kicked off the force for taking bribes. They took his badge, took his gun. Everything I ever said about him was a lie.'
'I know.'
'I know you know,' said Littlemore. 'But you let me tell my lies.'
Neither spoke.
'That was kind,' added Littlemore.
Younger grimaced. His head jerked back; his teeth clenched. The cigarette broke off, and the lit end flew in a little arc like a miniature rocket, bouncing off the sheet near his chin, then falling to the floor. At the same time, the door to the room opened.
'I'll get that,' said Colette, hurrying in, brushing a hot red ember off the sheet and cleaning up the floor. She placed her palm wordlessly below Younger's lips. From his mouth, he let slip the unsmoked butt end of the cigarette, which fell into her hand. He began to shake again and sweat.
No one said anything.
At last Littlemore asked, 'You in a lot of pain, Doc?'
'I never understood it,' said Younger.
'What?' asked Littlemore.
'Why I was alive. Why any of us were.'
'You understand now?' asked Colette.
Younger nodded. 'Not happiness. Not meaning. It's just-'
He stopped.
'What?' asked Colette.
'War.'
'Only some people aren't fighting,' said Littlemore, remembering something Younger had once said to him.
'No. Everyone's fighting. And I know what it's between, this war.' He looked at Colette.
'What?' asked Littlemore.
'Too late,' said Younger. He lost control of his torso, which began to convulse. Fresh blood appeared on his bandages. Whether the expression on his face was another grimace or a smile, Littlemore couldn't tell.
Colette stared. Betty called for the nurse.
In the middle of the night, Colette knelt alone at Younger's bed. A candle burned on the table. 'Can you hear me?' she whispered.
His eyes were closed. He was still prone, his back rising and falling so shallowly there was hardly any respiration at all. His forehead was drenched. A hollow light glowed in his cheeks.
'If you die,' she said quietly, 'I'll never forgive you.'
He lay there.
Abruptly she stood, letting go his hand. 'Go ahead and die then if you're so weak,' she cried. 'I thought you were strong. You're a weakling. Nothing but a weakling.'
'Not very sympathetic,' he said softly, without opening his eyes.
She gasped and covered her mouth. She took his hand again and whispered in his ear. 'If you live,' she said, 'I'll do anything you want. I'll be your slave.'
'Promise?'
'I promise,' she whispered.
His eyes blinked open — and shut again. 'Incentive. That's good. Nevertheless, I'm dying. You have to go.'
'I'm not going anywhere.'
'Yes, you are,' he said, making a great effort to speak. 'I need to tell you what to do. I won't be awake long enough. Get Littlemore. Tell him to take you to a fishing tackle store.'
'What?'
'Break in if you need to. They'll have maggots — for bait. I should have thought of it before. Make sure they're from blowflies. Anything else will eat me alive. Tell the surgeon to open me up where the bullets entered. Cut as far down as he can. Drop the maggots in. Keep the incision open — use clamps. There's got to be plenty of air. Drain the wounds every couple of hours. After three days, clean them out.'
Dr Salvini, chief surgeon of the Washington Square Hospital, initially objected vigorously to the idea of embedding fly larvae to feast next to his patient's heart. But he knew Younger was dying, and in any event Colette gave him no choice.
'Um, what if they lay eggs in there?' Littlemore asked Colette early the next morning, peering at the seething stew in the troughs of Younger's back.
'First we have to hope they clean out the infection,' she answered quietly.
'I know,' said Littlemore, 'but what if the eggs hatch after he's sewed up?'
'They're larvae,' said Colette. 'They can't lay eggs. They only eat.'
'Oh — sounds good,' said Littlemore, swallowing.
How Younger held on over the next forty-eight hours, no one knew. His fever reached a hundred and five. He had no food, nearly no drink. They had to tie him to the bed rails because his convulsions were so violent.
On the third day, his fever broke. When the engorged maggots were flushed out of the wounds, Salvini was astonished to find clean, pink, healthy tissue, with all the necrotic detritus and seepage gone.
They took another set of X-rays. This time, Colette herself computed the depth and location of the bullet fragments — correctly to within a tenth of a centimeter. The bullets had indeed mushroomed, but they were stable and largely intact. Salvini didn't even have to break any more of Younger's ribs to extract them.
The following morning, fresh air and dappled sunlight poured in through the window of Younger's hospital room, the curtains of which were now thrown open, affording a pleasant view of Washington Square Park and its autumnal trees. Younger was awake, propped up by pillows. He had lost weight, but his skin had regained its color, and he could move again.
Colette came in, radiant, carrying a baguette and a paper bag filled with other groceries. 'I found a French bakery,' she said. 'I brought you croissants. Can we live here?'
'Where did you get those diamonds?' he asked, looking at her choker.
Colette shook her head, breaking the baguette. 'These hideous diamonds. I can't get them off. I've even taken my baths with them.'
'I like you in them,' replied Younger. 'I command you to keep them on. Day and night.'
'But I don't want to,' she said. 'Some slave,' he answered. 'Come here.'
She bent to him. Younger reached behind her and — with infuriating male handiness — unclasped the necklace. She kissed his lips. He handed her a telegram brought by Officer Roederheusen from the Commodore Hotel. Colette read it:
26 NOV. 1920
BOY CURED. HAVE BOOKED CABIN FOR HIM S.S. SUSQUEHANNA
ARRIVING NEW YORK 23 DECEMBER IN COMPANY OF YOUR
FRIEND OKTAVIAN KINSKY. PLEASE ADVISE IF THIS PLAN SUITABLE.
FREUD
Chapter Twenty-two
On December twenty-third, in the icy early morning harbor air, below an overcast sky, they stamped their feet — Younger and Colette; Jimmy and Betty Littlemore — and waited for the steamship Susquehanna. Winter had come. A dusting of overnight snow had given New York City a fairy-tale veneer, belied by the heavy, forbidding waters of the port, dotted with skins of fruit and other refuse.
The men stood on the dock. Colette and Betty conversed near the harbor buildings, which sheltered them from the sharp winds. Younger, whose rib cage was trussed in bandages below his suit, asked the detective for the
