Harmony In Flesh and Black (28 page)

“Why don't you sit down beside me and tell me your story?” Molly said. “We can go sit on the couch.”

“That will be nice,” said Fred. “When I have the energy. Right now I'm more inclined to go upstairs and stand under your shower and trickle warm water over my body and then get into bed and watch something on TV, hoping my friend Molly will come join me.”

Molly said, “You're seeming pretty down for someone who's been wandering around the world saving folks.”

“They're such stupid children!” Fred exclaimed.

Molly glared, looking as if she might hit him.

“God, Molly, not your kids. The ones I've been running around with the last three days. Old children. Sometimes I think about…,” said Fred. But he didn't want to think about what he thought sometimes, not now.

“You can talk about it when you want to,” Molly said. “If I'm in the mood. Go take your shower.”

“What you need,” Fred said, “is a new water heater.”

“What I need is a new water heater and a new bathroom and a slow boat to China,” Molly said. “What you need is a shower. You told me yourself. Go to it.”

Fred went up. He passed Terry in her room, listening to her radio. He gave her a wave before he stood under the shower in the little family bathroom.

He knew that what was disturbing him couldn't be fixed. It had to do with Russell's feeding him to the sharks while he, at the same time, and even after, cared enough about Russell to take care of him. He'd wanted him not to be hurt. He cared even now that the kid, dangerous and worthless as he was, would go on hurting. Mangan, on the other hand, worthless and dangerous as he was, deserved whatever was coming to him—once he delivered the letter.

Sam knocked at the door. Was it a message? a phone call? No, he just wanted to use the can.

“Be right out,” Fred said.

Wrapped in a towel, he went on into Molly's bedroom. That was four beds this week: Molly's, the hotel's, Teddy's, and the futon in those girls' front room, where he'd sat like the safe grandpa. Was that what he was down about? All that young animal flesh making him feel old?

He'd left his bag in the car. Traveling man. He would bring it in tomorrow. He turned on Molly's portable TV. What was keeping her? He liked Molly's room. It was good sleeping in this woman's bedroom. It had flowers on the walls and curtains, and stacks of books and magazines by the bed.

Molly had a big closet that she called a dressing room. When Fred first started staying over, she'd once mentioned that maybe it could be made into a study. She'd been very tentative, shy. She hadn't said “den,” but that was what she meant: a room for the
man,
a place he could elect to call his if he needed a stronghold in which to defend his manhood from the women and children.

He climbed into Molly's bed. She'd changed the sheets. He slipped between them, dry enough, tired but not sleepy. Molly came in.

“You changed the sheets,” Fred said. He'd be quick and get a point for noticing.

“What on earth are you watching?”

“I don't know,” said Fred. “You want to watch it with me?”

“Fred, did you have to shoot anybody?”

“No,” Fred said.

“And did anybody have to shoot you?”

“No.” That was a good point.

“Then come off it. Cheer up.” Molly took off her clothes and got in beside him.

“It looks like cowboys and Indians,” she said. “Do we watch cowboys and Indians?”

“It's going to be our new thing.”

“And you'll tell me your story tomorrow,” Molly said.

People started shouting and howling on the TV.

“You sure this is what you want?” Molly asked.

Fred turned over and felt Molly's body next to his, her hand resting on the small of his back.

“Sounds good to me,” he said.

33

Big fire. The same fire. Old friend.

Petals of ash falling.

Wind.

Petals of ash like cherry blossoms.

Smell, like rubber.

Old wounds.

Wake up and don't worry about it.

Big wind. Ash falling into the prairie, the clearing, open ground, whatever you would call it.

Wake up, don't worry.

Someone screaming, of course. The scream an old friend, like the scars.

Then wake up.

No edges to get hold of. Drown in fire. Drown in a dream of fire. Or wake up.

Fred, covered with sweat, opened his eyes.

At least he hadn't thrashed around this time and wakened Molly.

The room was black-dark. Molly's clock, beside her on the bedside table, showed almost three.

