Closing Time (Catch-22 2)

"But her lawyer might be, Mr. Yossarian," said Mr. Gaffney, when Yossarian phoned and brought him up-to-date.

"Her lawyer says he's not."

"Lawyers, Mr. Yossarian, have been known to lie. Of the eight people following you, Yo-Yo--"

"My name is Yossarian, Mr. Gaffney. Mr. Yossarian."

"I expect that will change, sir," said Gaffney, with no decrease in friendliness, "once we have met and become fast friends. In the meanwhile, Mr. Yossarian"--there was no insinuating emphasis--"I have good news for you, very good news, from both the credit checking services. You have been coming through splendidly, apart from one late alimony check to your first wife and an occasional late separate maintenance check to your second wife, but there is an overdue bill for eighty-seven dollars and sixty-nine cents from a defunct retail establishment formerly known as The Tailored Woman that is, or has been, in Chapter 11."

"I owe eighty-seven dollars to a store called The Tailored Woman?"

"And sixty-nine cents," said Mr. Gaffney, with his flair for the exact. "You might be held responsible for that charge by your wife Marian when the dispute is finally adjudicated."

"My wife wasn't Marian," Yossarian advised him, after cogitating several moments to make sure. "I had no wife named Marian. Neither of them."

Mr. Gaffney replied in a coddli

ng tone. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Mr. Yossarian. People frequently grow befuddled in matrimonial recollections."

"I am not befuddled, Mr. Gaffney," Yossarian retorted, with his hackles up. "There has been no wife of mine named Marian Yossarian. You can look that one up if you don't believe me. I'm in Who's Who."

"I find the Freedom of Information Act consistently a much better source, and I certainly will look it up, if only to clear the air between us. But in the meanwhile ..." There was a pause. "May I call you John yet?"

"No, Mr. Gaffney."

"All the other reports are in mint condition, and you can obtain the mortgage anytime you want it."

"What mortgage? Mr. Gaffney, I intend no disrespect when I tell you categorically I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about when you mention a mortgage!"

"We live in encumbering times, Mr. Yossarian, and sometimes things befall us too rapidly."

"You are talking like a mortician."

"The real estate mortgage, of course. For a house in the country or at the seashore, or perhaps for a much better apartment right here in the city."

"I'm not buying a house, Mr. Gaffney," replied Yossarian. "And I'm not thinking of an apartment."

"Then perhaps you should begin thinking about it, Mr. Yossarian. Sometimes Senor Gaffney knows best. Real estate values can only go up. There is only so much land on the planet, my father used to say, and he did well in the long run. All we'll need with your application is a specimen of your DNA."

"My DNA?" Yossarian repeated, with a brain bewildered. "I confess I'm baffled."

"That's your deoxyribonucleic acid, Mr. Yossarian, and contains your entire genetic coding."

"I know it's my deoxyribonucleic acid, God damn it! And I know what it does."

"No one else can fake it. It will prove you are you."

"Who the hell else could I be?"

"Lending institutions are careful now."

"Mr. Gaffney, where will I get that sample of my DNA to submit with my mortgage application for a house I don't know about that I will never want to buy?"

"Not even in East Hampton?" tempted Gaffney.

"Not even East Hampton."

"There are excellent values there now. I can handle the DNA for you."