Dermott looked at the old woman expectantly, as though the ritual exchange was not finished. He leaned toward her, prompting her in a loud whisper, “What will Dickie do tonight?”
“What will Dickie do tonight?” she asked in the same whisper.
“He’ll call the crows till the crows are all dead. / Then Dickie Duck will come to bed.”
She moved her fingertips dreamily over her Goldilocks wig, as though she imagined she were arranging it in some ethereal style. The smile on her face reminded Gurney of a junkie’s rush.
Dermott was watching her, too. His gaze was revoltingly unfilial, the tip of his tongue moving back and forth between his lips like a small, slithering parasite. Then he blinked and looked around the room.
“I think we’re ready to begin,” he said brightly. He got up on the bed and crawled over the old woman’s legs to the opposite side-taking the goose from the hope chest as he did so. He settled himself against the pillows beside her and placed the goose in his lap. “Almost ready now.” The cheeriness of this assurance would have been appropriate for someone placing a candle on a birthday cake. What he was doing, however, was inserting his revolver, finger still on the trigger, into a deep pocket cut into the back of the goose.
“Lieutenant Nardo, please stand. It’s time for your entrance.” Dermott’s tone was ominous, theatrical, ironic.
In a whisper so low that Gurney wasn’t sure at first whether he was hearing it or imagining it, the old woman began muttering, “Dickie-Dickie-Dickie Duck. Dickie-Dickie-Dickie Duck. Dickie-Dickie-Dickie Duck.” It was more like a clock ticking than a human voice.
Gurney watched as Nardo unclasped his hands, stretching and clenching his fingers. He rose from his position on the floor at the foot of the bed with the resilient spring of a man in very good condition. His hard glance shifted from the odd couple on the bed to Gurney and back again. If anything in that scene surprised him, his stony face didn’t show it. The only obvious thing, from the way he eyed the goose and Dermott’s arm behind it, was that he’d figured out where the gun was.
In response, Dermott began stroking the back of the goose with his free hand. “One last question, Lieutenant, regarding your intentions before we begin. Do you plan to do as I say?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll take that answer at face value. I’m going to give you a series of directions. You must follow them precisely. Is that clear?”
“Yeah.”
“If I were a less trusting man, I might question your seriousness. I do hope you appreciate the situation. Let me put all my cards on the table to prevent any lingering misunderstanding. I’ve decided to kill you. That issue is no longer open for discussion. The only question that remains is
“You kill me. But I decide when.” Nardo spoke with a kind of bored contempt that seemed to amuse Dermott.
“That’s right, Lieutenant. You decide when. But only up to a point, of course-because, ultimately, everything will come to an appropriate end. Until then you can remain alive by saying what I tell you to say and doing what I tell you to do. Still following me?”
“Yeah.”
“Please remember that at any point you have the option of dying instantly through the simple expedient of not following my instructions. Compliance will add precious moments to your life. Resistance will subtract them. What could be simpler?”
Nardo stared at him unblinkingly.
Gurney slid his feet a few inches back toward the legs of his chair to put himself in the best possible position to propel himself at the bed, expecting the emotional dynamic between the two men to explode within seconds.
Dermott stopped stroking the goose. “Please put your feet back where they were,” he said without taking his eyes off Nardo. Gurney did as he was told, with a new respect for Dermott’s peripheral vision. “If you move again, I’ll kill you both without saying another word. Now, Lieutenant,” Dermott continued placidly, “listen carefully to your assignment. You are an actor in a play. Your name is Jim. The play is about Jim and his wife and her son. The play is short and simple, but it has a powerful ending.”
“I have to pee,” said the woman in a pixilated voice, her fingertips again drifting back over her blond curls.
“It’s all right, dear,” he answered without looking at her. “Everything will be all right. Everything will be the way it always should have been.” Dermott adjusted the position of the goose slightly in his lap, refining, Gurney supposed, the aim of the revolver inside it at Nardo. “All set?”
If Nardo’s steady gaze were poison, Dermott would have been dead three times over. Instead there was only a flicker around his mouth, which might have been a smile or a twitch or a touch of excitement.
“I’ll take your silence for a yes this time. But a friendly word of warning. Any further ambiguity in your responses will result in the immediate termination of the play and your life. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. The curtain rises. The play begins. The time of year is late autumn. The time of day is late evening, already dark. It’s rather bleak, some snow on the ground outside, some ice. In fact, the night is very much like tonight. It’s your day off. You’ve spent the day in a local bar, drinking all day, with your drunken friends. That’s the way you spend all your days off. You arrive home as the play begins. You stagger into your wife’s bedroom. Your face is red and angry. Your eyes are dull and stupid. You have a bottle of whiskey in your hand.” Dermott pointed to the Four Roses on the hope chest. “You can use that bottle there. Pick it up now.”
Nardo stepped forward and picked it up. Dermott nodded approvingly. “You instinctively evaluate it as a potential weapon. That’s very good, very appropriate. You have a natural sympathy with the mind-set of your character. Now, with that bottle in your hand, you stand, swaying from side to side, at the foot of your wife’s bed. You glare with a stupid rage at her and her little boy and his little stuffed goose in the bed. You bare your teeth like a stupid rabid dog.” Dermott paused and studied Nardo’s face. “Let me see you bare your teeth.”
Nardo’s lips tightened and parted. Gurney could see that there was nothing artificial about the rage in that expression.
“That’s right!” enthused Dermott. “Perfect! You have a real talent for this. Now you stand there with bloodshot eyes, with spittle on your lips, and you shout at your wife in the bed, ‘What the fuck is he doing in here?’ You point at me. My mother says, ‘Calm down, Jim, he’s been showing me and Dickie Duck his little storybook.’ You say, ‘I don’t see any fucking book.’ My mother tells you, ‘Look, it’s right there on the bedside table.’ But you have a filthy mind, and it shows in your filthy face. Your filthy thoughts are oozing like the oily sweat through your stinking skin. My mother tells you that you’re drunk and you should go to sleep in the other room. But you start taking your clothes off. I scream at you to get out. But you take off all your clothes, and you stand there naked, leering at us. You make me feel like I’m going to vomit. My mother screams at you, screams at you not to be so disgusting, to get out of the room. You say, ‘Who the fuck are you calling disgusting, you slut bitch?’ Then you smash the whiskey bottle on the footboard, and you jump up on the bed like a naked ape with the broken bottle in your hand. The nauseating stink of whiskey is all over the room. Your body stinks. You call my mother a slut. You-”
“What’s her name?” interrupted Nardo.
Dermott blinked twice. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does.”
“I said it doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
Dermott seemed taken aback by the question, if only a little. “It doesn’t matter what her name is because you never use her name. You call her things, ugly things, but you never use her name. You never show her any respect. Maybe it’s so long since you’ve used her name you don’t even know what it is anymore.”
“But you know her name, don’t you?”
