A change of gravity

FIFTEEN

Sergeant Everett Whalen emerged from the lockup into the ivory-painted cinderblock-walled corridor outside the lieutenant's office before Merrion finished removing his supply of bail forms from his beaten-up tan leather briefcase and getting himself settled at the bare old wooden desk against the wall. "Amby, how they hangin'," he said. It was not an inquiry; Whalen walked soundlessly in his crepe-soled black uniform shoes and spoke as a courtesy, so that Merrion would not be startled to turn and find him standing there.

"Ah, two inna bunch, Ev, same as always," Merrion said absently, without looking at him, flopping the sheaf of multi copy bail forms onto the desk, the top copy, white, blocked off and printed in rust-colored ink. He snapped the briefcase shut and tossed it onto the top of the desk against the wall, turning to face Whalen and resting his buttocks on the edge of the desk so that his left foot touched the floor and his right foot dangled above it. "Our happy campers ready?"

Thompson'll start bringin' 'em out to see you in a couple minutes,"

Whalen said. He stood slumped with his hands in his pockets. In his late forties he had prematurely acquired the sallow skin, the shameful little paunch and the doleful, dismayed look of a careless man nearing sixty and discovering that the penalties of failure to eat properly, get sufficient exercise and moderate his intake of alcohol plenty of cheap beer, generic six-packs, in Ev's case are just about as disagreeable as medically predicted. He looked as though he had realized some time ago what was going to happen to him, sooner than it should, and had resigned himself to it. The dismissive scuttlebutt that Merrion indifferently remembered from a casual courthouse conversation was that Ev Whalen never had any good luck at all.

Apparently well before he'd been close to old enough to have learned very much about women or know anything at all about marriage, he'd made the bad mistake of marrying a somewhat older woman who'd had her heart set on having a husband and had pretty much settled for him as the best she was going to get. She had borne him two children, but then after those experiences and some further consideration decided that on the whole she wished she hadn't married him. While she still believed he had probably been the best she could ever have done, he didn't make much money; he bored her, and she didn't like him very much.

One night with four rum-and-Cokes in her she had disconsolately given him that news, confessing her realization that she would have been better off alone. Staggered, he said he wished she were. In his bleak grief he told her since she felt that way to get out of his house and he would raise the kids himself. She said she would like to do that and appreciated his offer, but they both knew he couldn't do it alone, not the way things had become. They were stuck with each other, fused by a bad event that wouldn't've happened if she hadn't grown impatient and they hadn't gotten together.

Merrion wasn't exactly sure what it had been. One of the children had some kind of serious disability, caused either by a birth defect that she could have prevented with better prenatal care or more prudent behavior, or else by a very bad accident during infancy. The calamity had occurred while Everett and his wife were still fairly young, ruining whatever slim chance they, with little else to hope for, had ever had of at least moving up a notch or two in the world on a policeman's pay.

When no-end-in-sight expenses threatened to destroy them, some of their friends and neighbors organized a ten-kilometer fund-raising walk around the Cumberland Reservoir. Disc jockeys at WMAS in Chicopee exhorted listeners to volunteer and sell sponsorships of themselves to relatives and friends for contributions of a buck per kilometer to 'this very worthy cause." The week before the 10K walk, volunteers impeded shoppers leaving stores and markets at the local strip-malls by stepping into their paths and shaking white cardboard metal-bottomed canisters containing coins in their faces, demanding that they "Please Help the Whalen Family." Friends and neighbors staged a couple of dinner-dances at the VFW Hall in Hampton Pond, "Benefit of the Whalen Fund." They charged couples $25 per ticket for access to a cash bar and Music By The Muscle-Tones, a four-piece amateur Sixties Oldies band formed by two firemen, a high-school teacher and a lab technician who worked out together at the Canterbury Spa and Health Club, playing and singing together for the bright-eyed pleasure that it gave them.

