Later, after she and Alafair had gone to bed, I sat in the living room by myself and stared at the television screen. A gelatinous fat man, with the toothy smile of a chipmunk, was denigrating liberals and making fun of feminists and the homeless. His round face was bright with an electric jeer when he broached the subject of environmentalists and animal rights activists. His live audience squealed with delight.
Eighteen million people listened to him daily.
I turned off the set and went into the kitchen. The moon was down, and I could hear the tree limbs outside the window knocking together in the wind. When the phone rang on the-counter, I knew who it would be. I almost looked forward to the encounter, like a man who has formed a comfortable intimacy with his bête noire.
His voice was indolent and ropy with saliva when he spoke. In the background I could hear the flat, tinny sound of Bix Beiderbecke's 'In a Mist.'
'I never saw tracks on your arm, Will. Do you shoot up in the thighs?'
'You never know.'
'How'd you get my number?' I said.
'People like to please. Not too much gets denied me, Dave.'
'It sounds like you might have done a good load of China pearl. Not a good sign for a guy who likes control.'
'Why did you do it?'
'What?'
'You spit in my face. When I tried to create a tender moment inside our pain.'
'I guess you're just that kind of guy. Besides that, you're probably insane.'
The phonograph stopped and started over again. Beiderbecke's trumpet rose off the record like sound ringing through crystal. Buchalter swallowed wetly, his mouth close to the receiver.
'It's not too late for us,' he said.
'It is for you, partner. Your threads are unraveling. We've got a make on you from Toronto and Interpol; we know about the asylum you broke out of in Australia. You're about to slide down the big ceramic bowl, Will.'
'You don't understand power. I can caress you in ways that'll make you beg for death. The auto garage was nothing.'
'Get off it, Buchalter. You're a hype. You're one day away any time your connection wants you.'
I heard his throat working again, words forming, then sticking unintelligibly in his mouth. Someone pulled the receiver from his hand.
'The wifey plowed again, Dave?' she said. Her voice was sweaty and hoarse, like a person high on her own glandular energies. 'You should have taken me up on my invitation. It'd give you something to fantasize about.'
'Your boyfriend's tracked shit over two continents, Marie,' I said. 'It looks like you're going to take the bounce with him.'
'Can she have orgasms while she's on the grog?'
'Save the comic book dialogue for after your trial. There's an amateur theatrical group at the women's prison in St. Gabriel. You'll fit right in.'
'I keep having this dream. There's a pump handle in it. It feels hard in my hand, and it has moisture dripping off it. I wake up all hot, thinking of a big dark policeman. I get hot even talking about it. What's my dream mean, Dave?'
'I'll say adios now, Marie. Then I'll unplug the phones. Enjoy the time you have left with Buchalter. I bet he really knows how to capture a lady's, heart.'
There was a pause, then I heard a match strike against an abrasive surface, the match head hissing, and her breath exhaling.
'Run the coordinates in the personals of The Times-Picayune,' she said. 'If you don't, we reach out and touch someone. No, not the sow or the little girl. Maybe the boogie and her son; maybe your uncontrollable friend, Purcel. Will would love to spend a few hours alone with Mr. Purcel.'
'Be careful what you pray for.'
'You're so clever. And the wifey so sweet. I'm glad you're in the tropics where the sheep don't freeze up.'
I eased the receiver down in the cradle, then unplugged the phone jacks in both the kitchen and living room.