TROOPER AMY MADISON WAS TWENTY-SEVEN. SHE WAS one of three women in the entire state to have been hired to do the job she had. She was bright, she was ambitious, she could outrun, outjump, outfight, outshoot, and probably outthink three quarters of her masculine counterparts—indeed, she was without detectible fault or flaw of any kind, or she wouldn’t have reached the place she held.
That place, in a tough organization, a male organization, she had won and kept through decision, through action, not through analysis. She preferred to evaluate a situation quickly and react quickly. She preferred to be in motion. She didn’t hesitate, therefore, when on patrol she passed a motorist stopped by the roadside. Seeing the vehicle and its operator, she immediately pulled over, reversed direction, and approached. It was a car she knew.
Trooper Madison drove past the strange car, a sporty two-seater, U-turned, and parked ten feet to its rear. She left her cruiser and came up on the roadster’s left. This time, she was ready. At the driver’s-side window, she put her hand on her service pistol and kept it there. The window opened.
Well, well, it’s the Girl Scout, said the driver of the little car. He saw the trooper’s hand on her weapon. Whoa, Sweetheart, he said. Lighten up on the piece, okay? You’re among friends.
“Is everything alright, sir?” the trooper asked. “Out of fuel? Engine trouble? Lost?”
Heart attack.
“You’re having a heart attack, sir?”
That’s right, Sweetheart. I’ve got a little bit of a blockage going here, a little bit of an occlusion, a bit of the old plaque, you know? It’s all the brandy and the béarnaise. Can’t seem to stay away from them.
Trooper Madison looked the driver over. He didn’t seem to be in any distress. He was the same stout, overdressed figure she had first seen along this same road some months before: same tweed jacket, same prissy cloth motoring cap. He smiled at her pleasantly.
“Are you in pain, sir?” she asked him.
Terrible.
“Do you want an ambulance, then? A medic?”
No need, said the driver. You’ll do fine, Sweetheart. I need you.
“Yes, sir. I’ll take you to the clinic.”
No, said the driver.
• • •
Trooper Madison found herself in the passenger’s seat of the stranger’s car, driving carefully along an unpaved road through an autumn woodland: leaves brown, yellow, scarlet. Where were they? Where was her cruiser? Where was her gun?
“Pull over, sir,” she ordered. “Pull over, and stop your vehicle. Turn off your engine. Now.”
Be cool, Sweetheart, said the driver. We’re almost there.
“Where?”
Taft’s.
“Why are we going there?”
A little business.
“You have business with Mr. Taft?” the trooper asked.
Not me, Sweetheart. You.
“I don’t know Taft.”
You will. Taft wants to make your acquaintance.
“So what?”
So, you’d do well to oblige him, Sweetheart. You’d do well not to get crossways of Taft. I could show you things …
“Sir, I say again: pull over.”
Almost there, said the driver.
No, they weren’t. Looking ahead, looking to the side, Trooper Madison saw the bright, particolored woods passing to their rear, but she felt no motion, and she saw no progress. She had the impression of riding in a car in a movie: the vehicle remains fixed while the scenery rolls backward in an unending loop of film, producing the illusion of forward movement.
The driver was talking to her. I think you and my friend Taft would hit it off, he said. He wants to meet you. He’s shy, though. But you’ll like him. There’s more to Taft than you might think. Oh, I know everybody says he’s a lush, he’s not playing with a full deck, all that. They don’t know Taft. I could show you things …
“How do you know him?”
He’s a client.
“What kind of a client,” asked the trooper. “Who are you? What do you do?”
Questions, questions, Sweetheart, said the driver. Suffice to say, Taft’s a man apart, a man to take account of. A man of talents. I could show you things …
“What things?”
Things about Taft. About what kind of man he is. Have you ever been out East, Sweetheart?
“East? You mean like New York?”
No, Sweetheart. Capital-E East. Hong Kong.
• • •
Trooper Madison opened her eyes. She tried to clear her head. She found herself, no longer in the yellow woodland, but on the teeming street of a strange city, apparently an Asian city. The street was thronged, it was packed with people who flowed like a human river bearing on its flood cars, taxis, delivery vans, ambulances, scooters, and bicycles by the thousand. On both sides of the street, the stone facades of buildings like cliffs, blank and gray, office towers that soared into the invisible sky. In between them on the street were squeezed shops of every kind: tailor shops, jewelry shops, shoe shops, flower shops, noodle shops. The air was hot and dense, and a hot wind blew papers and other trash above the streaming traffic.
How do you like it, Sweetheart? Somehow, her driver had changed his costume. Now he was swathed in the flowing saffron robes of a Buddhist monk worn off his right shoulder and gathered over his left arm. His head was shaved, his feet, in white cotton socks, were sandaled. He gazed fondly over the chaotic hurry of the street before them.
This is my idea of a city, right here, he said, with a sweep of his arm that made his robe billow. You can have your crummy country towns. Look at this, Sweetheart. Take it in. It’s all here, and it’s all for sale. Anything you want to have, anything you want to do, anything you want to be—it’s here for you if you’ve got the price. Here, that’s the only question: Can you pay down? Can you put the cash on the table? If you can, then here, you’re free. You’re free to be a winner. I love it.
He drew Trooper Madison apart from the crush on the street and nodded across the pavement to the side of a building. Of course, he said, there are winners, and there are also losers. He pointed to a large cardboard shipping carton that had been shoved up against the granite wall of one of the towers. In its recesses, a dark heap of dirty newspapers and rags was visible. Lying on the pavement in front of the carton was a square of cardboard that had been crudely lettered
HOMELESS
PLEASE HELP
Beside this sign was a paper cup for change. The cup was empty.
Two men were standing in front of the carton. They were black, in their forties, expensively dressed. Both were large, well over six feet tall and massive in build. They peered into the carton, talking between themselves. One stooped to get a better look.
“He in there, alright,” he said.
“I don’t see him,” said the other.
“Don’t need to see him. You can smell him.”
The second man bent to the carton and snuffed loudly.
“You right,” he said. “Must be that guy from Goldman.”
“Ain’t nobody from no Goldman. That’s Jack in there.”
“Jack? Naw.”
“Damn right, it is,” said the first man. He struck the carton with his hand. “Yo, Jack!” he said. “Mister Raptor! Come on out of there, Jack. Say hello to your old friends.”
No response from the packing carton.
“Ain’t Jack in there, I told you,” said the second man.
“It’s Jack, alright. Look here.” The first man bent, reached into the carton, and drew out a shoe, a tasseled patent leather loafer, at one time a costly piece of gentleman’s foot attire, but now much scuffed and with its upper flapping off the sole.
“See there?” the man asked his friend.
“You right again. It is Jack. Hey, Jack! Wuzzup? How’s everything down on Sutton Place, Jack? Hee-hee.”
“Heh-heh,” said the other man.
The carton stirred on the pavement as the filthy and abject creature within attempted, snail-like, to shrink farther into its shelter.
“How’s it going, Jack?” asked the first man. “We were just talking about you, Jack. We were talking with Mr. Taft. You remember Mr. Taft, don’t you, Jack? Up in the woods? ’Course you do. He asked after you, Jack. He’s going to be in town next week, Mr. Taft is. Said he’d be glad to look you up, but he didn’t know your, ah, new address. Now we can let him know where to find you. Be good to see Mr. Taft again, won’t it, Jack?”
At that, a yellow liquid began to flow from the heap in the carton. It trickled out onto the sidewalk and ran toward the curb. The two men stepped nimbly out of the way of the stream.
“Look at that,” said one.
“Man’s pissed himself,” said the other. “Disgusting.”
“What’s he afraid of?”
“Taft, it looks like.”
“Taft? He ought to be afraid of us.”
“He ought to be afraid of Mister D.”
“Mister D, and us.”
“And Taft. Taft carried the ball.”
“So he did. Jack got crossways of Taft, and now look where he’s at. Poor Jack. Another casualty of the Global Economy.”
“Ain’t got nothing to do with no Global Economy,” said his partner. “Living in a box? Pissing himself? What it is: the man has no self-respect. That’s what it is.”
“That’s what it is, alright.”
“What it is, is a lack of self-respect.”
“And getting crossways of Taft.”
“And that.”
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
With Trooper Madison and her guide watching them, the two men made ready to pass on. One pointed at the cup waiting for change before the carton.
“Throw him twenty, why don’t you, brother?”
“Throw him twenty, yourself, you think so highly of him. Me, I never cared for the man.”
The two moved on.
What did I tell you? Trooper Madison’s guide asked her. You saw that guy in the box. Don’t get crossways of Taft. Cooperate. He likes you. You like him.
“I don’t even know him,” the trooper protested.
Get to know him, Sweetheart.
• • •
Trooper Madison stood before the front door at Taft’s. Nobody around. She looked at her cruiser, parked in the driveway. She was alone. She could leave. She ought to leave. She would leave. She would resign from the force. She would turn in her badge, her gun. She would move to another part of the country and find work in a library. She was leaving. She settled her belt around her hips, stepped up to the door, and raised her hand to knock.
The door opened and Taft stood before her. He smiled.
“Mr. Taft?” she asked. Right away, she felt foolish. Who else would he be? Taft nodded and kept on smiling at her.
“I’m Trooper Madison, Vermont State Police …” she began.
“I know who you are, officer,” said Taft. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You have? You knew I was coming?”
“I hoped you were,” said Taft. He stepped back and let her enter the house.
Trooper Madison looked around her. They were in Taft’s kitchen. She had been on the front porch. Then she had been at the door. Now she was in the kitchen. Taft fussed at the stove.
“Cup of tea?” Taft asked her.
