. I’m an idiot.”
“It’s okay. I understand. The new law partner doesn’t say no when the D.A. is buying the drinks.”
There’s a second of silence and she wonders if he thinks she’s being sarcastic, but he comes back with a new tone to his voice, all low and serious. “We’ve really been strangers all week. It’s worrying me, Sylvia. I don’t—”
She cuts him off. She doesn’t want to do this. “It’s been a bad week, Perry,” she says. “It’s been bad for both of us. It’s the moon or something.”
“We need to do some major talking, honey. You know. We need to just sit down and clear the air. Start fresh. We’ve got to get things straight again—”
“Oh, God, wouldn’t you know it,” she says.
“What?”
“I’ve got a customer at the window. I’m going to have to run.”