THREE

1.

Rain, a dirty rain falling from a cloud cover that was low and dense and mysterious; Madeleine imagined some malignant deity lurking behind those clouds, some god of midtown Manhattan who stirred the weather with a spiteful hand. She looked through the window of the gallery for a while, watching sluggish traffic on 57th Street. Avoiding the sight of the rainbows, she turned and stared in the direction of the office where Berger sat behind his desk—his complexion ashen, his eyes distant, a certain grey aura around him. What was wrong with him these days? Yesterday he hadn’t bothered to come in at all, and today he seemed content just to hide out in his tiny office, as if he were afraid of a sudden congregation of creditors entering the gallery in a rage. Maybe there was something wrong in his personal life (about which, she realized, she knew very little). Or perhaps he was just depressed by the lack of sales.

She went across the gallery and paused outside the door of the office; he looked up and smiled at her in a way she found a little sad. A movement of the lips, that was all. There wasn’t anything in the eyes.

“Mr. Berger …” She hesitated.

He raised one eyebrow questioningly; it made a silvery crescent over his eye.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

“Nothing, thank you.” He waved one hand slowly in the air.

She paused. “Alka Seltzer?”

Berger smiled in a thin-lipped way. “Does my hungover condition seem so obvious, my dear?”

Madeleine nodded. She didn’t like to see him like this. “They say that a hair of the dog is the remedy—”

“I have also heard it said that death is equally beneficial.” He stood up. He had a small nail file in his hand and was sawing gently at his fingertips.

“Death strikes me as more drastic,” she said. “I was thinking along the lines of a Bloody Mary, something like that.”

Berger made a face. “My dear, I appreciate your concern. But the very idea of alcohol makes my stomach play atonal music.”

Madeleine leaned against the jamb of the door. “I wish I could do something.…”

Berger was silent a moment, gazing at her. Then: “You’re from Virginia, aren’t you? I seem to recall you mentioned that to me once. Don’t you Virginians have old family remedies that are passed down secretly from one generation to the next? Isn’t one supposed to drink extract of frog’s bladder to cure everything from warts to hangovers to general states of malaise? Or is it pureed bat’s wing?”

“My grandmother always recommended calf’s liver boiled in milk,” Madeleine said.

“Dear God.” Berger clutched his stomach. He went back to his chair and played with his nail file. “It’s very folksy, I’m sure. It’s also rather too unsettling.”

Madeleine paused a moment: “I wish there was something I could do.”

“It will pass,” he said. “Given a little time. A little time and a little less overindulgence. I yield every so often to some excessive gene that is part of my biological program.”

Madeleine went back into the gallery, where she looked for a while at Tahiko’s paintings. It’s not the time, she thought. It’s just not the time to bring up the subject of Apology. She wandered to the window and looked out into the street. For a moment she considered the message that had come in late last night—the creep with the weird laugh. Somewhere out there, a creep without a face.… There had been so many voices coming in over the answering machine. Even Harry had been surprised by the number of responses. The voices—they came like whispering winds out of the creased seams of the city, shaking free old lint, floss, balls of dust, spiderwebs. Voices of human failure, inadequacy, guilt, statements of sheer pain and loss. She imagined there would be no end to the voices: They would swell and bloat into one agonized chorus. Then she was thinking of the creep again—what if he was really on the level? What if he was going to kill somebody? What if a murder had already taken place? Then she remembered, before she’d left the loft this morning, the way Harry had sat hunched over the answering machine, a look of concentration on his face, listening to the messages as if he were expecting one in particular, something profound and stunning that would forever change his life.

Apology, she thought.

Mr. Apology.

She turned away from the window and moved back in the direction of the office. She stared at her purse, which was hanging by its strap from the hat rack, and opened it. She put her hand inside and took out a folded handbill, which she smoothed between her fingers. She shrugged—what the hell, she’d have to bring the matter up with Berger some time, and maybe now, even if he were in a weakened, low condition, was as good a moment as any. Go for it, Maddy—what have you got to lose, anyhow? She stepped inside the office and watched him as he filed the nails of his left hand. Then she moved towards the desk and dropped the poster in front of him. He didn’t pick it up at once. Instead, he looked at her in a puzzled way.

“What is it? A subpoena? Something awful from the bank?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing like that.”

“Am I supposed to read it?”

“Please.”

“Very well.” He lifted it in a hand she noticed was trembling. He read in silence for a moment, then put the poster down on his desk again. I’ve chosen the wrong time, she thought. I’ve screwed up.

“Can you explain it to me?” he asked.

“It’s really self-explanatory.”

“You mean I should take it at face value?”

She nodded. She watched as he smiled.

“Where did you find this?”

“It’s the work of a friend of mine.”

“Ah,” he said, as if some hollow penny had dropped inside his head. “A special friend?”

“A special friend,” she admitted.

“And he’s established some form of public forum for the uttering of apologies?”

“That’s right.”

Berger stood up, glanced at the handbill again, turned towards the window of his office. “A very odd notion, Madeleine. But why are you showing this to me?”

She paused. A vague apprehension: Is he going to laugh at me?

“I thought it might be of some interest to you, that’s all. I’ve heard the tapes and they’re revealing, they’re sad, they’re pathetic, they’re fascinating—”

Berger held one hand in the air. “I am beginning to smell some kind of odd scent here, my dear. I am beginning to perceive, in a small oblique way, the reason you’ve shown this curious piece of literature to me.”

“Well, you said you didn’t know what you were going to do after Tahiko’s stuff goes out, didn’t you?”

Berger nodded. He pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead in the manner of a stage swami trying to divine the contents of a wallet in the audience. “Are you suggesting I turn my gallery into an auditorium for these tapes?”

“What have you got to lose?” she asked, wondering if suddenly she’d come on too strong, if she sounded brazen. “The tapes would generate a great deal of publicity; they’d draw people in—”

“I daresay.”

“And you could charge admission,” she said.

Berger sat down again, looking at the handbill. “My dear, I display paintings here. I show works of art. That’s what the gallery is all about. That is the function of the gallery.”

“This is art. Okay, it’s a different kind of art, a different kind of form.”

Berger sighed, closing his eyes. “I will not engage you, Madeleine, in a fruitless discussion concerning what passes as art and what does not. I happen to think that a Campbell’s soup can does not constitute art, no matter how well it’s done. How are you going to convince me that the recorded voices of the misfits of our great society amount to artistic expression?” He opened his eyes, looked at her, smiled. “Do you understand my point of view?”

“I understand it, sure. At the same time, I’m trying to tell you that it’s worth a try. Think of the publicity. Think of that.”

Berger came around the front of his desk and took her hand and clasped it between his own. He suddenly reminded her of an uncle attempting to dispel the youthfully foolish notions of a highstrung niece. Don’t elope with Charlie, dear. Think of your parents, their feelings. Besides, you might fall from the ladder and do yourself an injury.…“Madeleine, you have the makings of an entrepreneur, I’m sure. But I have the distinct impression that your apparent adoration for the person behind this Apology project is clouding your judgment somewhat.”

Madeleine sighed. The wrong time, I just chose the wrong time. She refused to be beaten, though. She said, “Please just listen to the tapes. Maybe you can even talk with Harry and he’ll explain it all to you.”

“Harry? Is Harry the genius behind this wild scheme?”

Madeleine nodded. She hadn’t meant to let his name slip like that.

“I admire his nerve,” Berger said. “As for using the gallery …” He walked around the office for a minute, then said: “Let me think about it. Maybe I’ll listen to a tape. But I really must say I am not remotely optimistic about my gallery being the place for such an undertaking. Is that clear?”

Madeleine smiled. It was a start; it was something, a frail thread.

Berger said, “Love is a great clouder of judgment, my dear. Never forget that.”

The bell rang in the gallery. Madeleine turned and looked towards the front door; a man had stepped inside, a man of about sixty who dressed as if he were in contention for the part of Peter Pan. He walked as if he were gliding on a cushion of air, his feel failing to touch the floor. He wore light makeup on his face, faint rouge on his cheeks, and he dangled his wrists in the fashion of an old queen. She was about to go out and help him when Berger moved past her into the gallery; she watched him approach the man. They talked together about something, words she just couldn’t catch. Maybe they were discussing the rainbows. Maybe not. She folded her arms under her breasts. And then she became conscious of something else, someone else, a face pressed to the window of the gallery. A young man with reddish hair. His features were indistinct beyond the glass. She had an odd feeling, something strangely tenuous—as if she perceived a frail connection, a fragile web of some kind, that linked Berger and the customer and the young man in the street together. The sensation passed. The face disappeared from the window. The old guy shook Berger’s hand then went outside. Berger came back to the office. He didn’t mention the customer. Instead he said, “Do not build up any hopes, Madeleine. I will listen to one tape, that’s all. Nothing more than that.”

“You won’t be disappointed.”

“Every time I’ve-tried to catch the elusive tail of some new artistic trend, I’ve always been disappointed,” he said. He went back behind his desk and he sat down. Madeleine stepped back inside the gallery. I will listen to one tape, that’s all. She smiled and looked out into the street. But there wasn’t any sign of the old guy now, and the kid who’d been looking through the window had disappeared as well. Swallowed up, lost in the rain of 57th Street.

2.

Gooch stood at the kitchen sink peeling potatoes. Hacking them, Nightingale thought, watching the guy’s big clumsy hands work with the small peeler, huge chunks of white falling into the sink along with the peelings. The trouble with Gooch was how you kept waiting for him to change back into Bill Bixby: He must have been six-eight in his bare feet. Nightingale glanced at Moody, who was looking at the comic books on the floor beside Gooch’s bed. This joint’s a disaster deserving of federal aid, Nightingale thought. Wallpaper hung from walls, bare wood floors were stuck with old food droppings, gooey things, and comics and newspapers, open at the racing pages, lay spread everywhere.

“Potatoes au gratin?” Moody asked. The Boy Wonder had moved to the sink and was staring up at Gooch now. “Or Parmesan patties? Pommes frites?”

“Hunnh?” Gooch asked.

“Skip it,” Moody said.

Gooch put the potato peeler down and wiped sweat from his huge brow, which overhung a Neanderthal face. You don’t want to go meeting this character on a dark night, Nightingale thought. You’d think something had escaped from the zoo. Gooch snapped a potato in half and placed it between his thick lips and began to chew on it loudly. Nightingale looked at the big guy for a moment and was overcome with an urge to sit down, but one glance around the room told you to forget any ideas you might have about comfort. Two armchairs with springs arising. A dining room chair with its fretwork seat unraveling. A narrow bed that was out of the question.

“Been having any luck with the ponies, Gooch?” he asked.

“Naw. I got on this real bad streak.”

“Tough,” Nightingale said. He nodded his head. He watched Gooch swallow the potato half. The Adam’s apple moved menacingly: He might have had a grenade stuck in his throat.

