agonizing months with his mother-who managed to provide occasional
bursts of affection only when her conscience began to bother her-he had
spent his childhood with his grandmother. She not only wanted him, she
cherished him. She treated him as if he were the focus not just of her
own life but of the very rotation of the earth.
'Franklin is such an ordinary name,' his grandmother used to say. 'But
Dwight ... well, now, that's special. It was your grandfather's name,
and he was a wonderful man, not at all like other people, one of a kind.
You're going to grow up to be just like him, set apart, set above, more
important than others. Let everyone call you Frank. To me you'll
always be Dwight.'
His grandmother had died ten years ago. For nine and a half years no
one had called him Dwight; then, six months ago, he'd met Billy.
Billy understood what it was like to be one of the new breed, to have
been born superior to most men. Billy was superior too, and had a right
to call him Dwight. He liked hearing the name again after all this
time. It was a key to his psyche, a pleasure button that lifted his
spirits each time it was pushed, a reminder that he was destined for a
dizzyingly high station in life.
'I tried calling you several times last night,' Billy said.
'I unplugged the phone so I could drink some Scotch and sleep in peace.'
'Have you seen the papers this morning?'
'I just got UP.'
'You haven't heard anything about Harris?'
'Who?'
'Graham Harris. The psychic.'
'Oh. No. Nothing. What's to hear?'
'Get the papers, Dwight. And then we'd better have lunch. You are off
work today, aren't you?'
'I'm always off Thursdays and Fridays. But what's wrong?'
'The Daily News will tell you what's wrong. Be sure to get a copy.
We'll have lunch at The Leopard at eleven-thirty.
' Frowning, Bollinger said, 'Look-'
'Eleven-thirty, Dwight.'
Billy hung up.
The day was dreary and cold. Thick dark clouds scudded southward; they
were so low they seemed to skim the tops of the highest buildings.
Three blocks from the restaurant, Bollinger left his taxi and bought the
Daily News at a kiosk. In his bulky coat and sweaters and gloves and
scarves and wool toboggan cap, the vendor looked like a mummy.
The lower half of the front page held a publicity photograph of Edna
Mowry provided by the Rhinestone Palace. She was smiling, quite lovely.
The upper half of the page featured bold black headlines: BUTCHER KILLS
NUMBER 10 PSYCHIC PREDICTS MURDER At the corner he turned to the second
page and tried to read the story while waiting for the traffic light to
change. The wind stung his eyes and made them water.
It rattled the paper in his hands and made it impossible for him to
read.
He crossed the street and stepped into the sheltered entrance way of an