Too indolent to change the local-access channel after the conclusion of an entertainingly contentious budget-meeting of the Canterbury selectmen, Merrion had watched the climax of one of those dances on television. The Whalens were standing awkwardly side-by-side like 4H livestock, a team of farm animals being auctioned off at the Big E Eastern States Exposition. Obviously not used to his clothing, Whalen wore a white shirt and narrow dark-red tie with a dark suit. His wife, whose name Merrion did not remember, wore a black dress with a high collar and long sleeves. They were standing on a low stage next to the "MAS morning disc jockey, a laboriously jovial, heavyset young man with a microphone, doing their best to look humble and grateful while the fat kid boastfully announced that a measly 'three or four thousand dollars have been collected, from hundreds and hundreds of people throughout the Pioneer Valley, reaching out to help the Whalen Family."

He did not say that ninety percent of it had been five and ten-dollar bills donated by people who knew the Whalens only slightly but really did feel sorry for them, or else had been asked by one of Whalen's fellow cops to make a donation and thought it might be provident to do so. The DJ did not say the rest was small change badgered out of contemptuous strangers who didn't know a thing or give one good shit about the Whalens and resented being forced to use their pocket change for once glad to have pennies to ransom themselves from the can-rattling solicitors they deemed fucking goddamned nuisances.

"Wonderful, wonderful people, every one of you," the DJ declaimed, extending his arms in symbolic embrace of people sitting at tables and standing in groups on the dance-floor under the balloons and crepe-paper festoons decorating the dimly lighted hall, staring in curiously some blearily at the Whalens. Because he knew Ev, Merrion had avidly watched the mortification, ashamed that he felt such fascination.

Then it had been time for Everett to grovel. He had taken the microphone and held it clumsily too close to his mouth so that it muffled his words, abjectly whinnying mandatory thanks to all the wonderful people who had worked on the great events and given money and helped out in any way at all; promising them that he and his wife he grasped her hand desperately, as though reasonably apprehensive she might come to her senses and bolt, try to get away while he was occupied and their healthy child, as well as the one being helped, would never forget their wonderful kindness and generosity. He did not quite promise to reciprocate on demand by donating one of his kidneys or a lung, his heart or liver, for that matter to any fundraiser who might ever need one and match his tissues, but he came pretty close.

As Merrion watched the event he'd begun to feel astonishment and wonder. He did not recall having given to the fund drive. He was reasonably sure that he had somehow inadvertently escaped every dragnet bagging all those niggardly donors. To the best of his recollection, it was the only such shakedown he had managed to elude since he'd first gotten into politics, forty years and more before. This amazed him. He calculated that in the course of his twenty-two-year career he had solicited campaign contributions for Dan Hilliard and other Democratic candidates and causes at least sixty times. The people on his trusty donor-list remembered him, with vengeance, when it came time for them to raise money for their candidates, colleges, church schools, drum-and-bugle corps, their children's teams and their favorite diseases, knowing he could not refuse. But somehow he'd escaped the posses of the Whalen Fund. He could not for the life of him explain how he'd done it, imagine what on earth he'd done or failed to do that had delivered him. Thereafter each time he saw Whalen at the station, he marveled silently once more.

"We got a couple more guests in since I called you," Whalen said. He leaned his right shoulder against the corridor wall and folded his arms. "Lady barkeep, good-lookin' head, from up Cannonball's, and we assume it's her gentleman friend that was with her. Routine coke buy.

He was scoutin' up the customers; she was keepin' the stash under the service bar.

"Statics got a new choirboy for undercover narc. He's the one who popped 'em. Looks like he's about sixteen. I guess he's actually twenny-three or four. They're workin' him out around here day and night this weekend without stoppin', seems like. Showin' him around like a new movie; anywhere you go you got a chance to see him. Hittin' every place they can. Settin' guys up left and right. Marijuana, cocaine, you-name-it; sellin' booze without asking' ID; solicitin' him for blow jobs; firearms; anything they can.

"Corporal Baker told me you can never tell what the hell is gonna happen, you drop a new young pretty boy into a hard guys' bar. Baker told me they got one guy down in Blackstone last week, had their Little Boy Blue workin' down the Worcester area, guy sold him a fuckin' recurve-crossbow. Looked like the antlers of a goddamned Texas Longhorn, mounted onna fuckin'-gorgeous, inlaid, checkered, big-game rifle stock. Fuckin' thing had to've been custom-made, some guy, most likely, use it to kill silent with. "Magine havin' that around, fuckin' thing like that? Someone must've stolen it somewhere from someone else down in Texas, prolly. Some rich oil man killer weapon, kind ah guy he must've been, and still some guy has got the balls go in and steal it from him.

