4
Rosemary was at her desk, sorting mail. These surroundings no longer made sense. He'd seen her in a half slip, in panties, naked. He'd stood in the toilet doorway and watched her dress, an itemizing of erotic truths, until she'd spotted him and turned, off-balance, to elbow the door. At her desk, passing time, he marveled at the ease with which they fitted into slots of decorum. People must be natural spies. The desk, the broadloom were absurd. Her letter opener, neatly slitting. His tone of voice.
He waited for her after work in front of her house. They went inside and drank for several hours. He held her hand, occasionally putting his lips to the ends of her fingers. He realized this was an endearment.
In the kitchen he took another look at the picture of her with Sedbauer and Vilar. He studied Vilar's face. It was shiny and lean, a high forehead, tapered jaw. He heard her in the bedroom, Rosemary's clothes coming off.
Curled into herself she waited, an animal void, white body, deep stillness, the thing he tried to hand-grip and eat. He wouldn't urge her toward some vast shuddering fuck or recollect the touch of her hands at the end of a passive afternoon, some months off, paper sailing as his soul wandered from the floor. She extended her limbs. He could see breasts now, her face and neck, her arms and small hands, half cupped, and the wrinkled sheet between her thighs. He'd never before seen how different a woman's body was from his own. This fact, somehow, had been hidden from him. Am I drunk, he wondered. Supine she seemed enormous, nearly outsizing the small bed. That was good, that was right, deep stillness, organic void. Her breathing caused a perceptible cadence, body's periodic rise and fall, a metronome of his calculated lust. Slightly misshapen feet. Small bumps, flesh points, at the rims of her nipples. He undressed slowly, knowing neither of them would reach an interval of fulfilling labor, or whistle a bit, breathing nasally, and cry a name, all perspective burnt from their faces. She touched her ribs where a fly had landed. This automatic motion revealed her, briefly. In a haze he understood at last. But what? Understood, at last, what? The fly settled on a window sill. He watched it, trying to retrace its connection to the huge body on the bed, the bone and muscle structure of a dream. There were pale veins on her legs, sun lines and natural indentations. Knees up, head way back over the curve of the pillow, she might have been half yielding to, half defending against, some clumsy lover. He crawled, literally crawled between her legs. Then he rested his forearms on her raised knees and watched the way her throat lightly pulsed.
'Tell me some more about George,' he said. 'What did he do besides make you laugh?”
He crossed the street to the candy store tucked in at 77 Water, red and yellow awning, a homey footnote to the mass of steel and anodized aluminum. There was gray everywhere, wetness suspended, a day the color of the district itself. He bought cigarettes and chewing gum and then stood outside the candy store, under the bulk of the skyscraper, and unwrapped a stick of gum, listening for foghorns, a sound he associated with foreign cities and sex with other men's wives. It didn't take him long to realize he was being stared at. Man near the entrance to the lobby. Checked sportcoat, solid tie. Lyle had the impression the man wanted him to walk that way. He was stocky and boyish, a frozen jaw, wisps of hair curled down over his forehead. Lyle decided to go in the other direction. About two blocks away the man came alongside. Lyle stopped, waiting for a light to change. The man looked at him again, clearly intent on conveying some tacit information, a connection or message he expected Lyle to perceive. They walked another half block. Two women up ahead raised umbrellas simultaneously.
'You're McKechnie's friend, aren't you?”
'Is life that simple?' the man said.
'I kept waiting for you people to contact me. I talked to Frank McKechnie about the situation. About what certain people knew. Frank talked to someone to pass the word along. I expected earlier contact. In the meantime I decided to find out what I could.”
'That was outstanding, Lyle.”
'What's your name?”
'Burks.”
'Burks, your tone of voice isn't encouraging.”
'We do what we can.”
'They have contacts on the West Coast. I know that. They use Ohio plates, at least at the moment. I know the number if you want it. A green Volkswagen, or do you have all this?”
'What can you tell us about A. J. Kinnear?”
'It's J. Kinnear at present.”
'We have A. J.”
'It's just J. now.”
'Just J.,' Burks said.
'I don't know how many people are involved. If they have units or teams or whatever, I couldn't tell you how they're set up. Kinnear is a complex individual, I think. They're out in Queens. I know the street name and house number.”
'Is Kinnear tall, short, what?”
They walked up and down the streets near the river. Lyle described Kinnear, speaking slowly and then listening with care, trying to memorize his own remarks and what Burks said in reply. It was like a conversation with a doctor who was reporting the results of significant tests. Questions and answers floated through each other. One's life seemed to hinge on syntax, inflection, points of grammar. He thought Burks said something about a voiceprint but wasn't sure of the context, whether it applied to Kinnear or not. It was also a little like his early conversations with Rosemary Moore, photographs of his own mouth, the sense of her remarks eluding him not only as they were uttered but later as well, in his attempts to narrate to himself the particulars of each encounter. He saw a barge in the haze, perhaps midriver, sliding toward the harbor. Burks' shoes gleamed. He was young, probably younger than Lyle.
'They may take another crack at the Exchange.”
'We'd be interested.”
'What else?”
'What else-what do you mean?”
'Is there anything else you want to know?' Lyle said. 'They have a basement full of retread weapons. I can describe them if you want. I have this annoying faculty.”
'What's that?”
'Compulsive information-gathering.”
'It must be a burden.”
'Tone of voice,' Lyle said.
'Fuck you, cookie.”
'Are you McKechnie's friend or not?”
'You talked to Frank McKechnie. He said he'd talk to a friend of his. If you want to believe my presence here is a direct result of McKechnie's communication, feel free, Lyle. But there's a question I'd like to pose.”
'What's that?”
'Is life ever that simple?”
'Nice.”
'We do what we can.”
'No, nice, really, I like it.”
'Good, Lyle.”
'What can you tell me about Vilar?”
'I can tell you to eat shit off a wooden stick,' Burks said.
Just another Fordham or Marquette lad. Studied languages and history. Played intramural sports. Revered the Jesuits for their sophistication and analytical skills. Voted for moderates of either party. Knows how to strangle a German shepherd with rosary beads.
Lyle walked crosstown to busier areas. It was getting dark. He moved to one side to avoid some people stepping off a bus. One of them made momentary contact, putting an arm out to ward off a collision, a man with a mustache and wiry hair, muttering something, his head large and squarish. Keep yer distance, mon. Lyle looked around for a public phone as he walked on. It started raining hard and the streets gradually emptied out. Don't be settin' yer hands on honest folk. He found a bar, ordered a drink and went back to the phone booth. One of