“Figure my luck might change.” Gooch leaned against the sink and stared at Moody for a moment. “You guys. I don’t like you guys coming into my private room. I get a reputation with the neighbors, they see me talking with the heat. You know?”

“We won’t be here long, Gooch,” Moody said.

“I don’t talk to you, man. I only talk with Nightingale here.”

“He’s okay, Gooch.”

“Yeah, you can say that, Nightingale. But I don’t know him from jack shit.”

“Trust me,” Nightingale said. “He’s called Moody.”

“That’s me,” Moody said.

Gooch sucked in air and looked at the walls of his room. They were covered with pictures of weight lifters, tom badly from the pages of magazines. Nightingale leaned against the table. He folded his arms. The room was stuffy and overheated and the lack of breathable air was hurting him. Billy Chapman’s prints. Three words go off inside your brain like small bombs. Billy Chapman’s prints. His own goddamn sister.

Nightingale rubbed his eyes and tried to open them real wide. Sometimes Gooch had reliable information; other times he just seemed to make up off-the-wall stuff.

“Gooch, you know a guy called Chapman?”

“Chapman who?” Gooch asked. He took his eyes away from Arnold Schwarzenegger for a moment.

“Other way around, Gooch. Billy Chapman. William.”

“Don’t think so.”

“Try real hard,” Moody said. There was a patronizing tone in his voice—he might have been offering a peanut to a large simian creature.

“Hey, Nightingale, you tell this fucker I don’t want to talk with him?”

“I’ll tell him,” Nightingale said. “Doug, don’t talk with Gooch, okay?”

Moody smiled and stepped away. He put his hands inside the pockets of his coat and roamed the room.

“Billy Chapman, Gooch. You ever run into a guy with that name?”

“What’s his business?”

“Drugs.”

“User? Dealer? What?”

“User. Mainly cocaine, as far as we know.”

“Bad stuff,” Gooch said. “You might just as well shoot poison into your bloodstream.”

“Yeah, it’s terrible stuff, but I was asking about Billy Chapman.”

“I never heard of the guy.”

Gooch shifted weight from one leg to the other. Nightingale was reminded of a staunch tree swaying in a high wind. The big guy turned away and peered into the stained porcelain sink, rummaging through peelings as if he were searching for something lost. “What’s he done anyway?”

“We think he killed his sister.”

“Bad,” Gooch said, turning back to look at Nightingale again.

“It gets worse. After he killed her, Gooch, he screwed her.”

“He what?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Yeah, right,” Gooch said. “You can get kinda spaced out on cocaine, Nightingale. I seen some guys get in pretty bad shape. They don’t live in the real world no more.”

“Yeah. So. You know this Billy Chapman guy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure.” Gooch smiled: You could just about see the light bulb pop over his head. “I know some dealers, I guess. I run into them. Now and then. You know how it is.”

“I know what you mean,” Nightingale said. The informer, he thought. A little whisper in this corner of the precinct, a little whisper in that: You added them all up and it created a clamor of half-truths, rumors, innuendos, cold facts, and outright lies. Some people were cop groupies, that was all—they liked to think they had a line on the inside track. Maybe it made them feel secure. Maybe it made them feel like good little citizens.

“You know any talkative dealers, Gooch?”

“Unnh. They don’t say much. They like secrets.”

“They like paranoia,” Moody said.

Gooch glared at the Boy Wonder for a while. Moody picked up a copy of Archie and flipped the pages, mumbling something about Jughead. Nightingale looked as the big guy flexed his huge hands. The chemistry was bad here, he thought, but then Moody sometimes had this strange ability to rub people the wrong way.

“I never use the stuff myself,” Gooch was saying in his halting way. His voice seemed to echo in a deep place inside his chest.

“Yeah, I understand that. I’m only interested in Billy Chapman, Gooch.”

“You want I should maybe ask a few questions?”

“Sure.” Nightingale clapped his hands together—he had to get out of this room and back into the midday rain. “You know what discreet means?”

Gooch said nothing. He stared at Moody, then munched on the other half of his raw potato. The jaws moved like revolving doors. Nightingale glanced at his partner. The Boy Wonder was already opening the door.

“Keep in touch,” Nightingale said.

Gooch was staring at his weight-lifting pictures as Nightingale shut the door. The hallway of the tenement was dark. He stumbled against something—a baby stroller, a garbage can, he couldn’t be sure what in the absence of light. Outside, he stood on the sidewalk and looked at Moody.

“You got to realize, Doug, I’ve been dealing with Gooch a few years now. Sometimes he comes through. Sometimes zip city. I just wanted to toss a ball in the air.”

Moody stared along the sidewalk. “Social sonofabitch. He took to me like a fish to water.”

“Gooch doesn’t like cops, Doug. Also he doesn’t like the fact of what he is—he tells tales on people. He informs. I never met a snitch yet who didn’t have a guilty conscience somewhere.”

Moody said nothing. He turned towards the car; little threads of rain were glistening on his fuzzy cheeks. Nightingale put his hands in his pockets and looked the length of the dark street. There was a phone booth on the corner. Goddamn, I need to talk with her. I need to hear her voice. I need to know she’s alive.

“Doug, I want to make a call, okay? I won’t be long.”

“Who you calling, Frank? Monsigneur Apology?” Moody smiled.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nightingale said. He walked towards the phone booth, fished coins out of his pocket, counted them. You run into the corpse of a dead woman, something you should be immune to, and all of a sudden you’re thinking of Sarah as if you’ve superimposed her face on the poor dead features of Camilla Darugna. He punched coins into the slot, the number rang a few times, then he heard Sarah answer. Fulton Gift and Card Boutique. Boutique, he thought.

“Sarah? It’s Frank.”

“This is a surprise, Frank,” she said.

“Well …” It was such a thrill to hear the sound of her voice. Retarded adolescence, Frank. A throwback. “I was thinking about you. Missing you …” He felt suddenly awkward, words congealing in his mouth like lard.

“I miss you too,” she said. “I mean, all this crisp fresh air is terrific and everything, but I still miss you.”

He tried to picture her standing inside that little shop of hers, tried to see the yellowy hair flecked with grey, the eyes that were a tantalizing mixture of green and blue. I love the hell out of her, he thought. “When do I get to see you?” he asked.

“Now that’s up to you, Frank.”

“Yeah, I know.” He looked at Moody, who was leaning against the car. “I’ve got this homicide right now.”

“It figures,” Sarah said. The line crackled; a serpent might have been hissing somewhere deep within the electronic circuits. “There hasn’t been a homicide in Fulton since Santa Claus was a kid, Frank.”

There hasn’t been anything in Fulton since then, he thought. “Maybe when I’ve got the thing cleared up, Sarah. Maybe then …”

“Damn it, Frank, I miss you!”

Nightingale shut his eyes. He said, “Soon. As soon as I can. I love you.” And he put the receiver down, stepped out into the street, stuck his hands in his pockets. He walked towards the car. Moody was looking at him.

“I figure long distance,” Moody said.

“Yeah.”

“How is she?”

Nightingale shrugged. There was a slight ache around his heart. What if it was too late? What if he had lost her forever? You don’t want to think about that, lieutenant. You don’t want to entertain any such notion. He stared at the barred windows of a pawnshop that looked like it was under seige. Billy Chapman, he thought. Where are you now? And what are you going to do next?

3.

I’M SIXTEEN AND I’M STILL A VIRGIN AND THE OTHER KIDS THINK I’M SO STRAIGHT YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE IT BECAUSE I DON’T GET LAID AND I DON’T SMOKE DOPE OR ANYTHING.… SO WHY THE HELL DO I WANT TO APOLOGIZE TO THEM FOR WHAT I AM?

Harrison smiled, stopping the machine, then raised his face and looked at the woman who sat in the corner of the bedroom with a notebook open in her lap. Maddy’s friend Jamey Hausermann. She seemed to him an unlikely candidate for friendship with Madeleine somehow—there was something slightly hard-bitten about her, something tight around her mouth, a quality of hardness in the thinness of her lips.

“Is that characteristic of the messages?” she asked. She scribbled something. Harrison thought, Okay, take care you don’t make an idiot of yourself—the idea of print, the black finality of it all, scared him.

“They come in all forms,” he said. And he pressed the PLAY button again, watching the woman’s face as she tilted her chair back and closed her eyes.

THIS MAKES ME PUKE.… I DON’T KNOW WHY THE HELL I DID THIS.… I WENT INSIDE THIS MOVIE THEATER AND THERE WAS THIS OLD GUY KINDA WATCHING ME.… I KNEW WHAT HE WANTED. HE WAS LOOKING FOR A BOY, YOU KNOW? SO I CRAWLED ALONG THE SEATS TOWARDS HIM AND I TOOK OUT HIS COCK AND I SUCKED HIM OFF.… I DIDN’T FEEL VERY MUCH.… THEN LAST NIGHT I WENT TO THIS SPA JOINT AND I DID THE SAME THING FOR THIS GUY IN THE STEAM ROOM.… HE WAS BETTER THAN THE FIRST GUY, BUT I DIDN’T FEEL VERY MUCH EVEN THEN … EXCEPT SICK, BECAUSE I WANTED TO GAG ON THEIR COME, YOU KNOW? THE TROUBLE IS, I DON’T THINK I CAN REALLY STOP NOW.…

Jamey Hausermann opened her eyes and wrote something down. Then she looked across the room at Harrison, as if she were trying to figure something out. “What does that kind of message do to you?” she asked.

Harrison shrugged. “I guess I try to imagine that kid’s life. Maybe I try to get inside the circumstances of his life—why he does what he does, where he comes from, that kind of thing.”

“I got the impression, Harry—you mind me calling you Harry?—that the idea behind this project was a kind of detachment on your part. You know what I mean—the father-confessor who doesn’t express judgments?”

“I don’t make judgments,” Harrison said.

“No, but you get involved, obviously. I mean, you’re interested in the messages, you’re interested in what they have to tell you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“All I’m saying is that you can’t entirely remove your self from the voices. You can’t create distance.” She was smiling: It was the kind of look that suggested insight, the discovery of a revelation.

Harrison turned his hands over, stared at them a moment. Why did he feel so uncomfortable all at once? The woman’s look, the penetration of the eyes—what was it exactly? He tried to imagine her article and what she’d say about him and in his mind’s eye he could read his own name and address in the pages of a magazine. No, she wouldn’t do that. Maddy had said so. He watched her light a cigarette.

“Can I hear more?”

“Sure.” Suddenly he didn’t want to play the tapes for her, didn’t want her to hear them; it was as if the act of sharing them with this stranger was a violation of Apology, of secrecy. You’re being edgy, Harry. Edgy and stupid. He pressed the PLAY button.