"You beat that, fuckin' luxury crossbow? Whole buncha those bolts had for it, too, stubby iron arrows they use inna thing there; don't make any noise 'cept this sort of whoosh you let 'em go, but the guy says ah fuckin' thing'll go right through an engine block; right through a Ford engine block. What's this country comin' to, you wanna try an' tell me that! Guys sellin' things like that, people they don't even know, total strangers, even? Someone could wind up getting' killed, that kind of shit goin' on.

"Anyway, they've got him going non-stop, the fake teenager, I mean.

Just as fast as he can move, 'fore his cases start comin' up in court next week and some shyster-lawyer finally gets smart, asks for a hearin' on probable cause; kid hast ah come in, testify.

Everyone gets to see what he looks like, he is no good anymore. Party's over.

"But inna meantime they're sure getting' their money's worth. Corporal Baker, down the Monson station, used to be up in Northampton, brought in the last two the kid bagged. He told me kid made seven buys in nine bars down in Chicopee and Springfield just last night alone, three or four more in Holyoke tonight 'fore they hustle him up here.

"Grabbed one guy, parkin' lot at Donatello's, sellin' crack outta his car. Fuckin' two-year-old Isuzu, whadda they call it, Rodeo, Trooper, something. Trooper, I think it is. Anyway, it looks brand-new. They bust him, he's got two-and-a-half kilos. Run him and they find out that he's also got a couple priors. So they cuff him and they seize his fuckin' truck, all right? On top of charging him. Baker said they thought they could've had another guy that was there, too, in this blue Bronco." Julian, Merrion thought. "Forfeit his fuckin' car too. But before they could get him, they're so busy the guy with the Trooper, guy inna Bronco sees what's goin' down, and peels off. Outta there.

Didn't even get a plate on him. They're pissed; fact he ran, you know he's dirty could've taken his ride too.

"What the hell, huh? I suppose they figure as long's they're already out there, why the hell not? Not gonna do any harm; might just as well go ahead, do it. "Oh, nice car you got there. Sellin' contraband out of it? Sellin' illegal drugs, is that what it's gonna be?

Naughty-naughty." Take his car. He's a big boy, isn't he? Shouldah known better.

"I guess that's the way they look at it, anyway. You want my opinion, though, I would say the guy's been fucked. Serves the bastard right, I guess, peddlin' that shit. He don't care then why should I? Guy he picked to sell's a cop. People sell this guy anything. Then the next thing they know, they're up to their ears in the shit. Well, that's the chance that they took.

'1 don't know, though, you come down to it, what difference it really makes, they do find out he looks like. This's the young trooper I mean. Half these people that're sellin', either so stoned themselves alia time, or else they're always loaded, out of their minds; they dunno the fuck they're doin' anyway. Or else they're just naturally fuckin' stupid. You know what I bet you could do? Could go right up to them and tell 'em, face to face, every single other person inna fuckin' gin-mill with them is an undercover cop, and have it be the fuckin' truth, and you know something'? It wouldn't make any difference; wouldn't make any difference at all. They'd still be there, sellin' stuff an' lettin' the people buy it from them, whether they know them or not, got any idea who it is. It's as simple as that.

"They think it's all a fuckin' joke; a laugh, is what they think. They think that that's all it is. You know, no big deal, they get caught sellin' coke. Year in the can, mandatory? Yeah, sure; tell me another one, willya? Half the time their lawyer's even got a fuckin' clue what he's doin' alia time, he's gonna get a deal, put 'em right back onna street. They get so they know the routine there, you know? You do this; you do that; you get busted; so what? That's what it is. You should know that.

"So, good, they get so they're part of it there. They get into the system, they fin'ly become part of it themselves. "Till their faces start getting' to where they're becomin' familiar, you know? To the people down at Probation; start to get so sick of seeing these bums they can't stand it anymore. "What's this? You back here again, you asshole?" "Till it gets to the point someone goes to the DA and says:

"Hey, get this jerk some time, willya, Christ sake for a change? Sick of lookin' at him every week." And then maybe they go away. Then maybe they do do some time. But then again, maybe they don't. It all sort of just depends, you know? It always all depends." He shrugged.

"Okay with me, I guess."

