PETER GRECO STOPPED AT the Jefferson Market and went home with one of the big glossy blue shopping bags full of milk, grapefruit, broccoli, anchovies, tuna, shelled walnuts, parmesan cheese, chopped garlic in oil, red pepper flakes, hamburger, corn flakes, and orange juice. He was thinking about Celia Blandings, wondering if she’d bought his explanation of events. He’d made it up on the spur of the moment, and as he’d listened to himself it sounded fairly plausible, almost ingenious. It seemed to take her off guard. At least she hadn’t burst a blood vessel arguing.
He stood in the kitchen unpacking groceries, putting away what he wasn’t going to use for dinner. He had his preparations down to a system. He filled a large pot with water and put it on to boil. He took a saucepan, ran an inch of water into the bottom of it, then put it on to boil. He cut the tops from the broccoli with a handy knife he’d gotten in France years ago and put them in the folding steamer. When the water in the saucepan was boiling, he placed the steamer in it. He took the enameled red colander from the cupboard and put it in the sink, got a small flat saucepan down and put it over a very low flame. He poured some olive oil, extra virgin, into the pan and forked some garlic bits into it. He sprinkled it lavishly with red pepper and a bit of oregano. Carefully he peeled back the top of the tin of rolled anchovies and capers and dumped them with their oil into the olive oil mixture. He opened the can of solid light tuna and broke it into chunks on a plate. He opened the packet of walnuts and the fresh parmesan. The water was boiling, so he slid half a pound of #10 spaghetti into the bubbles and steam. He pulled the cork from a half bottle of Chianti, sniffed it, poured some into a mug because he couldn’t see any glasses, and took a sip.
He waited for the spaghetti to cook and kept sipping at the wine and wondering about Mrs. Bassinetti. He wondered if she really was having an affair with Cunningham, who looked like a pleasant enough guy but not quite in her weight class when it came to the sexual championships. Still, you never knew about things like that. He had a difficult time seeing Charlie as a killer, while Mrs. Bassinetti looked as if she were cut out for the job. So who the hell was Z?
He drained the spaghetti in the colander, shook it over the sink, dropped it back into the empty pot. He poured the olive oil mixture over it, tossed it with two forks, then ground black Tellicherry pepper over it. Then he put the steamed, brilliantly green broccoli in, the tuna, and sprinkled walnuts over it all. He tossed it thoroughly again, doused it liberally with parmesan, left it in the pot, and began eating. He took another satisfying drink of wine, turned on the kitchen’s small black-and-white television, and listened while Dan Rather told him what horrors President Reagan had in store for the lame, the halt, the blind, and the elderly, without regard to race or religion. They were all equal-opportunity sufferers, as far as the administration was concerned.
He ate his way through the suffering farmers, the suffering parents of kids who could no longer get college loans, the suffering elderly who were scared half to death that the nation’s oldest President, for whom they’d voted in vast numbers, was about to take the axe to their Social Security benefits. When the suffering for the night was done and Dan Rather had wished the nation a good night, Greco fixed a piece of plastic wrap over the pot and put it into the refrigerator. He dropped the Chianti bottle into the trash, rinsed the mug in hot water and put it into the wooden drying rack. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, put his Yankee jacket back on, and walked two blocks to the garage where he occasionally ransomed his car, a four-year-old Chrysler Le Baron he’d bought from his former wife’s ex-brother-in-law, who’d married her step-sister in Passaic. He’d wound up liking him better than he’d liked Phyllis, and the car was a dandy.
Tuning in the Yankee-White Sox twi-nighter, he drove uptown to Sutton Place. He pulled over, cut the engine and turned off the lights, but left the game on to keep himself awake. There was a dim light on above the Bassinetti doorway. The lights were out inside, or the draperies had the density of blackout curtains. She was either in the back of the house or out; it didn’t make any difference. He was prepared to wait quite a while. He had no idea what to expect. Maybe Charlie would show up. Maybe somebody else would show up. Maybe Z would appear in a clap of thunder and a puff of smoke.
The sounds of the horses in the stables floated across the dark green expanse of lawn as the Director sat on the spacious back porch watching the sun sink behind the Jersey countryside. His wife’s horses were one of the best things about her. He hadn’t been much of a rider even before his accident, but he had then, as well as now, enjoyed visiting them in their stalls, chatting with them, soothing them, making friends, feeling their great rubbery mouths taking sugar from his palm. He wasn’t altogether sure what the beasts represented for him, but in soothing them he inevitably soothed himself, no matter what pressures he’d been feeling. Now the stable boy and trainer had departed for the night, and he drew comfort from the sounds of their settling down to sleep.
Finally he guided his wheelchair up the ramp and into the kitchen. From the refrigerator he took eggs, an apple, and a wedge of Gruyere. He melted butter in the omelette pan while he whisked the eggs and a few dashes of nutmeg in a copper bowl. While the eggs set up in the butter, he slivered the cheese and the apple, then laid them in on the eggs, waited, slid the eggs around, and gently flopped them over. He had something moist and perfect for his dinner. He drank a half bottle of a jaunty little Riesling. While he had his dinner, he watched Dan Rather and let his mind turn the corner and contemplate for a moment what might be going on tomorrow at this same time. He smiled to himself, patted a bit of melted cheese from the corner of his mouth. It was all a game, of course, and he enjoyed the game. The higher the stakes, the better he liked it. The odd thing was, he doubted if he’d ever have pushed things quite this far if he’d still been a whole man, walking around on his own two legs. There was surely a lesson embedded in what had once seemed the tragedy of his life. The tragedy had liberated him from the rat race, had left him free to think. He felt as if he’d been possessed by the spirit of mischief.
At the appointed time he called the General.
“Did you enjoy the manuscript, General?”
“Enjoy is not precisely the word I’d have used, my friend. I certainly found it interesting. I wonder who wrote it?”
“I too. But other data has reached me, and I feel obliged to tell you. Those who intend to kill me have made a blunder—”
“No kidding. Whattaya know? A blunder—is that like a mistake?”
“Your usual amusing self.” The Director chuckled. “Apparently their intentions have become a matter of public knowledge—”
“No!”
“Some person, a woman, seems to have learned of the plan. She’s an unknown quantity. What will she do? Perhaps she will rescue me. One never knows. I certainly don’t, but I do know this: I hate variables.”
“Who is this woman?”
“Her name is Celia Blandings.”
“We wouldn’t want her to be hurt, would we?”
“Perish the thought.”
“Maybe we could reach her … Do you know how?”
“I think I might.” The Director gave the General her address, knowing he was being recorded in Virginia.
“How the hell do you come by all this information?”
“Why, General, you surprise me. It’s my job to know things. Everything.” He couldn’t resist another chuckle.