MY PROBLEM IS VERY SIMPLE. FOR MANY YEARS NOW. I’VE BEEN SLEEPING WITH MY OWN UNMARRIED SISTER. WE’VE BEEN IN LOVE FOR A VERY LONG TIME.… IT ISN’T AN EASY SITUATION, OBVIOUSLY, BUT AT THE SAME TIME I DON’T WANT TO GET OUT OF IT. FRANKLY, SHE’S A TERRIFIC LAY. NOW SHE’S ASKED ME TO MOVE IN WITH HER, SET UP A LIVING SITUATION TOGETHER. THE BIG PROBLEM IS, MR. APOLOGY, HOW DO WE TELL OUR MOTHER?

Harrison cut the tape. Jamey Hausermann was scribbling something in her notebook. Then she asked, “You get a lot of incest?” she asked.

“Some,” he answered. He looked at her awhile. “What kind of piece are you going to write, Jamey?”

“There’s this terrific catch-all in journalism. We call it human interest. Everything pared down to the bone, all the pain, the blood, the spilling of guts.…” She laughed, wrote something down, puffed on her cigarette. “I also want to include something of your background as well.”

“Something of my background?”

“Don’t look so mortified, Harry. I’m not going to tell my readers your Social Security number or the color of your hair or anything like that. Only a few scant details.” She wrote in her notebook again and he wondered what she was recording there. Apology, a man of about thirty-five, has the pale skin of someone who never ventures forth into the sunlight because he has created his own little world, seemingly self-sufficient, in his loft.

“Can you play me another one?” she asked.

“Sure.” He pressed PLAY again.

I WENT WITH MY BOYFRIEND TO THIS LIQUOR STORE.… THE IDEA WAS TO TAKE SOME CASH OUTTA THE REGISTER, YOU KNOW, A FEW BUCKS, NO BIG DEAL … BUT THE GUY BEHIND THE COUNTER HAD A PIECE. YOU KNOW, AND HE TOOK IT OUTTA THIS DRAWER AND COCKED THE HAMMER, MAN … IT KINDA GETS CONFUSED AFTER THAT BECAUSE MY BOYFRIEND, NICK, HAD HIS OWN GUN, SOMETHING I NEVER KNEW ABOUT, AND HE JUST BLEW THIS POOR GUY AWAY … JUST BLEW HIM AWAY, MAN, AND I KINDA SCREAMED. THE GUY WAS LYING THERE IN HIS OWN BLOOD AND HIS BRAINS WERE SCATTERED ALL OVER THE JOINT AND WHAT I REMEMBER MOST IS ALL THIS GREY STUFF STICKING TO BOTTLES ON THE SHELF.

The message ended.

Jamey Hausermann jotted something down in her notebook. She lit another cigarette. Harrison watched her; she wore pale lipstick and her short hair seemed to have been cut by a butcherous barber. Maybe that was the look these days; he didn’t know. He couldn’t help thinking suddenly about Madeleine, the quietness of her features, the clinging softness of her hair, the gentle quality in her eyes. He was conscious now of a vague perfume inside the bedroom, the kind of scent that lingers long after the wearer has gone.

“An accomplice to murder,” she said. “Don’t you feel like going to the cops with that tape, Harry?”

He shook his head. Shultz had asked almost the same question; it was as if they were trying to pin a badge of responsibility on his chest, make a mark on his forehead, something like that. How many times would he have to tell people that Apology was bound by a certain commitment, tied to an unbreakable bargain, a pact, with all the people who used the line? Without that pact, Apology was worthless. Apology was not meant to judge; he was not meant to interfere. He is—I am—just meant to be there. To listen. To record. There is no responsibility. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired.

Jamey looked around the bedroom. Then she got up and wandered into the loft and Harrison followed. Trespasser, he thought. Maybe he should never have agreed to this interview. Too late for that now. He watched the journalist move in the direction of Albert. She frowned at the figure.

“What’s this called?” she asked.

“‘A Victim,’” Harrison said.

“Of what?”

“Criminal assault.”

“What’s this thing you’ve got for the criminal mind, Harry? Can you tell me anything about that? I mean, have you ever done anything criminal yourself?” She was standing at the window, looking at him.

“I used to shoplift when I was about ten, eleven.”

“Doesn’t every kid?”

“I guess so.” Harrison paused, watching the woman move towards his stack of old canvases.

“What did you get out of it?”

“I guess I did it for kicks,” he said. “Cheap thrills.”

“But you never did anything more serious?”

“I never had the courage,” he answered. She was sifting through his canvases now; he wished she wouldn’t touch them like that. They were old and meaningless to him and they looked like the work of an enthusiastic amateur.

“Why don’t you paint anymore?”

“I don’t have the urge for it, the enthusiasm.” He paused. “It’s kinda like coming to the limits of something and you don’t feel you can go any further, you know? The medium just stopped interesting me, that’s all. I felt the need for other directions.”

She turned and looked at him; there was an odd playful smile on her face. “Hence Apology,” she said.

“Hence Apology.”

There was a silence in the large room now. Harrison shifted his feet uncomfortably on the floor. He wished Maddy were here to act as a mediator, to stand between him and this inquisitive journalist. You’re so nervous, Harry. Why? Think of the publicity, think of the way it might influence the jury of the grants committee, think of the momentary fame it might bring you. Fame? Since when did he ever want fame?

“Where were you born and raised?” she asked.

“Brooklyn.”

“You went to college?”

“State University of New York at New Paltz.”

Jamey Hausermann looked at Albert once again. “You don’t like talking about yourself too much, do you, Harry? You’re shy, I guess. Or maybe my way of asking questions just puts you off.” She shut her notebook. “It’s my manner, I guess. Sometimes I just come off as being abrasive. Or too upfront. I’m sorry. I ought to learn more tact somehow. The problem is, I’m up against the old electric fence of a deadline. I’ve got to get this article finished today and it has to be put to bed by seven tonight. Maybe that explains something.”

“I understand,” Harrison said.

“I guess you don’t make much money from your work.”

“I hardly make any.”

“Maddy has every faith in you. Maybe she’s right. She always did have nice instincts. So how do you pay for this loft?”

“I teach high school part-time,” he said. “Art history.”

“You like it?”

“Some days are better than others.”

“How do you get along with the kids?”

“Pretty well,” he said. “I show them slides of Holbein and explain to them how they should look for detail and texture. That kind of thing. Their attention span’s not exactly marathon.” He was suddenly sick of answering questions. Why didn’t the Apology project simply speak for itself? He realized he was resenting this invasion of Apology’s privacy. Of his privacy. He shook his head, disturbed at the realization. He could trust this woman. She was a friend. And what was the big deal, anyway? Why was he so worried about privacy, all of a sudden? It was Apology. Mr. Apology. Maybe he was becoming a little too obsessed with the whole thing. It was just a project, right? A temporary canvas. Instead of paint or clay, he was using human beings, but it was only another project. Wasn’t it, Harry?

He sat down crosslegged on the floor, looking up towards the woman. That scent—it filled the loft now, as if it had been caught and shuttled around by an invisible breeze. “But I like some of the kids even though I know they’re dreaming about how to score dope or get laid while they’re supposed to be looking at something like The Madonna of Burgomeister Meyer or whatever.”

Jamey smiled. She moved around the loft as if she were a prospective tenant intent on checking the plumbing, the wiring, leaks in the ceiling. He found himself following after her in the manner of someone who suspects a theft is about to take place. She paused in the kitchen doorway and turned to face him.

“Can I ask you something that’s got absolutely nothing to do with this interview?”

He nodded. What was coming next?

“You and Maddy. Do you love her?”

The question astonished him. He didn’t answer.

“I ask for the best possible reasons, Harry. She’s a good kid, she’s my oldest friend, and she’s high on you. I like to see myself as her older sister, you know? I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to her.”

“Bad?”

“You know. Hurt. I’d hate to see her hurt.”

“Hey, I don’t have any intention of hurting her.” A complete change of direction, a sudden detour, a turn he didn’t really like.

Jamey was smiling now. She shut her notebook. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-five,” he said.

“Okay.” She peered inside the kitchen a moment. Then she said, “Well, I guess I’ve got enough material for my purposes. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“No problem,” he said.

Jamey Hausermann moved towards the door. “I hope you’ll like the piece when you read it.”

I hope so too, he thought. He moved behind her to the door, then reached out and opened it for her.

“Thanks again, Harry. And remember—take good care of Maddy. Or else you’ll have me to answer to.” And she smiled in such a way that he couldn’t tell whether this faint threat was meant to be funny.

He shut the door. He could hear her go down the stairs. Fading footsteps. He went to the window, looked down into the street. The room was still filled with the woman’s pungent perfume. He turned to look at poor Albert.

“Did I make an ass of myself, Al?” he asked.

Then he went inside the bedroom and looked at the answering machine. Why hadn’t he called back again? Why hadn’t the guy from Shelbyville called back since last night? Was he out there now somewhere, stalking his victim? You’ll be reading about me real soon.… I might use my knife. I might just use my bare fucking hands.… Did he already have a victim selected—or was it going to be something whimsical, random?

Harrison put his fingertips on the surface of the machine. He could feel a vague vibration run through him, a tremor transmitted to him from the interior of the machine, as if it were alive under his touch. Alive with messages past, messages that were still to come, still to be absorbed in the intestines of the device, swallowed up and recorded and filed away.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, tapping his fingers against his knees, still looking at the machine.

It was strange how quickly he’d become accustomed to having the thing there in the bedroom; it might have been an old piece of furniture one has become comfortable with, an old acquaintance. He reached out, touched it softly, then dropped his hand in his lap.

You’ll call again, Shelbyville.

I know you’ll call again.

When you’re ready.

But when will that be?

Impatient, Harrison got up and strolled back into the loft, pacing, glancing at his old canvases, the half-formed sculptures unceremoniously piled in a corner, the wires and cogs and wheels that protruded from the guts of old machines he’d once thought of building as a series of devices intended to produce spectator involvement, variations on carnival games where mild electric shocks were delivered instead of cuddly prizes. They’re all dead, he thought. Every one of them is dead. And none of them had ever had the strange quivering sense of life that Apology had.

He went back inside the bedroom. He looked at the machine.

And what he realized was that he was waiting for calls, waiting for one call in particular. Waiting to hear if a killing had taken place.

Call, he thought.

Why don’t you call, whoever you are.

4.

Henry Falcon stood in front of the full-length mirror and gazed at his own reflection for a short time before closing his eyes. The light, he would have to do something to soften the glare of the overhead light, mellow it in such a way that his image would not appear quite so harsh. He reached out and clutched the bars and strained to heave his right leg up behind him. He reminded himself of an old galleon at times: timbers creaking, boards screeching, nails popping loose from planks, bilges filling with rather scummy water. But this person in the mirror wasn’t the real Henry Falcon at all—it was some bizarre travesty of the man who had once been an excellent dancer, the young man with the smoothly muscled body and the tight but tocks, the one whose leaps and twists had assumed a quality akin to the magical, a defiance of Grandfather Gravity himself. He lowered his leg and stepped back from the bars. I danced in front of royalty, he thought. When I spun through the air nobody coughed in the darkened auditorium, nobody rustled a program, scraped their feet; when I rushed through the air, almost as if I might never land again, there was only a hushed and reverential silence. They knew, oh God, how they knew, that they were in the presence of genius.…

He was quite unaware of Mrs. Delahanty watching him. When he turned his face he saw her dragging her old vacuum cleaner out of the bedroom, her hands twisted around with electric cord. She stared at him, her mouth set, lips thin, her dough-colored face disapproving. Suddenly he felt ludicrous about the way he looked. The pale green tights bulged in those places where there had been only flatness before. The pectoral muscles sagged and hung. And the face, even with the help of makeup, was cracked and lined and the neck drooped in scrawny rings of flesh. He had jowls. My God, who ever heard of a dancer with jowls?

“A man your age shouldn’t be prancing around like that,” Mrs. Delahanty said.

Cleaning woman, he thought. Go away. Leave me alone. He watched as she hauled the vacuum over the floor.

“And as for the makeup, well.” She put her hands on her hips. “If the good Lord had wanted men to wear makeup, Mr. Falcon, he’d have made them women.”

How could one argue with this Irish logic?

“America’s gone to pot,” she said. “I never did see so many bloody weird sights in all my born days, to tell you the God’s truth.” She stepped past him, moved across the room, gazed at the various posters on the wall. “And as for these old things, Mr. Falcon, I’d be for making me one big bonfire and setting them ablaze. Where’s the point in living in the past? Where’s the sense in that?”

“Far from putting them into the funeral pyre you suggest, my dear Mrs. D., only this morning I was out making inquiries concerning new frames for my treasures. I have utterly no intention of lighting a match,” he said. The very thought of it! He walked as nimbly as he might in the ballet shoes that were too tight for his feet and he stopped by his old phonograph. Romeo and Juliet—ah, the flash of antique memories, of dancing Prokofiev’s ballet in the Drottningholm Court Theater in Stockholm. In the Royal Opera House in Monte Carlo. A rush of old moments, old smells, sounds—the way they beat their hands together out there in the void beyond the footlights, the ringing of flesh upon flesh.…

“New frames, indeed,” Mrs. Delahanty said. “Those old posters deserve to be sent to the Salvation Army, Mr. Falcon.”

“The Salvation Army! Don’t you realize, my good woman, that some of those playbills are rare? Don’t you understand they’re precious?”

“Aye, precious,” she mumbled. “Old junk if you’re asking me.”

Henry Falcon looked at his beloved playbills. Alicia Markova and Igor Youskevitch in Rouge et Noir. Pillar of Fire with Nora Kaye and Antony Tudor. Ancient sorcerers, old magicians, Merlins of the ballet. How dare this wretched peasant woman bitch about his treasures? The music of Romeo and Juliet filled the room.

“Ach, you look like a proper fool in those tights,” Mrs. Delahanty said.

Henry Falcon ignored the cleaning woman. He listened to her drag her vacuum cleaner to the apartment door. Then, sighing, she was gone. Clump clump clump—he could hear her clumsy noise as she hauled the vacuum down a flight of stairs. He went towards the mirror, took a deep breath, and tried to execute a cabriole—and missed. He stumbled a little and reached out against the bars for support. The failure of muscle, poise, balance, the deterioration of the physical system—it was something more than those factors; it was also the decline of the will. The decline of desire. Gasping for air, he slumped over the bars and his lungs pumped like two dying jellyfish. He pushed himself upright, considered the impossibility of the grand jêté, and walked slowly to the window. Princes and princesses, he thought. Kings and queens. They had all applauded him in his time.

He stared out the window.

A dream of young men, a dream of boys…

He blinked and looked along the sidewalk. The nice man in the Berger Gallery had explained that no, they weren’t in the framing business themselves, but he could recommend somebody whose work was of the highest order. Heavens, the old playbills deserved new frames. They cried out for them.

The sidewalk was empty, but only for a moment. Then a young man appeared, moving very slowly along. Henry Falcon was a little disappointed, because for several weeks now he had been watching someone very pretty who passed beneath his window. Sometimes this particular boy would smile and look up and wave at him and this brief moment of attention would brighten the whole day for him. But the young man who was coming into view now wasn’t the same one at all. Henry Falcon sighed. He sighed, he watched, he waited. Then he was thinking of Carlos, Carlos who had been the great love of his life. He remembered tracking Carlos across a whole continent, from Buenos Aires to Montevideo, Sao Paolo to Belo Horizonte, tracking the elusive love of Carlos, obsessed by a face and the color of eyes and the way certain locks of hair curled in the nape of his neck. He remembered the dark treachery of Carlos and how he had once found his lover in bed with another man in the Hotel Riberalta in La Paz, the sinking of his heart, the sickness in his mind, the sheer horrible betrayal.… Remembering Carlos now made him want to weep. Henry, Henry, you can not carry such luggage across the space of thirty years.

The young man had stopped on the sidewalk and was looking up at the window. Henry Falcon gazed back down. He’s pretty, he thought. He isn’t the usual one who passes by, but he’s pretty anyhow. But all young men remind you of Carlos now, Henry. Every young man sets that memory dancing.

Henry Falcon stared.

This boy. What is he doing?

He is smiling at me.

Romeo and Juliet. The music rose through the room, rolled along the high ceiling, filled all the spaces. The boy is smiling at me. He is raising a hand and waving.

He trembled slightly.

It isn’t possible. It isn’t conceivable.

He is moving towards the entrance of the building.

Moving towards the front door.

Henry Falcon moved away from the window and crossed the room, his heart leaping, his skin suddenly cold and covered with goosebumps, his throat painfully dry. In front of the mirror he paused and shifted his head very slowly, as if he were altogether afraid of his own image in the glass. The pale green tights, the protruding stomach, the pale makeup, the thin hair dyed an unnatural black.

You do not look your best, he thought.

You do not look good enough to receive a visitor.

At the door of the room he switched off the overhead light, seeking the kind of gloom in which his appearance might at least be slightly flattered.

A dream of young men …

He can’t possibly be coming in here to see me. He knows somebody else in the building, someone in another apartment. Why would he want to see poor old me?

Henry Falcon pressed his ear to the door. From below he could hear a sound of footsteps clicking on the tiled entranceway. Then they were moving on the stairs. Clack clack clack. He knows somebody else, he must, he has to.

He stood against the door, gazing at the playbills around the room, words he could barely read in the dim afternoon light. Henry Falcon shut his eyes and listened. (Carlos, Carlos in bed in a room of the Hotel Riberalta with his wretched lover.)

Louder. Louder still.

And then they stopped and there was silence and Henry Falcon held his breath, waiting.

5.

“It’s standard policy. You’ve always known that, man. No fronts. Cash on the nail, savvy?” Sylvester peered at the PacMan screen in front of him. He twisted a handle but the monsters got his man anyway and there was a brief noise of electronic disappointment. “You made me lose my concentration, Billy.”

Billy Chapman blinked. The arcade was too loud, the lights too bright. How could anybody in their right mind stand the constant bleeping bleeping bleeping? He stuck his hands in his pockets. He had about thirty bucks to his name. What would thirty bucks get him out of Sylvester? One or two lines? A couple of spoons? He rubbed his eyes. You go and you keep going, Billy, and you don’t know when to call it quits even as you know the stuff is running out and the big depression, the big sleepless depression, comes bopping in as you push that last thin mixture inside your veins, then you’re squeezing dregs out of SnoSeals and sucking the edges of razor blades. And then, sucker, you’re fucked. He looked around the arcade: Why did he get this weird feeling somebody was following him around? It had been going on for hours. He’d stayed in his room and imagined somebody pacing the hall outside his door or someone peering in through his window even though his room was on the fifth floor, for Christ’s sake. It comes with the territory, Billy; it comes with the blow. White paranoia. Nobody’s looking at you. Nobody’s following you. You dream it up. Your hand shakes like crazy. The arcade—guys hunched over machines, hammering away at contraptions like their lives depended on winning. Stupid games, Donkey Kong and Space Invaders and Asteroids. What did it all mean? He stared at Sylvester. This guy’s holding. He’s got the shit I need in his pocket right now, and he won’t front me.…

“Until tomorrow, that’s all,” Billy Chapman said. “C’mon, man.”

“You guys with a bad, bad habit really crack me up. You keep on until you ain’t got shit left, and then, when you should be sleeping the goddamn thing off, you’re out looking to score more. Go home, Billy. Get some sleep. Do yourself a favor, man. And quit bugging me, okay?” Sylvester stuck another quarter into the PacMan.

“Hey, tomorrow, I swear—”

“Billy, look. I go for all that cash-on-the-barrelhead bullshit. Pay your way or you don’t play. Dig it? You had your fun and now it’s over, understand? If you can happen to pick up some bread along the way then that’s a whole new ballgame. Otherwise—” Sylvester shrugged.

“I don’t feel like sleeping.”

“Do what your body tells you, Billy. You’ve probably been up all night doing lines and drinking and staring at your TV. Maybe you got up every now and then because you needed to pace. Maybe you started to get the heebie-jeebies, huh? So now it’s time to sleep. Time to get some food inside the gut, Billy. Listen to Sylvester. I seen everything twice too often.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

Sylvester laughed. “Hot flash. Billy Chapman ain’t hungry. So what else is new?”

“I need to score. Look. I got thirty bucks.”

“I’d like to help you, Billy. I swear. But thirty bucks ain’t exactly going to do much good.”

Billy Chapman closed his eyes a moment. He leaned against the PacMan machine. He sniffed a couple of times and tried to remember where all the time had gone between seeing Sylvester when he had scored the two grams and coming to this arcade in search for more of the same. Fireworks, the buzz of instant energy, veins flowing with speeded-up blood, popping the tops of beer cans and getting up from the sofa every few minutes to check the window and the door, and then a vague memory of going out and just strolling through Times Square, where the neons were fizzing and the doorways heavy with ripe young girls and madmen going from place to place in some frenzied hunt. Then what? Then what? Somewhere he’d gone into a phone booth.

A phone booth, why?

A dime in the slot.

The Apology voice.

Naw, he’d dreamed that one up. Somewhere in the fast lane of the night he’d gone and imagined that one.

Back to his room. Back to the weird, wired feeling that somebody was lingering outside his door. But then he’d understood it was just the drug, so he’d laughed it off. And then he’d stopped laughing when he realized he’d gone through one of the two grams and the other would have to be used sparingly.

“I don’t hear you, Billy. What’d you say?”

“I didn’t say anything, man.”

“You were mumbling.”

“Yeah?” I wasn’t talking. Who’s off the deep end here, me or Sylvester? “So what about this thirty bucks?”