He snuffled. "So, but what's been goin' on with you, then, huh Amby?

Last time we see you, I mean. That new black kid, Tyrone, he was in here last night with us, you no doubt probably know."

Whalen had continued to practice the nosiness that had made him a good beat-cop after he had his chevrons sewn on and gone indoors to work. It was what he had been trained to do, and therefore what he did. "He can't help himself," he told Hilliard, telling him about Whalen's latest probe. "I don't know what it is he thinks he's doing.

"Investigating," I guess. Keeping an eye out. That's what kept him alive when he was out on the street. Now he can't help doing it. I don't know what he's investigating or who he's investigating for doing it, and neither does he. But that doesn't make any difference. He's interested. He pigeon-holes people for ready reference "there's Bob the fireman, front of the firehouse, right where he oughta be; check" like he did keeping order on his beat. Even though there's no reason for it anymore.

"It isn't that he doesn't like Tyrone or that he treats him badly when Tyrone goes down there. The fact Tyrone's been a clerk here now for over six years probably means he's not "a new black kid" any more, but that's Ev's label for him. When he calls Tyrone "the new black kid" he means that Tyrone is black and still relatively young, and the rest of us clerks are not. He says "new" and "black" when he means "different." It sounds like something's wrong but there isn't.

"I know because I asked Tyrone, came right out and asked him. Made a big fool of myself doing it, too. At first I'm going to be, you know, diplomatic; I'm gonna be suave. Try to dance around it there, like I'm not after anything. I'm just making small' talk Monday morning, after his first night down there by himself: "So, how was it down there?

Everything go okay?" Like it'd been his first date. "Well, ah, you didn't try to feel her up did you, son?" Very casual and everything, that's what I am; store the extra butter in my mouth, I am so cool.

Mister fucking Smooth.

"He thought I was asking him if he had any trouble makin' out the forms and stuff, and of course he thought that must mean that secretly I really think that he's kind of stupid. Because a moderately smart house cat could fill out those forms if it could figure out how to hold a ballpoint pen in one of its front paws and press down good and hard because it's making several copies.

"Tyrone tries to keep his face straight. "Oh, fine-fine, no problem, fine." Like: "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"So that made me get right to the point. I haven't got any choice now.

I have to come right out and ask him.

"Cause I don't want that happening, any racial shit, which these cops, some of them I know are capable of that. Even though some of the other cops they work with and get along with perfectly fine, no problems at all, they also happen to be black; makes absolutely no difference at all, they still are capable of this shit and there's no use pretending otherwise, and… and I just don't want any of it happening, any way at all. And if it is I want to know about it, and I'll do something about it. We got enough problems in this line of work without havin' any that shit goin' down.

And we're not gonna have it, as long's I'm around in charge of things, and that's all there fuckin' is to it."

"Tyrone," I said, "here is what it is: the guy is not a bigot. Ev Whalen's not a bigot and he's not a racist either. But if he said something, or did something, maybe acted a certain way that made you feel like he is, all you've got to do is tell me what it was that made you uncomfortable, and I'll put an end to it. Once I talk to him, he'll be just as upset as I am, you took it that way. Because he isn't that way. He's not that type of guy."

"And Tyrone, Tyrone he just look at me and shake his head, and he be laffin' at me? He do, and then he say to me: "You really something', Amby, yes, you really, truly are." Then he clapped me on the back and said: "But you can put your mind at ease here, because everything is cool. Nothin' to concern yourself, not a thing at all. Everyone was very nice. Everything is cool."

"I am never sure whether Tyrone's playin' straight with me or givin' me the leg, and I will admit that. He's been workin' for me in the same office with me for several years and they have been happy years. I think we like each other fine. But every now and then I get the feeling that my friend Tyrone may be funnin' with me some, you know?

Just a little bit; keep his hand in and all, givin' me the leg when I think he's bein' straight."

Tyrone Thomas, thirty-eight, formerly of Cambridge, had become the third assistant clerk of the Canterbury District Court when Merrion had plucked him out of the lower third of the civil service list and appointed him in 1989 at the suggestion of State Sen. William Gallagher of Hingham, Chairman of the Senate Committee on Post Audit and Oversight. Merrion did not know or have any occasion to speak to Gallagher. Gallagher had never laid eyes on Thomas. