RINEMILLER LIVED IN A huge, shapeless apartment building, a fawn-colored structure with a façade of dwarfed porticos, in a neighborhood of abandoned manses and old-time grandeur very near the Capitol. The building ran the length of a block and then doubled back, serpentine fashion, ranging over alleyways and between parking lots in an arrangement of small courtyards, interior gardens. Enormous windows looked down on the gardens, which were spotted with occasionally sunless and frequently overfed shrubs. There were rows of azalea and jasmine and bloomed-out mimosa, with a cluster of bulb plants set in the middle, struggling against the changing season. Roy walked between the shrubs and flowers, staring at the ground-floor entrances, trying to distinguish one from another, until he found Alfred’s rooms.
He had visited here once before, late one election night, the apartment full of people drinking and whooping and falling silent on the quarter hour to listen to returns coming in on the radio. Now — empty and unclaimed, with its gruesome blend of modern and ranchstyle — it could have been mistaken for a furniture showroom. Except for the few books and magazines strewn about and the stacks of freshly laundered shirts and underwear on the bed. Roy stood in the bedroom and stared at the pictures on the wall. He’d seen hundreds like them, mostly in hotels and apartments: Paris street scenes, Impressionist imitations, fuzzy pastels. There were some books on the night table; he thumbed through them without interest — the Ickes Diaries, the Addresses and State Papers of James Stephen Hogg, a volume on the German General Staff, two political biographies, a paperback on anthropology. The bedspread was pulled tight and squared on the ends, military fashion. Draperies hung motionless in the heat of the room; a scarlet water bird, three feet tall, gawked at him from the shower curtain, spotted with mildew.
But where was Alfred? Was this all there was of him — just a few irrelevant scraps, not even the print of his big head on the machine-tooled pillowslip? It was depressing that a man should leave so little behind. There ought to have been more. Alfred owed it to himself to leave more than this. Or were they all meant to wander pointlessly in a vacuumed world of fresh-pressed linen, handy blade dispensers, and Gideon Bibles? There wasn’t even a ring in the tub.
He began gathering up things, the books and laundry, sheets and towels and washcloths and old magazines, stuffing them into one of the pillowcases. When he had picked up all the loose ends, he sat for a time on the front-room sofa and wondered why he had ever let himself get involved. Am no gentleman’s gentleman, he thought, no stormtrooper floorwalker come to set things right. It wasn’t all that important — the others could take care of themselves. Willie could have; and Ouida, she would have managed somehow. Old Fenstemaker made his compromises, surely, an endless succession of them. Was there a point on his scales where mere convenience left off and necessity queered the balance? He wished one of Caesar’s divines were available to show him where.
He stood and walked outside and wandered through the courtyard gardens. The inside of the car was like a chicken roost at midday. He began to perspire almost immediately, and he pushed along at a faster rate of speed, the blast of hot air searing eyelids and nostrils. He bought a bottle of beer at a drive-in grocery and then drove slowly toward the hospital.
He could hear their laughter in the perfumed corridor. The sounds, high and puckish, echoed off the vinyl floor. Nurses and dark-skinned attendants soft-shoed back and forth, pacing off their disapproval. Roy ignored the looks they gave him and headed toward the point of disturbance.
They were all there, most of them, and Earle was happy and loquacious. His friends had finally come and thought enough about him to bring a drink. Ellen Streeter, Huggins, Harris McElhannon, a half-dozen of the others, crowded round the hospital bed, clutching their paper cups of gin like front-row tickets. Earle sat amid the disordered bedsheets and examined a new bottle of brandy. They all looked up and gave a little cheer when Roy came in the room.
They’d driven into town to begin another party. The one at the ranch was a shambles; they’d never even got around to playing the finals of the tournament. Too many bugged out: first Earle, transported to the hospital; Roy and Alfred and Ouida and Willie and Cathryn. And Giffen. No one knew what happened to George Giffen — he’d come and gone and come back again and now he was vanished still again, clean out of sight. This morning they’d simply given up on all pretense and formality and got stoned before noon and presented the winners’ trophies to the Mexican kids down the hill. And now they were back in town searching for a party, a beginning. Was there anyone willing to offer up a house or apartment as a point for starting?
There was none.
Roy considered Rinemiller’s place, but then thought better of it. Couldn’t desecrate holy ground. And besides, Alfred might be there; lying in state on the striped bedspread.
The floor supervisor came into the room to say they must be quiet or leave. So they decided to leave, promising to come back with more to drink if Earle needed any. All he had to do was give the word. Send up a signal. They’d call in on the hour. Roy stood near the picture window and examined the room. They’d decorated it for Earle. There were fewer flowers, but now there were mobiles suspended from the light fixture on the ceiling; there were books and magazines and a Picasso print and half a roll of pink toilet paper strung like bunting round the end of his bed. There was a new martini pitcher, stacks of greeting cards, a bedpan with Earle’s name stroked in gold along the side, a feather fan, an embroidered cushion. Someone had even brought a pair of hamsters, they explained, but they hadn’t been successful in smuggling them into the hospital.
Ellen Streeter came over to say goodbye to Roy. Her cheek was still discolored, but she’d done an amazing job with her make-up. She looked very pretty, suntanned and somehow rested. She asked if he would join them later, and Roy said it was just barely possible.
“We’ll be at all the obvious places,” she said. “At one time or another … We’ll leave a little trail for you to follow.”
“Maybe we’ll cross paths,” he said.
“I know all about that,” she said. “Like ships in the night. Quit squandering your lousy radiance and focus on someone who needs it.”
“Needs what?”
“Help.”
He did not reply but only looked closely at her mauve-painted eyes. She repeated: “I need help. From the no-good man that ruined me. You could come by my house later. I’ve got a new record — Jelly Roll Morton. He introduces some of his own work. ‘Creepy Feeling.’ And some others. This tune, he says, was wrote ’bout nineteen-two. The album’s all hermetically sealed. Like a virgin girl. Can you come listen?”
Before he could answer, Harris and Frank Huggins moved past and took her by either arm, guiding her toward the door. He got one last look at her spoiled face before they disappeared down the corridor. For a moment he thought of going after her, but he knew it wasn’t just a question of giving help — it was no doctor-patient relationship; rather one of fever victims struggling to breathe a healing into each other’s mouths. He hadn’t the strength; he doubted, moreover, if he had any help to give to anyone. But he had to see. Did his splendid emotion amount to anything more than good intentions? He turned to face Earle, who was preoccupied for the moment with all his gifts. The tinseled mobile spun above their heads, moving in the blast of an air duct. Earle opened his bottle of brandy and poured a little into two sterilized glasses.
“Let’s have some of this stuff, Roy,” he said. “Sure glad you came by.”
“Where’s Ouida?” Roy said.
“Home with little Earle. Baby-sittin’ problem on Sundays.”
“I got everything from your hotel room,” Roy said. “I checked you out and paid the bill.”
“Damn good. That’s great,” Earle said. He raised his glass to Roy and took a swallow. “You seen Alfred today? I thought he’d sure come around, but he hasn’t yet.”
“I saw him this morning,” Roy said. “We had coffee together. He didn’t tell me his plans, though.”
“You hear about that crazy story? That one about Alfred. He told me about it yesterday. Hell of a goddam note.”
Roy nodded and said: “That’s what we talked about this morning. Alfred was in a sweat about Willie’s story.”
“Hell of a goddam note,” Earle repeated. “What’s Willie tryin’ to do? Everybody knows Alfred couldn’t be bribed.”
“You seen Willie’s story?” Roy said.
“No.”
“You heard about the tape recording?”
“No. What recording is that?”
“The one the lobbyist made when he offered the bribe to Alfred. When Alfred accepted. It goes into a lot of detail …”
Earle was silent, watching the mobile twirl.
“You didn’t know about the recording?” Roy said.
“Alfred might have mentioned it,” Earle said. “He was pretty excited when we talked.”
“When did he first mention this to you? Yesterday?”
“Yesterday,” Earle nodded, “and earlier in the week. Right after the lobbyist made the offer.”
“When was that?”
Earle waved his hand with assurance. “I don’t remember exactly. I still got a little fuzziness about last week.”
“Thursday night?”
“That’s it — Thursday night.”
“Couldn’t have been Thursday night,” Roy said. “I know where Alfred was Thursday night, and he wasn’t with you.”
“What the hell!” Earle said. “Some other night, then. He told me. I know that much.”
“You sure Saturday wasn’t the first time he told you? You’d have to do better than that on a witness stand.”
A nurse came in with a little tray of pills. She looked at the decorations and smiled at Earle. Earle tossed off the brandy and then swallowed the pills with a glass of water. He made a face; his stomach rumbled.
“Thursday goddam night,” he said. “Thursday night was when we talked.” The nurse looked mystified. She turned and went out the door.
“Believe me,” Roy said, “it wasn’t Thursday night. Or any other night last week.”
“It was one of those nights …”
“Come on, Earle! Don’t take any oaths for Rinemiller unless you’re damn sure.”
“I’m sure, I’m sure …”
“Listen — if you’d heard that recording you’d understand. It was the real business, Earle. No kidding around about it. Alfred accepted fifteen hundred dollars from that guy. It was counted out right there, one-two-three, on the tape. And Alfred’s still carrying it around with him, I suppose. You know what happened Thursday? Thursday’s the day the same lobbyist offered Giffen a bribe. And old George turned it down …”
“Old George …?”