“What about it, Billy? As it so happens, you catch me at a bad time. I’m out. I’m expecting something good real soon. But right now, nada.” Sylvester shrugged. He tugged at the beret he wore. He looked like some goddamn poster for a South American revolution or something, Billy thought.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fuck off, then. Go home. I don’t need your crap.”

“Level with me, Sylvester.”

“The truth? One, I ain’t got nothing for you. And two, I’m not sure I’ll ever have anything for you again, Billy. You’re at the edge, and that ain’t a pleasant place for you, man.” Sylvester turned and moved more quickly than Billy could follow. He was gone, gone out into the street, and when Billy hit the sidewalk the guy had lost himself in the throng of people that just shuffled along under the colored neons. Bastard. Lying bastard.

Billy Chapman walked to the edge of the sidewalk. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Rain slithered over his eyes, his lips, ran from his thin beard. Another connect, another score, but where? You could hit up some guy on a street corner and he’d sell you thirty bucks’ worth of Mannitol or some kind of powdered caffeine; at least with Sylvester you knew there was some of the real thing in what you bought. He took one hand from his jeans and rubbed the side of his scalp. His head felt numb, detached from the rest of his body. You didn’t make any phone call, Billy. You didn’t do that. Some dream. Something you imagined during the high. Some phantom crawling out of the fusion of cocaine and beer.

He crossed the street, turning his face this way and that, still looking for a sight of Sylvester. The motherfucker. He sat down in the doorway of a metal-grilled store, a place that sold gags—masks, stink bombs, whoopee cushions, trick decks of cards. The pits. This is the pits. Spaced-out and just sitting here like this.

He made to stand up, but he had to use the iron grill attached to the store window to get to his feet. Faint. A flash of blood to the head. Okay, go back to your room. Go home. Maybe you can find an egg in the fridge, just maybe you can sleep.

He shuffled along the sidewalk. And then it occurred to him that there were great gaps in his memory, that he couldn’t recollect how he’d spent the morning, what he’d done with the afternoon, where everything had gone. Last night and all the other hours of darkness—he could make some sense out of that time. But the rest, so what, you don’t care. You don’t give a shit, do you? Time goes, so what? Does it make a goddamn bit of difference if you don’t remember?

“Hey. You. Going someplace?”

Billy Chapman turned around. She was standing in a doorway, wearing black boots that rose above her knees and a pink miniskirt. She was the color of dyes that had run in a laundromat.

“Yeah. Home,” he said.

“You get lonely there?”

“I’m never lonely,” Billy Chapman said and passed the girl by.

6.

Bryant Berger had never liked the bar of the Warwick Hotel immediately after work: It was always too crowded with business types, a sea of charcoal grey and dark blue suits, the air filled with the rolling echo of humdrum business talk. He especially did not like the place at that particular moment, sitting at a table in the center of the floor with George, who seemed to take a great pleasure in flaunting himself openly—constantly reaching out with one hand to stroke the nape of Berger’s neck, dropping his fingers over Berger’s knuckles, pressing knees together in the most obvious fashion. People were looking. Men were looking. God knows, Berger thought, there might be an acquaintance of mine looking at me right now. Or a friend of Angela’s. He shifted his chair away from George a little. And he tried not to look at his young friend quite so directly, as if the failure of direct eye contact might convey, to whosoever was watching, that he was not in the company of George, that George was nothing more than a stranger, a passing irritant. Please, please, George, don’t do this to me.

“So what did your wife say to you, Bryant? Did she chide you?”

“There was a disagreement,” Berger said and reached for his martini.

“Tell me more.” George had some kind of ritzy effeminate drink in front of him, Polynesian, leaves of mint sticking out.

“There’s not much to say,” Berger answered. This is the last time, Bryant, the very last time I intend to tolerate your absences. One more incident like this and you will find yourself with neither home nor business. Do I make myself plain? Do I?

He could still hear an echo of her voice, which had reminded him of the wild screech of a parrot thrown into alarm. With neither home nor business. So loud and clipped and hurt. And she’d do it too—he knew she would—she’d go right ahead and withdraw her support from the gallery and throw him out of the house. He shuddered at the thought of it all.

“Did she lay a heavy trip on you, dear?” And George raised his hand to reach for the back of Berger’s neck.

“Don’t. Not in here. I don’t like it, George. Can’t you see it makes me embarrassed? Isn’t that obvious?”

“Are you ashamed of me, Bryant?”

Berger looked down into his drink a moment, then raised his face to George. He shook his head slowly back and forth. “I’m not ashamed of you, not at all. I’m ashamed of myself.”

“Then you ought to do something about that.”

George sounded so harsh, such an edge to his voice all at once, that Berger had the urge to put his arms around him and soothe him in some way. At the same time he was tugged in quite the opposite direction, towards the doorway, the street, the train station. This way, that way—it was a direct consequence of living a vast lie: Truth would simplify, truth would make it all easier, less fugitive, if only he had the kind of courage to make a decision. Decisions, decisions—he hated the word. He stared at George. Was this boy worth it? Ginger hair, bright yellow windbreaker, an earring dangling from his left ear, a plaid scarf thrown carelessly over one shoulder—why the hell did he have to be this flamboyant? Why couldn’t he manage to look straight, at least? He enjoys it, Berger thought, the tease, the embarrassment, the fact of my infatuation with him. It’s like some big game to him, an amusement.

“You should tell her, Bryant.”

“Please don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.”

“Suit yourself.” George huffily picked up his drink and made a loud slurping noise. Berger squirmed. Now the men at the next table were definitely looking, and they seemed to be smirking. He wanted to stare back at them in defiance; instead, he took refuge in the martini.

“I’d like to get out of here, George. Someplace quieter.”

“Why? I like it here. I like this place.”

The stubbornness of a small child, Berger thought.

“I like sitting in this world of men,” George said. “It’s so goddamn boring it’s almost funny. Look at them. Look at their uniforms, Bryant.”

“Do keep your voice down.”

“I can speak as loudly as I like.”

“But not in my company.”

“Let’s make a scene. Let’s have one loud raucous scene.”

“Please.” Berger wanted to rise and go but it seemed to him he was paralyzed from the waist down. And besides, if he strutted out of here, if George did make an obvious scene, then he was plainly implicating himself. Look, Sam, two queers having a battle. What’s the world coming to, guys like that fighting in public?

“You know what I think, Bryant? I think Angela has you by the balls. I think she’s got you so you don’t know if you’re coming or going. Stress, think of the stress. My God, you’ll be dead in a couple of months at this rate. Think of that. Your funeral. I’ll come and I’ll weep openly. People will say things about you even after you’re buried. They’ll talk. ‘Christ, I never knew old Bryant was gay as they come, did you?’ Think about that, dear.”

Berger looked at his friend. It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps George was on something, some kind of speedy drug, something that had warped his awareness and made him talkative and loud and indiscriminate. He did look a little high, and there was color in his cheeks, a color normally missing.

“I think we should go, George. Find a better place for a drink.”

“I’m really quite comfortable here.”

“But I’m not.”

“Well, out of deference to your age, Bryant.”

Berger smiled. He stood up. “My age and the wisdom that comes with it, right?”

“Something like that.”

A burden-lifted. A weight removed from his shoulders. He looked across the bar towards the door, conscious of George rising also. Don’t let him lean over and kiss me, please, Berger thought. Don’t let him do something crass like link arms. For God’s sake. George swayed slightly. Maybe he was on something after all, a drug that didn’t mix too well with alcohol. Berger moved ahead of him to the doorway. He felt flushed: The way people stared at George made him want to walk a good six paces in front of the boy, blurring the connection between them. A cab, he thought. A cab back to George’s place was the safest thing.

“Don’t I get to walk with you?” George was saying.

“Only if you can keep up.” Berger went to the edge of the sidewalk and stared into the traffic ploughing down through the dark. He heard George come up alongside him.

“Where are we headed?”

“I thought I might take you safely back to your place.”

“And then you run for your train? Is that it?”

“I have to. I have to get home on time tonight.”

No cabs. No welcoming signs drifting down towards him. Bryant glanced at his watch. If he managed to get a cab in the next five minutes, he could still drop George off and make his train as well. He felt George tug at his arm.

“If you’re just going to drop me off, Bryant, then I want to make a phone call before we get a cab.”

“Do you have to?”

“I want to.” George went towards a phone booth. Berger watched him, wondering who the boy needed to call quite so suddenly. A twinge of jealousy went through him—he’s making another date for himself, that’s what he’s doing, he’d rather make some other date than stay home alone, he’d rather go out and have some casual sex somewhere. Berger looked back into the oncoming traffic. Try to ignore the feeling, shove it aside, don’t think about it. But he couldn’t help imagining George with somebody else, lying in someone’s bed, the sight of George’s naked body alongside that of some faceless lover. He couldn’t stand the thought. Your train, Bryant. Remember your train. Remember Angela’s ultimatum. He could feel a light film of sweat under his shirt collar. The goddamn train, the house in Bedford Hills, go home and be the dutiful little husband, the good boy who does whatever he’s told to do, the scared kid who can’t stand the idea of his toy—the gallery—being taken away from him. Go home, Bryant. Leave George alone. He turned to look at the phone booth, George talking into the receiver. Animated, one hand going up and down in the air. I can’t. I can’t leave him for somebody else. I can’t step away from him. The jealousy is a pain.

He moved towards the phone. George was silent, listening to whoever was on the other end of the line. A train sits at a platform. A woman waits in a large house in Bedford Hills. A young man stands in a phone booth. These things converged, as if they were different fuses leading to the same stick of dynamite. Berger looked at George.

“I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m telling you.”

Silence. Berger wondered who it was that George had to be so insistent with. He stared back at the traffic; a vacant cab went whizzing past. I’ll spend the night with George, he thought. No, it was madness, it was the end of things, the noise of a heavy curtain falling over the stupid drama of his life. Walk away, just walk away now.

“I’m only telling you the facts,” George was saying.

It didn’t sound like he was speaking to some sexual prospect. There wasn’t that kind of tone in George’s voice.

“Believe what you like, then. I don’t care.”

Berger shivered. No, George couldn’t be, George wouldn’t, George had promised—

“I really don’t care what you think,” he heard George say.

A falling apart. A noise of far-off thunder. Sweat running from the armpits and over the surface of the torso.

George is capable of anything. Anything at all. Even something as malicious as this. Something as evil.

Berger shut his eyes and the thunder rolled and rolled inside his head.

“And you,” George was saying. “It’s been a lot of fun talking with you, Angela.”

7.

On Sixth Avenue Madeleine turned south. She paused at a DON’T WALK signal and rain slithered over the lids of her eyes. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, then crossed the street when the light changed. Somebody touched her on the elbow and she turned around. A sodden black beret, a plumply pleasant face, a wisp of a beard.

“Is this sheer coincidence, Rube?” she asked.

