“You’re looking trim, Murray.” Which wasn’t at all true; St. Clair was a big heavy man who took too much pleasure from his food and drink. Still, Mike knew that St. Clair worried about his appearance and health, and it was only the act of a friend to reassure him.
“I felt for you this morning, Mike.” St. Clair continued to grip Mike’s hand. “I’m glad you got this second chance.”
Mike’s grin was rueful. “Apparently they don’t think I’m much of a threat.”
“They’ll learn better,” St. Clair said, and with one last squeeze finally released Mike’s hand.
At the desk, Kerman suddenly said, “Douglas? Tom Douglas? Dave Kerman here, from the L.A. station, working on the Koo Davis case.”
Mike said to St. Clair, “Hold it, Murray,” then turned to Kerman. “Finish your story.”
“Hold on, Tom, will you? Just ten seconds.” And Kerman, grinning with accomplishment, put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Mike, “The kicker is, this Griffith girl is one of ours!”
“She’s what?”
“A double agent. From sixty-eight to seventy-three she was on
“Jesus Christ,” Mike said. “Can he still get in touch with her?”
“Let’s find out.” Kerman spoke into the phone again. “Tom? I want to talk with you about a one-time informer of yours named Joyce Griffith. Yes, that’s the one.”
St. Clair, speaking quietly, said, “What’s going on?”
While Kerman carried on his telephone conversation, Mike briefly explained the situation, including the belated discovery of the gang’s original hideout, and finishing, “Maybe this Griffith thing can help.”
“Let’s hope so.” St. Clair looked troubled. “I’m afraid we’re all going to
“You mean—the answer’s no?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” St. Clair told him. “But not very good.” Gesturing at his assistant’s film case, he said, “Let’s just say we have here an unpleasant surprise for our friends on the other side.”
In this stupid room full of mirrors, Koo is trying to save his life. “Larry,” he says, holding tight to the young man’s wrist, “Larry, help me.”
“I want to,” Larry says. “But I can’t help if I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Just get me out of here.”
“No, Koo.” And Larry sighs, as though
“The reality is,” Koo says, “if I stay here I’ll die.”
“I know you believe that, Koo,” Larry says, “but I promise it won’t happen. Now, I accept the fact that this television program is undoubtedly just a stall, just an attempt to string out the negotiations, but Koo, don’t you see? We already
“Listen, Larry,” Koo says, “that isn’t the point. Believe me, there are other things here, there’s—” He shakes his head, releasing Larry’s wrist to wave his arms vaguely as he says, “It isn’t as simple as that.”
“If you could explain it, Koo. What was it you thought Mark could tell you that I can’t? What’s the
“Ahhhh, Jesus.” That’s the crux of it; does he dare tell Larry about Mark’s paternity? Sinking back on the purple bedspread, releasing pent-up breath, he says, “Comics are supposed to want to do Hamlet, not King Lear.”
“I don’t understand.”
Koo makes a negative hand-wave. “Lemme think a minute.”
“Sure, Koo. Take all the time you want.”
All the time he wants. But since the move—after his failed escape attempt he’d traveled the rest of the way re-blindfolded, on the floor in back, among their legs—Koo has felt time running out, the pressures closing in. He can’t forget that Mark was just about to kill him with his bare hands when Peter walked in to announce the move.
And this new room doesn’t help. It’s a bedroom, but it isn’t precisely restful. Small, windowless, its walls and low ceiling are covered in mirrors with a faint bluish tinge. A white deep-shag carpet covers the floor, on which most of the available space is filled by a large round purple bed. Two white fur armchairs and a pair of mirrored bedside tables complete the furnishings. Illumination is provided by pinlights in the ceiling corners, plus a pair of imitation Old West wall sconces above the bedside tables. Whenever Koo looks away from Larry, he sees instead a tableau of the two of them endlessly repeated in the mirrors, the younger man seated on the edge of the bed, looking uneasy but sincere, and the older man sprawled back on the heart-shaped purple pillows, shaking his head in weakness and despair.
The problem is, if he tells Larry the truth, that Mark wants to kill him because Mark is his son, will Larry make the right response? There are so many ways Larry can do the wrong thing with that information. For instance, he could disbelieve Koo, and out of his disbelief he could go tell Mark what Koo had said, and
Rousing himself, Koo says, “What time is it?”
“Twenty past.”
Ten minutes before showtime. “You’re sure there’s a TV in here?”
“That’s what I was told. Let’s see.”
Getting to his feet, Larry begins to open mirrored doors. Cupboards, closets, a small lavatory, a separate shower, all are behind the mirrors. “This is some place, isn’t it?” Larry says.
“A three-year-old’s idea of a whorehouse.”
“Here it is.” Larry has found the TV, behind a mirror facing the foot of the bed; he turns it on to Channel 11 but leaves the sound down. Jackie Gleason and Art Carney, in an old black-and-white
Returning to the bed, Larry says, “With any luck, you won’t be here long.”
“With the wrong kind of luck I won’t be
“Don’t talk that way, Koo. It won’t happen.”
“You don’t know what can happen, my friend.”
“Then tell me,” Larry says. “Koo, I swear to God I’m your friend.
Koo frowns at him, thinking it over. What’s the alternative? And what, after all, does he have to lose? He says, “Will you stay in this room?”
“Stay here? Do you want me to?”
“Yes. Until I’m set free.”
“I will.” Larry looks very solemn, as though he’s just been ordained.
“We’ll watch this special,” Koo tells him. “We’ll see what they have to say, and after that we’ll talk.”
The TV set was switched on half an hour early, by Joyce, but no one watched it, though it was one of those monsters with the huge six-foot screen, like a movie screen, dominating the living room. But they were all too
