Ellen frowned. She seemed to be concentrating on trimming Millie’s nails.
That had surprised Jacob the day she gave birth. He’d had no idea babies came with nails that needed paring. But although she was being careful she wasn’t entirely focused on the chore. The girl, for her part, lay on the changing table looking all around the room without squirming.
“You’re sure that’s how you left it?” Ellen said. “You didn’t say anything you couldn’t take back?”
“I was cowardly enough not to.”
“That wasn’t being a coward. That was being a responsible father. If it were just us, it’d be different. We could let the house go and find a cheap apartment. But it isn’t just us, is it?”
“A little baby sure takes up a lot of space.”
“She takes up the whole world.”
“Still, I can’t help feeling I betrayed Phil.”
“He’ll find something. Artists who like boys aren’t exactly whooping cranes.”
“That’s harsh.”
“I didn’t mean it to be. He only has to support himself.”
“I have to tell him I didn’t leave Blue Devil in a huff before he finds out on his own.”
“Call him.”
“It’s a talk that has to take place in person.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“What’s bad about it?”
“He might have been subpoenaed by now. The FBI or somebody may be watching his place.”
“So what? Is visiting a friend against the law now?”
“They could think you’re like him.”
“I’m married. I’ve got a kid!”
She shook her head. “You’re still a country boy at heart. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.” She tickled Millie, laughed when she laughed, and went up on her toes to kiss Jacob. Her eyes were grave. “Do what you feel you have to do, but remember: It isn’t just you.”
Phil Scarpetti opened his door. His expression was no more sour than usual. “I see by your face you’re wise.”
“Elk told me. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too, about Coal-Blooded Murder. I’d show you my sketches, but they’d just depress you. Best I’ve ever done.”
Jacob smelled pot. “You think that’s a good idea?”
“Tell you what. I’ll go ahead and paint the thing, give it to you for your first anniversary.”
“I mean smoking reefers. Elk would count it another nail in your coffin.”
Scarpetti stepped aside for him to enter.
“Drink? I’d offer you a toke, but I don’t want to get you in Dutch with J. Edgar Hoover.”
“A little early for me, but don’t go dry on my account.”
The artist threw himself full length on his sofa and crossed his ankles. He was in his stocking feet and his favorite paint-stained shirt hung outside his trousers. “Alcohol would be an insult to the great god Cannabis. Why the long face? Look at the portfolio I’m putting together.” He waved a hand around the apartment, which was cluttered as always. Cast-off clothing and dirty coffee cups shared the space with partial paintings on easels. The color scheme was dark, the sinister subjects lacking the usual irony.
“Kind of grim.”
“I was getting stale. Past due for a shake-up.” He watched Jacob take a seat. “Hey, you didn’t do something stupid like quit Elk, did you?”
“I tried. He reminded me I have a contract.”
“He tried to get me to sign one once, but I hate leashes. Not one of my smarter moments; but like I said, it’s time to do something else. I’m not even sure I want to go on painting. Trouble is I’m not prepared for anything else except armed robbery, and I stunk at it.”
“Maybe I should try it. Who knows? I might have a talent.”
“Stop talking like an idiot.”
“I was about to tell you the same thing,” Jacob said. “You were born to paint. Make the rounds of galleries. There’s no reason Norman Rockwell should get all the work.”
“Maybe when I get the time.”
“From the look of you, you’ve got plenty.”
Scarpetti took a fold of paper from a shirt pocket and tossed it in his visitor’s lap.
The document was printed in archaic letters on stiff paper, ending with the line: “Herein fail not.”
“You’ve been subpoenaed.”
“Yeah. Dig the lingo. The monkey who delivered it should’ve worn tights and carried a trumpet.”
“Do you have a lawyer?”
“No. I’m out of work, remember?”
“Maybe I can help.”
“When Hollywood gets around to shooting The Fence, I’ll take all you’ve got. Nobody’s telling little Dixie her Uncle Phil ate up her college fund.”
“Millie.”
“You’re stopping at one kid?”
“Do yourself a favor and leave that sense of humor outside the hearing room. Those vultures are just waiting for an excuse to rip into somebody like you.”
Scarpetti took a deep drag, blew smoke out his nostrils, and reached behind his head to drop the roach in the ashtray.
“What do you mean, ‘somebody like you’?”
“Do I need to spell it out?’
“Yeah, pal. I think you do.”
“Phil, I’m on your side.”
“I’d prefer you up my ass.”
“Jesus!”
The artist’s grin was vicious.
“Just kidding, Jake. I’m strictly supply side. The boys downtown call me Phil Spaghetti, on account of the size of my meatballs.”
“Go ahead, get it out of your system before they fly you to Washington.”
“Elk told you I’m a fag, didn’t he?”
“He tried every way not to.”
“Oh. I get it. Didn’t know I was that obvious.”
“You’re not. But good friends aren’t much for keeping secrets. Phil, I don’t give a shit if you’re John Wayne or Tinker Bell. You’re my friend and I came over to make sure you’re all right.”
“Don’t worry. As far as the committee’s concerned, you and I just worked together. They can’t lynch you for hanging out with a sissy at the office.”
“You think I care about that? If they don’t send for me I’ll volunteer to be your character witness.”
“Don’t perjure yourself on my account.”
It was no use. Jacob stood. “I’ll talk to you sometime when you’re not high.”
“Good luck. Elk gave me a month’s severance and I know a doorman who can keep me in muggles for a month.”
“Phil—”
He reached behind his head, groped for the still-smoldering joint, and took a hit. “Go back home and work on making that Dixie.”
Jacob intended to walk as far as he could, but after a few blocks he boarded the subway. For the first time, the buzzing city had failed to calm him.
He opened his door and read Ellen’s face.
“It came, didn’t it?” he said.