Reuben Levy inclined his face and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “What do you mean? You think I’ve been following you, Maddy?”

“You never can tell,” she said.

“Okay. Here’s the gospel truth. I was in the vicinity and I was going to drop into the gallery, then lo and behold I saw you leave the Berger emporium. Closing time. So where are you hurrying to, or do I need to ask that question?”

She smiled at him. “I was going to see Harry,” she said.

“Can I interest you in a quick drink?”

“I don’t really have time.”

“Five minutes?”

“Well, five minutes.”

“Excellent. I know a place. Used to be a speakeasy in the days when America was still romantic.” He put his hand on her elbow and steered her along the sidewalk for three blocks. “Here it is.” They went inside a long narrow bar; a sequence of pale lamps was lit along the counter. “I like it here. It’s never crowded. Let’s sit over there.” He drew her towards a table. “What will you have to drink?”

“Scotch and water.”

Levy went to the bar, then returned a moment later with two scotches. He sat down beside her at the small circular table. They clinked glasses and he said, “We should drink to Mr. Apology. Cheers.”

She sipped the scotch: it was hot against the back of her throat. She put her glass down and looked at Rube Levy for a moment. He was taking his pipe from the pocket of his overcoat and kneading the bowl, as if in some form of private ritual, with the tips of his fingers. He reminded her of a night watchman warming his hands around a brazier. A small, funny night watchman. He had the pipe between his lips now and was attacking the tobacco with a sequence of matches.

“So, what did Harry hear from the notorious committee?”

“I gather they’ve put him on hold,” Madeleine said.

“Typical. You know about committees. When they sit down to design a horse they come up with a camel,” Levy said. He was silent for a moment. She realized he was going to say something, something that was transparently on his mind. She sipped her drink and waited. She watched him stroke the thin weblike beard that clung to his chin with the frailty of smoke. “Apology,” he added.

“What about it?” Did she detect something disapproving in the way he said the word? She wasn’t altogether certain. She watched him cup his hands around his glass and remembered when they’d first met—a time when he’d come to Harry’s loft and Harry had introduced Levy as his oldest friend. They went back a long way together, a whole history interwoven, episodes shared, things she herself could never be a part of; yet she hadn’t felt left out in the cold, because Levy had been kind to her, welcoming, as if he were delighted she had entered Harry’s life.

“Tell me, Maddy. Tell me what you really think about Harry’s project.”

She hesitated a moment. Was he fishing for something? She tried to make out the expression in his eyes; he looked serious, intense. “I think it has great possibilities.”

“Like how?”

“I’m sure Harry’s explained all that to you far better than I ever could, Rube.” She swirled her drink around in the glass; little amber slicks clung to the inside like drops of some weird rain on a window.

Levy nodded. “I love our boy dearly, Maddy. You know that.”

She could hear a but coming. She raised her face and looked at him. “And?”

“And I don’t know about this whole Apology deal at all. I don’t know if it makes any goddamn sense.” Madeleine started to say something but Levy went on: “I don’t know if he really understands what he’s getting into.”

“I think he does.”

“Let me finish, sweetheart. Sometimes when I think about all those weird calls he gets I experience what I can only describe as tiny shivers up my backbone. I know, I know, I’m a rotten little coward who just happens to be rich as shit, but I still wouldn’t do what our mutual friend is doing, that’s all. In his shoes, I’d put the whole notion out to pasture, write it off as a mistake, an honest mistake of the concerned, creative heart.”

Madeleine smelled the smoke from Levy’s pipe, something like sweet vanilla. “Harry knows what he’s doing, Rube.”

Levy sighed. His pipe went dead. He raised his glass and drained it. “We live in a city of odd types. We live in this great screaming metropolis that occasionally reminds me of bedlam. Today, for one example, I happened to pass this guy who was dressed in legwarmers, a plaid skirt, and a bra—and this poor, silly fucker was going down Broadway screaming nigger acid, nigger acid. What does that mean, Maddy? Nigger acid! A breakdown of the mind. Some bad trip he never quite returned from. The corruption of language. See, we’re not just discussing the crime rate on subways and muggings on dark streets, sweetheart. We’re talking about one mother of a conceptual breakdown, a disintegration, more than broken pavement on thoroughfares and subways that always run late and too many cockroaches in too many slums. We’re talking about the plunge, the downward plunge, of civilization. And our good friend Harry, your lover, has elected to plug himself into this madness.” Levy stopped; he was breathless. “Go home. Do him a favor. Yank the answering machine out of the wall. Love him, make him marry you, have babies.”

Madeleine smiled. “He’s a big boy.”

“He’s a naive big boy.”

“What would you have him do, Rube? Fix him up with a job in that paper factory of yours where he would sit at a desk and design cardboard kazoos? You know Harry. You know how miserable he’d be.”

Levy shrugged. “I could make him executive in charge of napkins.”

Madeleine shook her head. “He cares about this project. I watch him get into it. I love to see him when he gets involved in something.”

“And it doesn’t matter what it is he’s involved in?”

Madeleine was quiet for a moment. She finished her drink, suddenly conscious of Levy’s knee pressing against her own beneath the table. She edged her chair backwards and the pressure was gone. Is he doing that deliberately? she wondered. Jesus Christ, what am I thinking here? What’s gotten into me? It was nothing, an accident of geography, nothing at all. Levy wouldn’t play kneesies or footsies with her. She set her empty glass down.

Levy said, “Look, my little southern pal. I care about both of you. I really do. I wish you both all the luck in the world. I wish you many years of singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ together. And if I have concerns, I express them as a friend, nothing more.”

“I know,” she said softly. You could see it in his eyes—this tiny look of caring. She patted the back of his hand. “But I think you’re being alarmist, Rube.”

“Alarmist?” Levy smiled. “It’s an occupational pastime of the rich, Maddy, my love. We perceive conspiracies intent on denuding us of our fortunes, you see. I come by my alarmist streak the hard way. I inherited it.”

Madeleine laughed. She started to rise and glanced at her wristwatch. “I liked your message on the tape, by the way.”

“A prank, I confess.” Levy held up his hands. “Wealth doesn’t exclude moments of tedium, does it?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She looked at her watch again. “I’ve got to run along.”

“I’ll walk out with you.” He rose, stuffing his pipe inside his coat pocket.

Outside they moved together along the rainy sidewalk. The wind was harder now, blowing through the arteries of the city. Levy paused in front of a pawnshop. She turned to see what he was looking at. It hung on the iron grill set against the window, limp in the rain, drooping like a half-masted flag.

“Ubiquitous Mr. Apology,” he said.

Madeleine stared at the handbill a moment. Mr. Apology. Here in the Manhattan rain.

“It depresses me,” Levy said. And he shook his head from side to side slowly.

Madeleine didn’t say anything. Ink was running down the handbill in spidery streaks.

“It’s like an invitation to every loony in this whole city. It’s like holding an open house to which only the insane are invited. And I genuinely don’t think Harry sees any danger or any menace in that at all. I only know I wouldn’t do what he’s trying to do—not for all the paper mills in New Jersey, Maddy.”

Levy was still shaking his head, rain dripping from his glistening beret.

8.

They were in a restaurant in Chinatown, not the kind located on the central tourist drag, the kind in which the only faces you saw were Caucasian, but a small place tucked away, as if it were a profound secret, in a narrow sidestreet. They ate lobster with black bean sauce, hot and sour soup, duck. Harrison liked Chinatown: He imagined it to be filled with dark places, dim-lit stairways that rose upwards into cramped attics where men lay around in pursuit of the opium dream. It was a romantic notion, he knew—the cramped attics these days were more likely to be occupied by members of some young Chinese gang. But he enjoyed the streets, the exotic stores, the sight of Chinese newspapers and magazines and cigarettes, even the pagodalike phone booths that had been erected here and there as if in a moment of ethnic weakness by the Bell Telephone Company. He looked across the table at Madeleine and thought: It’s strange how after so short a time a face can begin to seem so completely familiar, like the person has been with you always. Her absence now would create a strange void. Maybe a void he wouldn’t know how to begin to fill. Harry, it’s a stunning realization to suspect you’re starting to fall into that condition people describe as love. He reached over the table and held her hand, conscious of the fact that his fingertips were greasy from the duck. He felt her thumb press against the back of his wrist. She was smiling at him. What did he see in that smile? Something sweet and good, a kindness, a generosity? Whatever, you could just fall right into it and lose yourself there.

“So Berger’s promised to listen to a tape,” he said.

She nodded. “One tape, that’s all.”

“Which is what encyclopedia salesmen call a foot in the door.”

“It’s a start, Harry.” She pushed some food across her plate. “By the way, I ran into Rube on my way here.”

“How is he?”

“You know Rube. He worries.”

“About what?”

“Mr. Apology.”

“Why?”

“He smells danger in the air, Harry. He thinks you could be headed for trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I can’t remember his exact words. He talked about all the madness around and wondered if you were wise to plug yourself into it, something like that.”

Harrison glanced towards the kitchen, where he could see five or six Chinese cooks squabbling hysterically over something. Maybe they were arguing the merits of mono-sodium glutamate. Why couldn’t he feel this sense of danger himself? Why did it seem so remote from him?

Madeleine said, “I see his point when I think of that creep who called last night. I see what he’s getting at when I remember that madman.”

Harrison watched how Madeleine frowned. He wanted to change the subject.

“Your friend Jamey came by asking her questions and scribbling in her little book.”

“Did she try to seduce you?”

“Oh, yeah. I had to beat her off with tubes of acrylic.”

“What did you think of her?”

Harrison shrugged. He wasn’t sure how to answer the question.

“She’s got a funny straightforward manner,” Madeleine said. “But a heart of gold. Seriously.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I knew she’d write something. I just knew she’d come through.”

Harrison started to get up. “Let’s go for a walk. I like these streets. I can half imagine I’m in Hong Kong.” He helped her rise, helped her put her coat on, suddenly amazed by his own solicitous manner. Was this love? Was this kind of doting concern the thing called love? This weird urge to please? You’re falling, Harry, he thought. You’re actually beginning to take that tumble and you don’t know where it might end up or even if there was a place where it ended. He walked behind her towards the street; through the pale lamps outside the rain was drizzling softly. He put his arm around her shoulder. They moved slowly together. They went past the brightly lit stores that sold oriental foods, ducks roasting to a deep red in windows, strange fat sea creatures that looked like huge grubs of the deep, windows filled with rolls and rolls of delicate silks, kimonos, fanciful lanterns. He had a sudden feeling of peacefulness and realized it had its source in his contact with her, her physical presence, her nearness. On a street corner he paused, turned her towards him, kissed her on the lips under the faint glow of an overhead lamp.

“What was that for?” she asked.

“I felt like it. Something came over me.”

“Can you define this something?”