Give her a drink, purred Dangerfield. In his most outlandish turnout to date, he appeared in the trappings of a ghetto pimp: full-length fur coat dyed pink; green three-piece suit, the open vest plunging to reveal a heavily pelted chest and a couple of pounds of gold chains and medallions lying on the fur; a diamond stud the size of a garden pea in his right nostril; a yellow broad-brimmed hat a yard wide, made of velour; combat boots, also yellow. He sat at his ease in the corner. Give her a drink, he whispered.
“A cup of tea would taste good,” Trooper Madison said. “Thank you.” Taft put the kettle on.
Slip a little cognac to it, whispered Dangerfield. Get her loose.
“How do you take it?” Taft asked the trooper.
She takes it any way she can get it, Chief. Like the rest of us.
“Shut up,” said Taft.
“I didn’t say anything,” said Trooper Madison.
“What do you take in your tea?” asked Taft again.
“Sugar. And half-and-half if you have it. Do you have half-and-half?”
Half-and-half? Oh, Sweetheart, do we have half-and-half? Half-and-half is the way we have it best.
“Shut up,” said Taft.
Dangerfield got to his feet and started on tiptoe for the kitchen door. You’re off and running, here, Chief, he whispered to Taft. Think you can manage on your own, now?
“I hope so,” said Taft.
“What?” asked Trooper Madison.
Tell her she smells nice, said Dangerfield. They all like that.
“Beat it,” said Taft.
“What?” asked the trooper again.
I’m going. I’m going. Don’t worry. Listen, leave a light on downstairs when you’re, ah, all done, okay, Chief? So I’ll know the coast is clear? I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything. You know?
“That will do,” said Taft. He crossed the kitchen and showed Dangerfield the door. Then he turned to Trooper Madison. He regarded her. He smiled and shook his head.
“What is it?” the trooper asked him.
“Here you are,” said Taft. “Look at you.”
• • •
So, Chief, how did you make out? asked Dangerfield.
“Is that your business?” Taft asked him.
I’d say it was, considering.
“I’d say it wasn’t, considering.”
Come on, Chief. How was it?
“You don’t change, do you, old sport?” said Taft. “There was no It.”
What happened, then? What did you do?
“We had a cup of tea. We talked. She left.”
You talked. You talked? Listen, Chief, I can get the gun for you. I can load it. I can cock it. I can put it in your hand. But you have to pull the trigger. You wanted her, I went to work, you got her—and you talked? What was the matter with her?
“The matter? Nothing. Nothing at all. She’s amazing. She’s perfection.”
She’s too athletic for me, said Dangerfield. Where’s the tits, you know?
But Taft was fond and far gone. “She’s wonderful,” he said. “We’re going to the Fall Fair together.”
The Fall Fair is it? Be still, my beating heart, Chief.
“We came to an understanding,” said Taft.
An understanding? What’s that do for you? Since when did understanding get anybody’s pants off?
“Don’t be vulgar,” said Taft.
I’m not vulgar, said Dangerfield. I’m frank. I’m candid. That’s why I can bring up certain subjects—awkward subjects.
“What subjects?” Taft asked him.
What subjects do you think, Chief? There’s only one, at this point. It has to do with time. Look at the clock, Chief.
“Oh,” said Taft.
Oh, is right. The clock is running, Chief. We need to have a conversation, don’t we?
“Yes.”
You’re short time, Chief. You don’t have forever, here. You know that? You’re at the wire. We’re looking at a date, here, now, you know? Columbus Day, right? That’s what, day after tomorrow? We’re going to have to close this thing. You want understanding? Understand that.
“I do,” said Taft.
I hope so, said Dangerfield. And by the way, Chief, something I’ve been meaning to bring up. When we close, last thing, I’ll have my whole team with me.
“Your team?”
The big guys, the stenographer, somebody from Legal, somebody from Security, the sketch artist, maybe a few more. It’s a formality. But, point is, things can get busy at a closing. Hectic. People sometimes get emotional. People maybe say things they don’t mean, you know? Suffice to say. So, before we get there, I just wanted to tell you, I’ve enjoyed doing business with you, Chief. I thought we hit it off—making allowances, of course. Different styles, and all.
“Of course.”
I’ll miss you, said Dangerfield. So I will. I don’t tell that to every account, either.
“I’m sure you don’t.”
You don’t have much to say, all of a sudden, Chief. Well, naturally you don’t. I understand. End of the line, and all. We know it isn’t easy. We have feelings, too.
“Of course you have.”
But, the thing is, like it or not, a deal’s a deal.
“A deal’s a deal,” said Taft.
So, said Dangerfield. I guess that about does it. Like I say, it’s been a pleasure. See you in church, Chief.
“Well, well,” said Taft, “but don’t run off, old sport. Let’s at least have a last Sir Walter’s together.”
He turned to the sideboard to reach the bottle, but when he turned back, Dangerfield was gone.