Molly was in a delicious sleep. He could wake her. She wouldn't mind. Probably she'd be grateful to be included in Fred's old friendship.

The subconscious was a slow animal, catching up now with events. The dream was the afterlife of Fred's concern from the night before: concern for Russell and the danger he was in, concern that he'd have to take a life or lose it, or be maimed in some way.

Well, that was over. Done. Fixed. If Clay's letter didn't turn up at all, it was no big deal. He had done all he could and had saved Clayton a lot of money in the process.

Fred was now awake. He'd flipped onto his back while he was dreaming, to face the wounds and fire again. Molly was curled on her side, sleeping soundly. She must have turned the TV off after he went to sleep and climbed back in beside him.

Fred stared into the dark room, his eyes growing able to distinguish objects, his ears alert, making the change from listening to the dream to listening to the dark house in the night of Arlington.

Was he listening for footsteps around the house?

No need. It was not that kind of house. Unless he was in it.

He heard a small snort from Molly, as if she were listening to him think.

Fred couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else he should be doing.

He had the Heade to deal with tomorrow. No, later today, this afternoon. But though the stakes were high, that would be relatively smooth sailing. He'd find out how high Clay wanted him to go, and go that high if need be, then stop. He would either attend in person, if Clay wanted him to be seen and wanted a report later on who else had been bidding, or bid on the telephone, if Clay wanted his role to be kept quiet. The auction house would not reveal the name of the purchaser any more than it would normally reveal the name of the original owner, the consignor.

The biggest potential problem was Finn, if he had stumbled onto the same clue Fred and Clayton had. There was no other way to explain his continued presence on the scene.

Unless …

Fred heard himself chuckle. Don't wake Molly, he told himself.

But why not consider and acknowledge the obvious—that Finn had finally met his match in the fair Ophelia?

O! what a noble mind is here o'erthrown. The observ'd of all observers quite, quite down. I have heard of your paintings too, well enough.

Fred started laughing. Molly stirred and protested.

It was not for nothing that Fred had played that small role in
Hamlet
during his brief, disastrous Harvard career.

He got up quietly and reached the door, about to wander naked through the house. That would not do. He pulled his pants on and went down to the kitchen, where he could laugh.

Ophelia, Ophelia. If thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool. God has given you one face, and you make yourself another. You jig, you amble, and you lisp, and make your wantonness your ignorance. If you marry a fool, let it be Finn.

Fred stood in front of Molly's fridge. Did he really want a beer? At three-thirty in the morning?

Well, then, coffee?

Molly had instant in the cabinet, and Fred put water on to boil. He took the screamer off so as not to wake the house.

He was so close to it, so occupied with his own business, so taken by Clayton's paranoia, that he'd forgotten about love. And he knew Ophelia so well that he'd never considered that anyone else in the world could take her seriously for a moment. He'd sold Ophelia short, the sister-in-law complex.

That woman at the Charles, Fran, at the reception desk—how full of starry admiration she had been for the way Ophelia's influence had changed her life!

Hadn't Ophelia been married three times, each time to a man of substance—at least until the divorce settlement?

And wasn't Ophelia Molly's sister?

The water boiling, Fred made his coffee and let it steam in front of him at the kitchen table.

Fires and wounds and dreams and floating ash, indeed. Finn was in love. Ophelia had bewitched him. Finn, like a puffed and reckless libertine, himself the primrose path of dalliance tread, and recked not Clayton Reed.

Ophelia was a past mistress of the judo twitch that lets your own weight fell you. Ophelia, who could sell anything to anybody, had sold Finn the image of himself as the darling of a TV series: the host, the pundit, the pander.

How nice that it should happen to Finn.

How pleased Clayton would be when he found out.

Taking his coat from the back of the chair, Fred put it on over his skin and strolled outside, carrying the end of the coffee. He stood in Molly's cold backyard to drink the rest of it. He pulled her back door closed. Let them be warm in there.