He shrugged, smiled. “It’s indefinable but it’s pretty damn good.” Pretty damn good—where were the words? Where was the correct description of the feeling? He couldn’t find one. They walked on a little way, then paused to look in the window of a food store; inside were groups of customers milling around, poking this vegetable, prodding that piece of meat. Then, suddenly, the crowd split open, making a passageway for a kid who was running quickly towards the doorway, something clutched in his hand. Upraised voices, anger, a shopkeeper lunging after the kid and screaming in Chinese. Harrison saw the boy coming straight at him, the small sallow face filled with the concentration of the flight. A shoplifter, he thought. A tiny thief. He glanced past the kid’s head at the shopkeeper, a man in a bloodstained white apron. And even though he didn’t understand any Chinese whatsoever, the words coming from the guy’s lips were unmistakable. Stop that kid! Stop him! For a moment Harrison responded to the shopkeeper’s cry, putting his arm out to catch the running kid, but then he suddenly didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to stop the boy from getting away, didn’t want to come to the assistance of the guy in the store, who was still jabbering, his hands flung in the air, his bloodstained apron billowing as he came quickly forward. The kid ducked beneath Harrison’s outstretched arm and then was gone hurriedly along the sidewalk, little more than a quick shadow vanishing between streetlamps. The grocer came out onto the sidewalk, staring in the direction the kid had gone.

“He was too nimble for me,” Harrison said.

The shopkeeper looked uncomprehending. He made a gesture with his hand bunched, something that seemed rude. Does he intend that gesture for me or for the thief? Harrison wondered. Muttering, the man went back inside the store and the crowd, its momentary entertainment over, returned to sifting meat and vegetables and seafood. Harrison put his arm around Madeleine’s shoulder again and they walked a little way along the sidewalk.

“Okay,” she said. “Why didn’t you just grab him?”

“Like I said, he was too quick.”

“Bull,” she said, smiling. “You could have caught him easily.”

Harrison laughed. Madeleine said, “You deliberately let him go, didn’t you? You’re an accomplice, Harry Harrison. You’re just as guilty as that kid.”

“Maybe if it had been something else, like a kid mugging an old lady, maybe then I’d have done a Galahad act.”

“So why didn’t you stop that kid?”

An old memory, he thought. Something shimmering inside. Something he might have forgotten. The kid reminded me. The kid brought something back, a taste that was sharp, a vision that was keen.

“Well?” Madeleine asked.

“He reminded me of something. When I was a kid—”

“I can’t imagine you as a kid.”

He drew her towards him, hugging her spontaneously. “I used to get up to the same things as that kid. I used to do pretty much the same as he was doing right there.”

“Doesn’t every kid?”

“I guess. Only in my case I used to steal things from stores out of a sense of belonging. At least to begin with—the old peer-pressure thing. The clan, the tribe, the desire to belong to a group. The group I wanted to belong to liked to steal things from stores. It was a conspiracy. It made me feel warm. I don’t know. I didn’t like my home life much, because my old man was always on my case about how I was wasting my time with art. And the kids at school—the real kids, I mean, the rough guys—used to think I was some kind of weirdo. I wanted to show them. I wanted to be part of them.” He paused, looked directly into her eyes. “So I shoplifted. Usually one of the other guys would get the clerk’s attention while I slid around out of sight, stuffing things inside my jacket. Then it was something more than just a sense of belonging after a while.…”

“Like what?”

“The thrill, Maddy. The electricity.”

“Stealing for kicks.”

“Right. It’s damn hard to explain. I’d go inside a store on my own and I’d wait until the clerk wasn’t looking, then I’d steal something useless. For some reason, it had to be something I couldn’t use. A packet of tampons. A huge bottle of vinegar. Useless stuff. Then it got to the point where it had to be big as well as useless, because there wasn’t any fun in stealing small things. Huge boxes of detergent. One time it was a framed print of The Naked Maja. If it wasn’t large, there wasn’t any excitement. I wish I could explain the sheer goddamn thrill of knowing the clerk could turn around at any moment and catch you. You lived on the edge all the time. You expected to get caught. That’s what made it thrilling. I used to leave those stores and my mouth would be bone dry and I’d be sweating and shaking.…” He paused. Why was he telling her all this in any case? What sudden urge to spill his past in front of her? I want her to know me, he thought. I want her to know who I am and what I’ve been. The whole bit. “I never wanted to be a criminal as such. Sometimes I tried to imagine what it might have been like if I’d been a different kind of person, say a guy with a fondness for guns and sticking up liquor stores. Do you know what I mean? But I never had criminal ambitions beyond those good old shoplifting days.”

“So you sympathized with that kid?” she asked.

Harrison nodded.

“Maybe you sympathize with criminals in general, Harry.”

He smiled at her. “I don’t think I’d go that far.”

“You’re selective, huh? Only juvenile shoplifters, right?”

He put his hands flat against the sides of her face. “One time, we were on vacation in Virginia, I think, and I remember seeing these guys working at the side of the road. They were all dressed in these olive outfits and they were chained together. I was pretty young then but I remember looking at their faces and wondering what it was they’d done that would set them apart like that. It was as if they carried some kind of mark, like they all had the same tattoo in the center of their foreheads. And I remember wondering what I’d have to do to end up on a chain gang.… It was how they looked, I guess, that really interested me. Withdrawn, desperate, defeated. Like they belonged to some strange club they never wanted to join in the first place. I wondered what they were thinking. How they spent their time. What kind of people they were. I’ve never quite forgotten those guys. If I close my eyes, I can see them clearly even now. A race apart. A secret society. I remember being puzzled. Drawn towards them. I remember I wanted to talk with them.…” He paused. Another ancient memory. Another floating fragment of the past. The pale young kid seeing his first criminals, looking at them with eyes of wonder. He remembered the dust that rose up from beneath their picks and shovels, the clanking of chains, the brown green color of the grass verge that sloped away beneath them. Why had he suddenly dragged out this dilapidated recollection? The Apology connection, he thought—the criminal minds, dark burdens of guilt, the secret confessions of those who had broken the law. It was all wrapped up inside the notion of Apology, inside the inspiration of the project. Links, correspondences—the kid who shoplifted, the one who’d been fascinated by the faces of criminals on a chain gang, the adult who’d been drawn by the violence of graffiti and an attempted rape by a high school student—all these things were involved in Apology. He thought of poor old Albert slashed in the chair by the window—crimes and victims. The confessions of the guilty. The desire to hear those confessions. Criminals and artists—weren’t they similar anyhow? Weren’t they somehow set apart from a social mainstream, only obliquely attached to society?

They moved along the sidewalk a little way. The rain was falling harder now, turning from gentle drizzle to large splashing drops. He turned up the collar of his coat. A certain fascination with the criminal mind, sure, but it wasn’t an intoxication, a desire to emulate, an urge to become a member of a certain lawless class of people. It was something else: What makes them tick? What kind of clockwork drives them? And how do they feel afterwards? And he thought of the voice that had confessed to killing a kid in some one-horse town in Ohio. He remembered the total lack of remorse in that narrative. I figure I just wanted to know what it felt like.…

He experienced a sudden urge to get back to the loft and see what new messages had come in over the Apology line. He turned to Madeleine and said, “Let’s get a cab. Go back home.”

“Any time you’re ready,” she answered.

He grabbed her by the hand and they ran along the sidewalk in the direction of Canal Street.

I’M A PRIEST. I’VE BEEN A PRIEST IN A CERTAIN PARISH IN LOWER MANHATTAN NOW FOR ALMOST TWENTY YEARS. I CONSIDER MYSELF, IF I MAY SAY SO, AS BEING EXTREMELY GOOD AT MY WORK, LOVED BY MY PARISHIONERS. I AM, IN SHORT, A CONSCIENTIOUS MAN. SOMEONE BROUGHT YOUR POSTER TO MY ATTENTION AND I WOULD LIKE YOU TO KNOW THAT I BELIEVE YOU ARE UNDERMINING MY FUNCTION. I UNDERSTAND NOBODY HAS A MONOPOLY ON CONFESSIONS, BUT AT THE SAME TIME I MUST POINT OUT THAT I SPENT MANY YEARS AT SEMINARY SCHOOL AND I FEEL EQUIPPED TO TAKE CONFESSION. CAN YOU MAKE THAT CLAIM? DO YOU HAVE THAT THEOLOGICAL BACKGROUND? IF NOT, I THINK YOU SHOULD DESIST FROM YOUR PRACTICE. I INTEND TO PREACH AGAINST YOU THIS COMING SUNDAY. GOODBYE.

“Now you’ve gone and offended God,” Madeleine said. “I wouldn’t be surprised, Harry, if you burned in hell.”

Harrison smiled, taking off his clothes, throwing them over the chair by the bed. “I’m harming the priestly business, I guess.”

“It doesn’t surprise me.” Madeleine was under the covers, her knees raised in the air, hands tucked behind her head. She was watching Harrison undress. “You know something, Harry? Your shyness is quite charming.”

“Shyness?”

“Yeah, every time you take your clothes off your turn your back on me. I get this terrific view of your nice little ass, which is fair enough, but how come you never turn around?”

“Coy,” he said. He turned towards her, facing her now. “How’s that?”

“Gasp! Is that all yours? Is it real?”

Harrison smiled and went towards the answering machine, turning the volume low. He felt Madeleine’s hand against his hip as he gazed at the red light; it was odd how it seemed to have this intrinsic hypnotic power. He wanted to reach out and turn the volume up and listen to the incoming message, but he didn’t move.

Madeleine was silent for a moment. He heard her sigh, then say, “I wish you’d come to bed, Harry.”

He didn’t answer. He listened to the sound of Madeleine draw the sheets up over her body, the faint whisper of her hair upon the pillow. He imagined slipping into bed beside her, encircling her body with his arms, the flat of his hand resting against her stomach, his fingers lightly rubbing the surface of her skin. So what are you waiting for, Harry? It’s the red light, he thought. It’s the curiosity of the red light: It might have been a weak signal sent to some distant ship from a stormy shoreline. Ah, shit—he gave in, reached out, adjusted the volume. The voice he heard was muffled, indistinct, as if the caller were talking through a linen handkerchief.

I’M A HOMOSEXUAL.… IT’S AN EXTREMELY DIFFICULT SITUATION FOR ME, BECAUSE I HAVE TO PRETEND TO BE STRAIGHT. MY POSITION IN LIFE DEMANDS IT, YOU UNDERSTAND. I HAVE TO PRETEND. EVERY GODDAMN DAY.… THE PERSON I LOVE, OH, I DON’T QUITE KNOW HOW TO SAY THIS. THE PERSON I LOVE … I’VE BEGUN TO THINK LATELY THAT THE BEST SOLUTION WOULD BE FOR ME TO MURDER HIM. TO KILL HIM. I’VE NEVER CONSCIOUSLY HURT ANYONE IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.… CAN YOU UNDERSTAND MY PREDICAMENT? IF HE WAS OUT OF THE WAY. I WOULDN’T HAVE ANY MORE PROBLEMS.…

The murderous heart.

