And he laughed, and went on laughing. His laughter made a terrible sound — nothing to be said about it, really. But my grip tightened and I quietly urged him, ‘Get your laugh fixed, boy. Or fixed again. Everyone can tell it’s false. Hey. Hey. Why don’t you leave me alone? How about that?’
‘And miss out on all this? Are you kidding? Answer me something. You tell her about Sunday night? You tell her you slept rough?’
‘What?’
‘Sunday night. Remember? That was the night that just walked right over you.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘you did it.’ This had occurred to me, but I’d hoped that the attack had been random. In my state, you’re always hoping things are random. You don’t want things assuming any shape on you.
‘Uh-uh. I just watched.’
‘You did it… you cruel son of a bitch.’
‘No! I didn’t do it. With her heels, with her high heels! A woman did it.’
The line went dead but oh how my head came alive. A door blew open and the pent sounds burst out fleeing. For a loathsome instant I felt her awkward quivering weight on my back as she found her feet, and her voice saying… What? Dah, no—let us abort this memory here and now. I made calls. The airline. Home, with no reply. And Martina, but just to say goodbye. These calls, they gave me no grief. Only Fielding made demands on me. Only Fielding had more penance to exact.
——————
‘Spunk,’ I said,’— it’s an honour.’
I glanced sideways at Fielding Goodney, who shrugged.
‘We loved Prehistoric,’ I went on. ‘You were terrific. I mean it. You were absolutely — you were terrific, Spunk.’
I felt Fielding nudge me in the gloom.
‘Words fail me. I tell you, Spunk — I, it really got to me, your interpretation there. We want you. We want you for Good Money. Spunk, that’s what we’re here today to tell you… Fuck it, Fielding,’ I said, ‘let’s go with Meadowbrook or Nub Forkner or whoever. I don’t need this.’
‘Good. Very good. Sit down, please,’ said Spunk Davis.
We were on the fortieth floor of the UN Plaza. Fielding and I had been buzzed in, cased, X-rayed and heavy-petted by two security guards in plum blazers. ‘Davis, Spunk,’ the man had repeated ruminatively, among the potted plants and intercom banks and closed-circuit TV screens. ‘It’s in another name.’ He cleared us and we rode the lift’s rush of nausea, slurped up, up.
‘I’m Mrs Davis,’ said the little old lady who answered the door. Well, I suppose she wasn’t that old, but her shrunk face was laboriously lined, with deep concentrations round the eyes and mouth. Lined, then lined again, and again. You get this effect when you gaze through a file of London trees in winter, and the naked branches criss and cross until only motes of light remain, in peeping triangles. A worked and working face. But the eyes were bright.
‘Oh. Hi,’ I said.
‘Mrs Davis,’ said Fielding gravely. Then he kissed her hand and held it close to his chest. This courtesy, tenderly performed, seemed right out of place to me, but it went down okay with Mrs Davis, who peered up at Fielding for quite a time before she said, ‘Are you saved?’
While Fielding dealt with that one (‘Oh ma’am, but yes,’ he began) I turned to face a kitchen or parlour, plain in its shapes but full of manrnade coatings and colours. A dark, low-browed gent sat there in pampered profile, his once-powerful frame encased in a double-breasted needlestripe suit. Spunk Senior, presumably. He glanced at the TV on the chintzy sideboard (bobbing basketballers), he glanced at his watch (the movement limp and stoical), he glanced at me. We briefly exchanged brute stares. We recognized each other for what we were. With tongue and teeth he gave a tight rasp and turned away in boredom or vexation or distaste. Yeah, one look at him and even I had to say to myself — the ladies, the poor ladies. They get it every time. I was in no sort of nick for this encounter, I admit, full of fear and afternoon scotch and the homeward tug. Now I had Mrs Davis’s hand on my arm and her pleading face saying, ‘And are you saved, sir?’