personal reasons. ' He told the politician he was unable to explain exactly what was going on, but he said he wanted Lipshutz to know how gratifying it had been working for him over the years and how much respect and affection he felt for the assemblyman.
It was obvious from Timmy's end of the rest of the conversation-'No, don't worry, I'm fine, Myron, really'- that Lipshutz had been unnerved by Timmy's remarks, which could easily have been interpreted as (a) a prelude to suicide, (b) the veiled announcement of a fast-moving terminal illness, or (c) an indication that Timmy had fallen under the influence of Deepak Chopra.
Afterward, I said, 'It sounds as if you may have scared Myron to death.'
'I guess I did leave him a little bit shaken. I didn't mean to frighten Myron. But after what happened to Maynard, I've got this heightened sense of the fragility of human existence-everybody's, including my own-and I feel impelled to tell people how I feel about them before it's too late.'
I had never been seized by the need to exclaim my love to anyone other than my lover-for a WASP Presbyterian from New Jersey, that was chore enough but I liked that Timmy could be selectively, though not promiscuously, spontaneous with his affections. He didn't need to tell me how he felt about me-he'd done it countless times over the years with all the force and clarity of his strong Irish heart-but he did tell me yet again, and I replied unexpectedly in kind. We made love, and it was excellent.
Soon, though, my mind divided, and part of it began to wrestle with ways of clearing up the Jim Suter- Maynard Sudbury complex mystery at the earliest possible moment, and of extrieating Timmy and me-and Maynard-from it.
Just as I did not want to live in a state of fear and paranoia, neither did I want to live with-or to live with a man with-a twenty-four-hour-a-day overwhelming sense of doom. As Timmy and I excitedly generated sweat and other fluids, I also couldn't seem to help imagining, a bit guiltily, my upcoming encounter with the beringleted former wrestling star, Jim Suter, although I did that only for a fleeting moment.
My six-thirty meeting with Jim Suter's mother and brother at Mrs. Suter's condo in Silver Spring was not only unhelpful in any specific way-neither George nor Lila Suter knew much about Jim's private life, they told me several times-but I immediately sensed that both of them were continually lying, at least by omission.
Both Suters were handsome, conservatively dressed people who looked as if they would have been comfortable posing for a Buick ad in Town amp; Country.
They served cocktails and hors d'oeuvres and chatted volubly about themselves in a way that felt just a little forced. Mrs. Suter was a real estate agent and George a computer-program analyst for a big Maryland HMO. It came out in the conversation that Mrs. Suter had been married four times and George twice.
Both were currently unattached.
Mrs. Suter had agreed to meet with a reporter, she said, in order to reassure me. She said she was certain that the quilt panel with her son's name on it was 'a prank.' The vandalism of the panel was harder to explain, she said, but
'nothing James gets mixed up in ever surprises me,' she added with a laugh.
'James has always gone his own way.' She said she had told the Post reporter the same thing and was surprised that editors might continue to consider the incident newsworthy.
'I've been told,' I said, 'that Jim may be out of the country, and that's why he hasn't responded personally to the quilt-panel mystery. Is that the case?'
George Suter glanced at his mother, who hesitated for just an instant before replying, 'I think he is, yes. That's the case in-sofar as any information I have.'
Her language was flat and without nuance, but she spoke to me in the 'gracious' tone I guessed she employed with potential buyers and sellers in her real estate business.
'You aren't sure where Jim is?' I asked.
'No, not precisely,' she said. 'He did say he thought he might be abroad for some time. But Jim's travel plans hadn't quite firmed up the last time we spoke.'
Mrs. Suter and her son both peered at me now in a way that said no additional information would likely be forthcoming on this topic.
'When were you last in touch with Jim? Either of you.'
'To tell you the truth,' George said, 'I haven't seen Jim-or talked to him at all since early summer sometime, I'd say it was. I don't recall his discussing any particular trip he had planned. But Jim has always been something of a gadabout, and he doesn't always inform me or Mother where he's off to or when he'll be back. It's actually a rather annoying habit Jim has.' Suter, who appeared to be in his midthirties, had a head full of the famous male- Suter locks, and they were indeed golden and fell across his brow fetchingly.
'So Jim might not be out of the country, just out of the Washington area?'
'That's right,' George said. 'Jim hasn't answered his telephone or returned messages for some time. So I'd say there's a good possibility that he's out of town.'
'That would be my guess, too,' Mrs. Suter added.
Jim Suter's mother and brother sat watching me with eyes that looked as if they were going to reveal nothing because the Suters did not intend for them to reveal anything. I guessed they were not only lying-poorly-but that they knew Suter was in trouble and probably that he was in trouble in Mexico. But if that's all they knew, then there was no point in pressing them, for I already knew that much and more. And if they knew more than I did, they certainly weren't about to reveal it to a newspaper reporter from Baltimore. They had agreed to see me, they said, only to dampen interest in the strange quilt panel and the vestigatory quest, and I headed back out in the direction of the Silver Spring metro station.
As I — walked away from Mrs. Suter's building-La Fuente, it was called, spelled out next to the entrance in a silvery script- I turned and looked up at the location where I estimated her third-floor balcony must have been. In the dimness behind the glass door at the rear of the balcony, two figures were standing and seemed to be watching me go.
Chapter 14
When I met Timmy at eight at a Thai restaurant near Dupont Circle that had been recommended by one of Maynard's friends, he was despondent. He told me that he had just visited Maynard again. And while Maynard's condition had been upgraded from stable to fair, Timmy hated seeing his friend so weak and damaged, so helpless, so not the person Maynard had always been.
' 'Fair,' they're labeling him,' Timmy said. 'He didn't seem so 'fair' to me. I asked him if he felt 'fair,' and he shook his head. But I told him he was improving, day by day, and he nodded and-I think-tried to shrug. But if what Maynard is is 'fair,' I'd hate to see him doing poorly.'
'You did see him doing poorly Saturday night, on that sidewalk in front of his house. 'Fair' is preferable to that.'
'True.'
'Any estimate on when Maynard will be able to speak?'
'Maybe tomorrow, the nurse said. And I'm not the only one waiting to talk to Maynard. You-know-who was up in Maynard's room nosing around a while ago.'
'Ray Craig?'
'Smelly Ray.'
'When you and I met, I must have smoked as much as Ray does. I must have stunk that way, too.'
'You did. It was awful.'
'How did you stand it?'
'You said you intended to quit. And you did. Anyway, I'd spent a month once visiting an Indian friend who lived next to a chemical-fertilizer factory in Poona.
So I'd developed an adaptability toward vile odors when the cause was good.'
'Lucky for me.'
'Yep. Me too.'
Timmy and I were seated at a table for four against a side wall at the Bangkok Flower. We were waiting for