Madeleine was staring at him; there was a vague look of irritation on her face. She wants me to shut the thing off and go to bed. He stared at the wall above the bed, the assorted posters—a Klee, something by Lichtenstein, another by Hopper. Why were so many of the messages such sad statements of the heart? Such obvious failures of love? He rubbed his hands together. Madeleine had turned on her side, away from the machine. She’d drawn a sheet over her face, as if she didn’t want to hear anything more. Maybe she couldn’t stand the sorrow in some of the statements, or maybe—and he turned this over in his mind briefly—she wanted to impose some kind of curfew on Apology. Don’t listen to any tapes after nine o’clock, Harry.

There was another message now.

Harrison recognized the voice; he felt a thin skein of sweat form on the palms of his hands.

The laugh.

The broken laugh that sounded like walnut shells being cracked open or the grotesque noise of a bird trying to imitate human laughter. He was aware of Madeleine throwing the sheets away from her face, conscious of her sitting up, turning to look at him as if she wanted to say for God’s sake, Harry, enough is enough—

ME AGAIN … REMEMBER, APOLOGY? WELL, I GOT A HOT FLASH FOR YOU, JACK.… I DID WHAT I SAID I WAS GONNA DO. I DID EXACTLY WHAT I TOLD YOU, YEAH.… CAN YOU DIG IT, MAN?

What did you do? Harrison wondered.

Exactly what?

Tell me, he thought.

Come right out and tell me.

“Harry,” Madeleine said.

He held up a hand to silence her. He listened to the maniacal laughter. No, it wasn’t crazy, it wasn’t lunatic—instead, there was something coldly calculating about it. And he had the sensation, as he’d had once before, that the caller was somewhere inside the loft, somewhere in the deep shadows of the place, just waiting … but for what?

YOU’RE GONNA READ ALL ABOUT IT IN THE PAPERS, APOLOGY.… YOU’RE GONNA BE READING ALL ABOUT WHAT I DONE.… I STRANGLED THE FUCKER!

There was a strange sound now, like that of fingers beating against the surface of the telephone receiver. Loud, then louder still. Out there in the dark, Harrison thought, hunched against a phone, maybe watching the street in case somebody saw him. It’s a joke. It can’t be serious. It can’t be serious at all.… He shut his eyes very tight and tried to imagine himself looking inside that phone booth, tried to perceive the face, visualize the expression, tried to imagine himself knocking upon the glass door with a coin, rapping it impatiently, watching as the face turned towards him, seeing—seeing what? I need to see this guy’s face, he thought, and the ferocity of the thought surprised him.

HE HAD ALL THESE GODDAMN PICTURES ON THE WALLS OF THESE DANCERS AND THE WHOLE PLACE STINKED OF SOME KINDA DISGUSTING PERFUME.…

Harrison felt Madeleine’s hand cover his knuckles. “Do we need to listen to any more of this creep, Harry? I don’t like it.”

HEY, APOLOGY, I KINDA LIKE TALKING TO YOU LIKE THIS … I JUST WISH I HAD SOMETHING TO SAY I WAS SORRY FOR, MAN.… OKAY, YEAH, LEMME SEE.… I COULD SAY I WAS SORRY ABOUT THAT OLD FAGGOT … BUT I’M NOT REALLY SORRY.… I’D BE LYING TO YOU, APOLOGY, AND I DON’T WANT TO MAKE A HABIT OF THAT. ESPECIALLY SINCE WE’RE GONNA GET TO KNOW EACH OTHER REAL WELL.…

“What does he mean, Harry? What the hell does he mean when he says that?”

Harrison sat hunched forward now, trying to absorb this voice, the nuances, the accent, the intonation. Real well, he thought.

SAY, DON’T YOU EVER ANSWER THE PHONE YOURSELF, MR. BIGSHOT APOLOGY? YOU TOO GOOD FOR THAT, HUH? TOO REFINED? DON’T WANT TO GET DOWN IN HERE AMONG THE DIRT, HUH? IT DON’T MATTER. YEAH … ANYWAY, I GOT CERTAIN PLANS THAT INVOLVE YOU, MAN, AND THIS TIME YOU CAN’T GO HIDING BEHIND YOUR GODDAMN MACHINE.…

Laughter.

Harrison heard the swift intake of Madeleine’s breath. It’s getting to her, he thought. It’s getting to her.

PLANS, APOLOGY. IF YOU WON’T COME TO THE TELEPHONE, THEN I’M GONNA HAVE TO COME TO YOU, DIG? I’M GONNA HAVE TO GO OUT AND FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE SO YOU WON’T HAVE THE CHANCE TO HIDE BEHIND A MACHINE.… YOU THINK YOU’RE SAFE, HUH? THINK I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FIND YOU, HUH? YEAH, YOU’RE LIVING IN A DREAM IF YOU THINK THAT, MAN.… ONE DAY WE’LL COME FACE TO FACE.… I CAN PROMISE YOU THAT.…

The laughter again.

IT’S KINDA FUN, APOLOGY.… YOU AND ME CAN HAVE SOME REAL FUN TOGETHER.… I REALLY GET OFF ON THE IDEA OF FINDING YOU AND KILLING YOU—BECAUSE THE REAL KICKER IS I CAN APOLOGIZE FOR MURDERING YOU IN ADVANCE.… HOW DOES THAT GRAB YOU, MAN? HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL? CAN’T YOU SEE THE BIG MOTHERFUCKING HEADLINES? MR. APOLOGY KILLED BY HIS OWN CLIENT!

The line was suddenly dead.

Madeleine was staring at him. “Tell me it’s not for real, Harry. Tell me.”

“It’s a fantasy,” he said. “The guy just feels liberated from restraint, lets his imagination run wild, that’s all. Don’t you see? He uses the Apology line to let off steam, Maddy. That’s what he’s doing—”

“How the hell do you know that for sure?”

Harrison wandered out into the dark of the loft, staring at the misshapen figure of Albert in the chair. I really get off on the idea of finding you and killing you.… He went to the window, looked down into the dark empty street. Nothing moved save some shapeless items of garbage floating in the night wind. He heard a sound at his back and turned, seeing Madeleine come naked across the floor. She put her arms around him; she was shivering.

“He says he’s going to find you, Harry. He says he’s going to find you and kill you!”

“Relax, relax.” He rubbed her bare shoulders gently for a minute. He could feel her anxiety, her fear, as if these were emotions that lay just beneath the surface of her skin. He kissed her on the side of her face. “You knew we’d get some pretty weird messages, didn’t you?”

“Weird, yeah. I didn’t figure on anything like this guy, though. I can’t get that voice out of my mind.” She was silent, her face pressed against his shoulder. “Can he find out who you are and where you live? Can he do that much, Harry?”

Harrison didn’t answer. He tried to imagine the anonymous caller tracking shadows through the dark, following old scents, sniffing the wind like a hunting animal. Where would he begin to look? How could he possibly get hold of the name and address? I think you overestimate the propriety of telephone company officials, Mr. Harrison, Shultz had said. How easy would it be? And what would be involved? A bribe? A threat of some kind? A shadow passed across his mind a moment—what if it were on the level? What if it were a real threat? How strong is the fortress anyhow? What would it stand up to? No, you can’t afford to take it that seriously, because if you did you’d scrap the Apology project and everything it meant to you—out of sheer cold fear, cowardice. You couldn’t begin to let one maniac out there prevent you from finishing what you’d begun. Couldn’t afford to let one caller erode your enthusiasm for the whole thing.

“He said he killed somebody, Harry.”

“People say all kinds of things on the tape.”

“I know. But why does this one guy keep calling, for Christ’s sake?”

Harrison placed his palms against her breasts.

She said, “What if he’s telling the truth? What do you do then?”

“I told you. Stop worrying. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I wish I felt that way. But I don’t.”

“Maddy.” He pulled her close to him, putting his arms around her. This fear—how could he soothe it out of her? How could he make it dissolve?

“He said something about pictures of dancers, some old queer—”

“I heard him,” Harrison said.

He took her hand, led her back into the bedroom, drew her body against him, moving the open palms of his hands over her bare breasts. He kissed her, losing himself in that connection of lips, tongues, as if they were building a bridge that linked them inexorably together. He stroked the soft flatness of her stomach, letting his fingers fall between her legs, listening to the quiet sound of her moaning. Forget whatever it is out there, he told himself. Forget the dark streets and the shadows that move between doorways, forget all the madness, the guilt, the wild confessions, forget everything except this woman. He felt her hand against his cock, her gentle touch, her light stroke, and in some profound place at the back of his brain he sensed the slow origins of an explosion.

Later, he turned off the bedside lamp, noticing through half-shut eyes the red glow of light on the answering machine.

Somebody is looking for me, he thought.

Out there, perhaps even now, somebody wants to come face to face with Apology.

I really get off on the idea of finding you and killing you.…

He watched the red light recede as his eyelids became heavier; he watched it float off into darkness like a pale beacon burning against a stormy sea.

Madeleine turned towards him in the dark.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said.

“I’ve been trying,” she answered. “I can’t quite make it.”

Harrison said nothing.

“I’m afraid, Harry. I really think I’m afraid.”

He rolled towards her, putting one arm around her shoulders.

He shut his eyes. Finding you, killing you. It seemed to him he could hear an echo of those words rumble through his head, as if they were being cried aloud by a voice trapped in a canyon. I don’t feel fear, he thought. I don’t feel what Madeleine feels. I feel drawn towards the voice, drawn towards whatever motivates it, whatever lies behind it; when I listen to it it’s almost like some kind of thread attaching me to the caller, a link of some frail, invisible sort. Who are you? he wondered. And what do you look like?

He listened to the sound of Madeleine’s breathing as it become more and more regular, deeper. Then when he was sure she was alseep, he swung around and sat upright on the edge of the bed. He stared at the thin red light for a few seconds before he pressed REWIND. He stopped the tape. Then PLAYBACK. He turned the volume low and sat with his eyes shut, listening to the voice again. It’s kinda fun, Apology.… You and me can have some real fun together.… I really get off on the idea of finding you and killing you—because the real kicker is I can apologize for murdering you in advance.…

Played at a low volume like this, the voice had a whispering quality, a whispering that seemed very close, close to the point where Harrison could imagine he felt hot breath against his ear, where he could imagine he smelled stale scents from a half-open mouth.

A presence in the bedroom.

Throughout the whole loft.

He created a picture for himself—this caller had the kind of face he’d seen so long ago on that chain gang, a pale sunken face, eyes burning, tight lips, a faint nerve working in the hollows of the jaw. Does he look like that? Does he look like one of those convicts?

Somebody else in the loft. Suddenly the idea spooked him.

He switched the machine off, set it back to ANSWER. Then he got back in bed beside Madeleine.