“I’ll take Symmes; you take Burchwood,” Padillo said to Cooky.
I closed the sliding door and locked it.
“Up the stairs, gentlemen,” Cooky said. “There are five long flights.”
We walked up the stairs and into the dimly lighted room. Padillo tucked his gun into his waistband. Symmes and Burchwood stood in the middle of the room close together. They looked around warily. They didn’t seem to know what to do with their hands.
“Sit on that bunk,” Padillo told them, indicating the nearest cot. “If you yell, there’ll be no one to hear you. For the next few hours you’re going to be held here. After that, you’ll be moved.”
They sat down on the cot. Symmes, the tall one with the blond hair and small pink ears, moved like a chorus boy. “You
“Most of us,” Padillo said.
“Would it be too much trouble to tell us just what you—I mean can’t you tell us why you wrecked the car and brought us here?”
Burchwood, the shorter dark one, grimaced and ran his tongue over his lips again. “I suppose you’re with the CIA or some other terribly clever organization.”
“No,” Padillo said.
“Well, who are you?”
“I don’t think that matters,” Padillo said. “As long as you do as we tell you, you’ll be all right.”
Burchwood sniffed.
Symmes said, “You apparently know all about us.”
“Not all. Just enough.”
Padillo walked over and sat at the table. Cooky, Max and I joined him. We stared at Burchwood and Symmes. They stared back at us.
“How’s Moscow?” Cooky asked.
“We like it very much, thank you,” Burchwood said. “We were treated with great courtesy.”
“No press, though,” Cooky said. “Not a line anywhere. Not even your pictures in the
Symmes waved his hand gracefully. “We are not publicity seekers. Not like some others we know. And if you’re trying to bait us, you can stop right now. We hold certain convictions which I could not possibly expect you to understand or appreciate.”
“Knock it off, Cook,” Padillo said.
“Oh, that’s all right. We’ve met his kind before, haven’t we, Gerald?”
Symmes looked at Cooky thoughtfully. “Often,” he said. He smiled at Cooky. “In time we might get to like you, Slim.”
“
They reminded me of two cats. They had the same grace and the same unwinking stares. And, like cats, they had quickly accepted their new home after sniffing in the corners and scouting under the bed.
“Why don’t you come over here and sit between us?” Symmes said to Cooky, and patted a spot on the bunk. “I’m sure we have just lots in common.”
Cooky reached for the vodka bottle and poured himself a full tumbler. He gulped half of it and stared into the glass.
“Come on over, Slim. We both like you and we could—” Symmes’s suggestion was cut short by the glass that Cooky threw at him.
“Goddamned queers,” he said. His voice was thick—the first time I had ever heard it slur. “Queers and Communists is what it’s all about now. If they get hold of you, they never let go; you just keep on and on and on …”
“You’ve been at the sideboard again,” Padillo told him.
“We’re not Communists, sweetie,” Symmes sang out.
Burchwood giggled. Max got a pained expression on his face and looked the other way.
Cooky was on his feet and headed toward the pair, who cowered in mock horror. “Oooh—here comes the big man,” Burchwood crooned.
Padillo caught Cooky by the arm and swung him against the wall. “I told you to knock it off. I also told you to keep sober. You’re not doing either.”
“They bug me,” Cooky said.
“They’re trying to.” Padillo walked over to the cot, where Symmes and Burchwood grinned wickedly at him. They nudged each other as Padillo stood looking down at them with a faint smile.
“He’s cute, too,” Burchwood said.
Symmes smirked. “I saw him first. After all, he rescued me.”
They both tittered.