“George turned it down. Didn’t hesitate. Then he told Rinemiller about it — that was George’s mistake — he asked Alfred what he ought to do about it. And Alfred didn’t say anything to George about trapping a lobbyist. All he did was tell George to forget it, stay out of trouble, and then he called into town — from your own ranch, Earle, and tried to shake down the lobbyist for more money to keep Giffen quiet. He was playing every angle. And doing fine until Willie told him what he was going to print. So then he runs over here to remind you what he says he told you earlier in the week. To get an alibi established. From his best friend …”
“Best friend,” Earle said dully. “Jesus, I can’t let my best friend down …”
“He wasn’t anybody’s friend last week,” Roy said. “He was just real hungry. Real ambitious.”
The nurse returned with a tray of food. She set the tray down on Earle’s lap and fled immediately. Earle looked down and lifted the cover on one of the hot plates. A puff of steam rose up in his face. He poked at the meat and the baked potato.
“I’ve got to go,” Roy said.
“Where’s Alfred?” Earle said, still staring at his food.
“Probably sitting around wondering what he ought to do. I scared hell out of him this morning, but all I really succeeded in doing was to leave him immobilized. He’d better get off his bum and start building a better defense than he’s got.”
He turned and started to leave. Earle called out to him: “Roy … Wait … second.”
“Yes?” He came back to the bedside.
Earle chewed dismally on the roast beef. He put his fork down and said: “You wanna … tell me anything about … you and Ouida?”
Roy sat down. “Well,” he said. “I guess your memory’s not so bad after all. I’m sorry about the other night.”
“I don’t know anything about the other night. What happened the other night?”
Roy started to explain, but Earle was grinning and seemed nearly about to laugh. Roy said: “Well … I’m sorry about the other night. It really wasn’t as bad as it might have seemed. Hope you believe that … What do you want to know about Ouida and me?”
“I’ve heard some talk,” Earle said. “First hour I hit town last week I heard about you being censured. Alfred told me that. And then I’d heard some other things while I was out of town. And then there was the other night, of course …” He smiled again and went on: “What I mean is, it doesn’t look so good for either of you. It’s grim — it’s depressing. It’s no way to court a woman.”
“Well I’ll put a stop to it, then,” Roy said. “I promise you it won’t —”
“I didn’t mean that,” Earle said. “I didn’t mean that at all … Unless you’re lookin’ for an excuse to shake loose?”
“Ouida’s something special …”
“She’s an exciting woman,” Earle said. “She’s got some qualities that …”
Roy sat nodding his head in agreement. He got to his feet suddenly and said: “I’ve got to go. I really do. I’ll talk to you later …”
He was talking and moving sideways toward the door and he finally waved and turned out into the corridor. He rode the elevator down three floors and walked through the hospital, past waiting rooms and the receptionist’s desk and the coffee bar. He headed out a side entrance and went to his car. He sat there a few minutes until he began to perspire again and then removed his coat. He switched on the radio, searching for a station, listening for a time, very attentively, to a commercial announcement. The voice, deep and tremulous, discussed body odor. Some music came on; Roy sang it aloud: “Ah-wah, ooh-ah, oom-ah.” He paused and repeated to himself: “These are my active years — years when I perspire, like millions of tiny fountains.”
He attempted to recite a little lesson he had learned. Thin puffs of wind rattled the trees and the hedgerows. The cool air was like a gift … A man, he said to himself, a man whose thoughts dwell only on sense objects soon learns attachments. From attachment is born love; from love springs wrath, and from wrath is confusion born. From confusion comes wandering of memory and wreck of understanding, and with wreck of understanding man was lost …
This dissatisfied him. He tried another: An Agent of Goodness who is free from attachments, speaks not of himself, his constancy or vigor, and is unmoved by success or failure … Relinquish … renounce … sweet sounds and sense objects, casting aside passion and hatred, turning everlastingly to passionlessness, away from force, pride, desire, wrath, possession …
Well, it wouldn’t do. It just wouldn’t. If that sort of thing really caught on, they’d all capsize. Who the hell qualified as an Agent of Goodness? Who was it passed the judgment? How’d anyone ever accomplish good while casting off attachments, passion? Gimme a sweet sound any old day — a sweet sound and a snifter of Zen. At room temperature.
He got the car started and steered it down the drive and out into the street. He felt unaccountably pleased with himself and a little sick in the stomach. Back among the living. And (what was the phrase?) the low farce of left-wing politics. He made a short speech to himself: “This is a holy war, my friends, against spies, murderers, pimps, burglars, Chinese bandits, foreign isms, alien-minded mongrels, Utopian praters, saboteurs, subversives — a battle between God-fearing principles and pagan ideals … Is there an honest man here who’ll — I say, is there an honest man here? Nobody here. Well, my friends, we’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got, what we had last time I looked, which is pimps, thieves, spies, rapscallions and robber barons, fops, charlatans, mountebanks …”
He resisted a queasy sensation. The late afternoon was warm and the damp air clung to his face, soaking his shirt collar. He fashioned a new koan for himself. It would bring enlightenment, make his course clear. Nice cream koan:
We know, my friends, the sound of a meal going down. But what is the sound of a meal coming up?
He sped along the pastel streets.