am not making myself too clear. Look: we call hunting and bull fighting, for example, sports. We find them exciting because death is concerned. But the reality of the situation is that this is all a cowardly fallacy. With modern rifles there is little danger to the hunter. Even in the bull ring the matador first, and with great care, tires the bull, teaches him to follow his cape before he attempts the kill.”
“But matadors are gored to death and hunters killed.” I cut in.
“Accidents. There's an element of danger in everything— many people die from slipping in the bath tub too. The point is this: the matador, the fighter, they at least are doing it out of sheer need, although even for them it can also become an escape from reality. But what is there to be said for the idiots they call fans, including writers, who glorify such things with hoarse yells and words? What is there to be said except that in their hearts they are cowards? They cannot fight the bull, but they dream they want to. The truth is they do not even dare fight for the bread and security that would change their drab fives. That they are even afraid to dream about it! The writer who can not face the reality of our world, who lacks the courage to write honestly about what he sees, his out is to become intoxicated with the cruel tragedy of the bull, of the bloody boxer. It is an easy task for he can see the violence, sincerely feel sorry for the bull, without seeing the whole stupid picture. His books become bloody bar ads, and in time his own words lose all meaning. For him the 'moment of truth' is another shot of rye; sex is rape; violence becomes a way of life—and all of it is but the trimmings of his own desperate desire to die, to escape from a life that bewilders and frightens him.”
“And that's Matt Anthony?”
“In my opinion, to a T. I said most writers of violence are big men. They write about the bull ring, the boxing racket, about murder, best when they reach middle age. For then they are 'safe,' in the sense they are no longer physically capable, hence do not have to carry the secret shame they felt when they were young and physically able, at least, to do the things they write about so smoothly. Now do you understand what I mean by being cowardly?”
“Yes and no. Let's say you've given me a lot to think about.”
“What are you going to do about Mart's books?”
“I'm not sure yet. As I said before, it isn't so much what we're going to do as
“Do you want me to show you the can?”
“What?”
“Beer makes me run,” Brown said with his aged smile. “Sign of old age, your kidneys weaken. I see it doesn't bother you. I'll be right back.”
I had about seventy dollars on me and when he left the room I had a wild idea of leaving the money in his drawer, or in his bags. But I knew that would be a wrong move.
I was putting on my coat when he returned. “Prof... Hank... it's almost noon. Can you have lunch with me?'
“Thanks, but I'm supposed to see an old friend. Job hunting is such a bore.”
“We'll get together again, soon.”
“I see you don't value your job.”
“I'll chance that.”
He put on a jacket and we went downstairs. He was going east and I told him to get in the car. As we drove toward the park I asked, “If you think Matt is entirely innocent, do you think he signed the confession to protect somebody else?”
“I don't know. No, I don't think Matt would do that. I have no ideas on why he signed that confession. Maybe they tricked him, beat him, or it can even be some sort of 'heroic' gesture on his part. Or he may feel certain, as I do, that the trial will prove his innocence. Knowing Matt, this could all be a big practical joke. I said
He asked me to drop him at 93rd and Lexington. As he got out and we shook hands, I told him, “Thank you for your time, Hank.”
“An old saw goes, I'm wealthy with time at the moment. But I am glad we met, Norm.”
“Tell me—and I hope it doesn't sound like a stupid question, but I keep thinking about your career as a fighter —if you were younger, are you desperate enough now, to use your own words, to be a good fighter?”
“Oh, my, no. I still have a number of alternatives before me. I can beg from friends, I can also turn informer and be a 'professor' again. A true fighter must be one without any choice. Good day, Norm, I have to run.”
I watched him walk down Lexington Avenue. In the middle of the block he turned, saw me watching him, and I thought he frowned. He ducked into a drugstore. I wondered if he suspected me of following him?
Driving back to the apartment—for no reason—I thought about Professor Brown. For one thing, I got the impression he was quite a radical, maybe even a fanatic. And he sure had some odd theories—including the one that Matt had nothing to do with his wife's death. If that was true, it opened up a whole batch of new ideas. Who did kill Francine Anthony? Wilma might have done it. I laughed at myself in the rear view mirror over the windshield.
That was a fantastic idea. Still, a babe like Wilma with her intense drive could do something like that. Suppose she was giving me hot air last night about not going for Matt, knocked off Francine and Matt took the fall for her?
That was absurd: I was thinking like a character in Matt's books. The big deal was—what was I going to do with myself over the weekend?
I went upstairs and made myself a mild drink, considered latching on to Frank and Liz, but let it drop. If Joel was still up on his do-it-yourself cloud, I could try Wilma again. No sex, but to be with. Only I couldn't figure if being with Wilma was any better than the heat and silence of the apartment. The damn living room looked so orderly and impersonal—as though Michele had never lived here.
The outside bell buzzed and I jumped a foot. For a frantic moment all I could think of was Brown's remark about they might come 'knocking on my door.' Buzzing back, I wondered just what I'd do if it was the FBI.