34

The dining room of the Charles was the best place in Cambridge to come upon the elegant and wealthy among the transient set. Fred walked in shortly before eight, not wanting to miss anything that might relate to the messenger he was expecting. He took a table next to the window overlooking the terraced brick courtyard between the hotel and the surrounding buildings, from which he could also see the entrance.

He ordered coffee and a bagel.

He looked at the international crowd approaching the issue of the American breakfast. A Japanese family sat in one corner, only the daddy speaking any English. Nigerians or some such were in their robes. A single man in a regular business suit, but with a turban, looked as if he were trying out for a part in
Kim.
He was shifty-eyed, eating bacon with furtive movements. There were women so simply elegant and fresh they must have come from Paris, and parents of Harvard students in from foreign parts like Mobile and Kansas City.

Fred had hoped that not having had a reply from him, Ophelia might conclude that her invitation to breakfast had lapsed. But it would take more than that to discourage her. At a quarter after, there she came, entering in a bright orange suit with a black shirt under it, high heels in black, and a different Hermès purse, in case you were tired of the first one.

Ophelia surveyed the room, spotted Fred, and made a beeline for him, flinging her arms out, crowing, letting the whole room know that the big, hard-looking guy by the window was waiting for her, a rough setting for a fragile jewel.

“They told me you'd checked out,” Ophelia said. “But I could see through that.” She winked. She ordered coffee and a half grapefruit and winked again.

“Who is she, Fred? Where is she? You can rely on me. I won't tell … anyone.”

What? Fred had forgotten that Ophelia was operating on the fantasy that he was cheating on her sister.

“I'm here to see you, aren't I?” he said blandly.

“Yes?” Ophelia asked, her eyes delighted.

The waiter brought her coffee.

Fred paid as little attention to her as he could, looking out for the contact. He was watching for one of Mangan's runners from the South Shore.

“To tell you the truth, Ophelia, I'm working,” he said. “There's no new girlfriend.”

Ophelia nodded. She understood Fred's indiscretions. Her lips were sealed. His secret was safe with her.

Now down to business: “I want to talk with you about joining my project, Fred.”

“The TV show?”

“Of course.”

“Sorry, Ophelia. I don't have time. For whatever you want. I keep too busy.”

Ophelia slowly revolved her grapefruit half, looking to select the winning section. Which would be the first through the pearly gates? Fred looked past her.

“Albert will want you, too,” Ophelia continued, nodding in reassurance. “I haven't dared talk much to him about the project. He can't join us for breakfast, he's meeting an important client. He's so preoccupied. An important man. In his field.”

She smiled at Fred. “A month ago I wouldn't have thought there could
be
an important man in your field. Is that all you're eating? Just the bagel? You know this is my treat.”

Fred saw Finn at the entrance, wearing a brown suit. Ophelia always got her men into brown suits eventually. Fred thought it was her way of paying homage to her favorite American male, Ronald Reagan. Finn rolled in, portly and freshly groomed, his face glowing with rotund benevolence. Ophelia was oblivious.

“Sir Albert's here now,” Fred said. “In the flesh.”

Ophelia turned to look.

Finn, having bestowed the blessing of his gaze upon the assembled multitude, was moving toward the business-suited man with the turban. The man had successfully defeated his bacon and was at this very moment sipping at a large glass of fruit juice. Finn bent over him and whispered into his ear. The man's turban shook a negative. Finn whispered again, a question. The turban shrugged. Finn turned and left the room.

“A moving thing to see the great man at his work,” Fred said.

“That was probably the servant,” Ophelia said, “giving him a message.”

“Of course,” Fred said.

“Strange he didn't notice me,” she said.

“You are very noticeable,” Fred assured her. Ophelia selected another grapefruit section and chewed it vengefully.

Finn entered once again, this time preceded by a waiter, like a hunting pope using an acolyte as a beater. The waiter gently paged, “Mr. Arthurian? Mr. Arthur Arthurian?”