Murfin grinned again. It was his nastiest one yet. “Who does he remind you of?”
I thought for a moment. “Mix,” I said finally. “In a curious kind of way he reminds me very much of Arch Mix.”
“Yeah,” Murfin said. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
The house was on one of the more fashionable stretches of N Street in Georgetown and I had to go around the block three times before I could find a place to park. It was a fairly narrow three-story house of old red brick. But the brick was just about all that was still old because the front door, the windows, and the wood trim were quite new, although they had been custom made so that they would look just as old as the brick. All that had cost a lot of money, but then the owner of the house had a lot of money.
I walked up the six metal steps to the door and rang the bell. After perhaps a minute or so the door opened slowly. The young woman who stood there was nude, or stark naked, if you prefer, and she said, “Well, Squire, come on in.”
I went in and said, “Put some clothes on.”
“The air conditioning’s on the blink.”
“Put some clothes on and sweat a little.”
“Jesus, you’re such a prude.”
She picked up an almost transparent green robe that had been flung over a chair and slipped into it. The robe helped some, but not much, because I could still see right through it. But it did nothing for me because the woman’s name was Audrey Dunlap, she was thirty-two, a widow, and also my sister, the millionaire dope fiend.
I tried heroin once when I was sixteen and I liked it very much. So much, in fact, that I never tried it again on the theory that anything that made you feel that good must be bad for you. I think I acquired that particular mind set from the German side of my family. Certainly not the French.
Over the years I had tried most of the other drugs out of mild curiosity and most of them only made me feel dopey. Pot does absolutely nothing for me except make me cough a lot and giggle a bit. I never tried LSD, primarily because of my schizoid tendencies which, I have been assured, are pronounced. For my nerves I sometimes take a little gin.
My sister, on the other hand, had never tried heroin because she said she was saving it. I never asked her for what because she might have come up with the answer. She made do, or did the last time I had talked to her, with a little coke and hash and Quaalude and pot, which were all rather fashionable that year and my sister, if nothing else, was fashionable.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose you want a drink.”
“You got anything to eat?”
“You know where it is.”
“Where’s Sally?” I said. Sally Raines was my sister’s black companion, confidante, social secretary, and connection.
“She took the kids over to the park.”
“How are they?”
“Six and five,” she said. “Do you remember when I was six?”
“Too well.”
“Well, they’re both just like me.”
“A pain in the ass.”
“Right.”
“Why don’t you all come out to the farm Saturday,” I said. “I fixed up a swing that goes out over the pond.”
“Like the one in Opelousas?”
I looked at her. She was smiling at me. “I didn’t think you remembered that,” I said.
“I remember everything,” she said. “It was the summer of forty-eight. You were fifteen and I was five and the swing went out over the river or the creek or lake or whatever it was and you held me and then we fell a mile into the water. That was a hell of a summer, wasn’t it?”
“It was fine,” I said. “So why don’t you bring the kids out Saturday?”
“Ruth wouldn’t mind?”
“You know Ruth.”
“Ruth’s all right,” she said. “The only thing wrong with Ruth is that she makes me feel as if I’ve got some part missing. By comparison, I mean. I like her. I like her a lot. Did I ever tell you that?”
“You didn’t have to.”
“But then you and I don’t ever talk about anything, do we?”
“Who does?”
“Do you and Ruth?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about?”
“Everything,” I said. “Anything. Nothing.”
“It must be fun.”
“It’s different.”
We were still in the living room, which was furnished in my sister’s eclectic but impeccable taste. It was a blend of antique and contemporary furniture although blend makes it sound far too tame. Everything contrasted dramatically without jarring and the living room and the entire house, for that matter, had appeared in the Sunday supplements of half a dozen or so newspapers. Often Audrey, and maybe the kids, too, would be seen in the pictures, all dressed up, and even if you knew her very well and looked very closely, you couldn’t tell that the beautiful young matron was half spaced out.
I followed her back into the kitchen. “You want something to eat?” I said as I opened the refrigerator, which was large enough to have done for a small hotel.
“I just got up,” she said. “I think I’ll have some tea.”
I turned, put the kettle on, and went back to the refrigerator. There was a lot to choose from — cold roast beef, ham, fried chicken, several kinds of wurst, and maybe nine kinds of cheese. I decided on a chicken leg and roast beef sandwich. My sister watched as I made it.
“Guess who called the other day?” she said.
“Who?”
“Slick.”
The kettle started to whistle so I put a tea bag in a cup, poured the water in, and placed the saucer on top of the cup on the unproved theory that it would make it steep better. Then I went back to the refrigerator and took out a can of beer. It was Coors beer. It would be.
“Well,” I said. “How’s Slick?”
“Chipper,” she said. “Jaunty. Maybe even ebullient.”
“And as full of shit as ever.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I only talked to him over the phone. He asked about you.”
“What’d he ask?” I said, moving my sandwich and beer over to the kitchen table, which provided a view of the garden, fountain and all. The garden also had been featured in the Sunday supplements. My sister sat down opposite me with her tea.
“He wanted to know if you were still in hiding.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That as far as I knew you still were.”
I shook my head. “I’m not in hiding. We’ve got a phone in and everything now. You’ve got the number. So does Slick.”
“Does it ever ring?”
“Last week,” I said. “It rang last week.”
“Did you answer it?”
“I was outside and by the time I got there they’d hung up.”
“Have you got a cigarette?” she said.
“I’ll roll you one.”
“God, you’re quaint.” She rose, found a carton in a cabinet, tore open a pack, and lit the long, brown cigarette with a paper match. She blew some smoke out and said, “That suit. Are you supposed to be dressed up or something?”
I looked down at my suit. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s ten years old. At least ten.”
“Eleven.”
“What’s the occasion?” she said. “The last time you dropped by you were wearing your Big Mack overalls and your shitkicker high-tops.”
“Somebody wants to pay me a whole bunch of money for two weeks’ work. I thought I should look neat and earnest.”
“I liked the overalls better. Who’s paying you the bunch of money?”
“Roger Vullo.”
Audrey made a face indicating that she didn’t think much of Roger Vullo.