'About what…?'
'I'll straighten it out for you.'
'Somebody's got to.'
'Who came to visit you?'
'What are you talking about?'
'You said sometimes you got to see visitors. Who?'
'What did your wife die of?'
'Loneliness, I think.' And Rachel nodded, then finally left the room. So long, Rachel. So long. 'I don't remember,' Mr. Koppleman said.
'You don't remember what?'
'Who came to visit me.'
'I'll throw out a name here. Jean Goldblum.'
'Who?' 'Jean. Jean Goldblum. He's dead now.' 'Sorry to hear it.' 'Yeah. But I think he came to see you.' 'You said he's dead.' 'Before he died.' 'What?'
'Holy shit!' The orderly was dangling the Hustler centerfold in front of a glazed-eyed resident now. 'Look at that.' He turned it around and kissed it somewhere south of her belly button. 'Sweet…' 'Mr. Koppleman?' 'Yes?' 'Hello.' 'Hello.' 'Jean Goldblum came to see you. Remember?' 'Maybe.' 'What did he want?' 'I'm not sure.' 'You're not sure?' 'I'm not sure he came to see me.' Okay, he'd never been very good at the tango. Now Santini, he could cut the rug like nobody's business. But him-he was in dire need of a few Arthur Murrays.
'Come on, Mr. Koppleman. Think. I'm in trouble here. I need your help.' 'Okay.'
'Jean Goldblum came to see you. They brought you in here just like this. You had no idea who he was maybe. Maybe you said get me out of here. But he said wait a minute. Listen to me. I need to know something. Help me out here. So you did. Maybe he even thanked you afterward.'
'Sure.'
'You remember, don't you?'
'Maybe.'
'Well then.' He leaned forward now, close enough to whisper in his ear, close enough to kiss him. 'What did he ask you? What?'
'He asked me why I'd been spared.'
'What?'
'He asked me why I'd been spared. Me, out of everyone.'
'Spared, Mr. Koppleman? By who?'
Do you go for the box, or what's behind curtain number two, the TV MC was saying. The black orderly had thrown his Hustler down on the chair and joined the other men by the television.
'Go for the curtain,' he said now, and laughed, 'go for the gold, baby.'
'Good question,' Mr. Koppleman said.
'What did he mean?'
'Good question.'
'Come on, Alfred. Stay with me.'
'He thought I knew something.'
'That's right.'
'He badgered me.'
'What did he think you knew?'
'Good question.'
'He asked you why were you spared. You. Out of everyone.'
'He badgered me.'
'Do you know who everyone was?'
'Good question.'
'I do. I know who they are.'
'Who?'
He pulled the map out of his pocket. 'Alma Ross… Joseph Waldron… Arthur Shankin… Mrs. Winters…' ticking them off one by one, hoping the names, like signposts, might lead him home-might lead the both of them there.
'See, Mr. Koppleman. Everyone.'
'Okay.'
'They weren't spared. That's what Jean knew. That's what Jean found out here, isn't it? But you were.'
'What?'
'You were spared.'
'By who?'
'Good question.' He felt drained. Yes he did. A couple of times around the dance floor and he was ready for the oxygen tent. 'Mr. Koppleman?'
'Yes.'
'Hello.'
'Hello.'
'Who were they?'
'Who were who?'
'Those people. The ones who weren't spared. Do you know them?'
'Do I know who?'
'These people.'
'What people?'
Okay, Mr. Koppleman had left him. Sure he had. Scurried up a telephone pole, danced along the wire, and was smiling at him-like the Cheshire Cat. William kept at it-for a little while more he did, tried this and that to get him down, but although he tried every way he knew and for longer than he should've, it was no go. Even the fire department couldn't get him down now. So he gave up. The black orderly was fiddling with the TV dial, switching it back and forth with a vengeance. 'I'm done,' William called out to him. And, in a way, he was. 'Leave him there,' the orderly said. 'I told him to go for the curtain, so he keeps the box and gets skunked.' 'Yeah,' William said. 'What a shame.' 'Just leave him there…' William looked down at Mr. Koppleman, down, because he'd already gotten up to go. 'Take it easy,' he said. But he didn't think Mr. Kop- pleman heard him. 'I've got to straighten this out,' he said. You and me both, William thought. You and me both. There were just a few more places to go before he left Miami. He called the number again, the last place Koppleman had lived before he'd been put out to pasture in Golden Meadows. He told the woman he was coming to see her. She was, it turned out, the landlord. But not of much. The neighborhood was, if anything, a step down from the one he'd just left-which was saying something. And the building she lorded it over didn't put up much of an argument to change your mind. It was a sort of transient hotel, what they used to refer to in the old days as a fleabag, back before roaches relegated fleas to second banana in the order of household pests. There was a big one just inside the front steps-about the size of a good Havana cigar. It was taking a midday stroll on a stained carpet the color of pea soup. Two men with paper bags in their hands sat there staring at it like handicappers watching the pre-race walk-through.
'Bless you,' one of the men said to William when he walked by, his hand out for donations, echoing the girl in white shorts from earlier. William put a dollar bill in it, wondering what he was going to do with all those blessings; maybe he could hold some in reserve for a rainy day.
The woman sat inside a glass-enclosed cubicle, watching a small TV.
'Excuse me,' William said, talking through a hole he assumed was for that purpose.
'Twelve-fifty a night,' she said. 'Just like it says outside. We close the doors at eleven sharp and no funny business in the rooms.'
'I don't want a room,' William said.
'Then you came to the wrong place,' she said, irri- tatingly, looking at the TV. 'If you were going to the beach, you're lost. If you were going to the dog races, you took the wrong turn.'
William said, 'I came to talk to you about Mr. Koppleman.'
Now, at last, she looked up at him.
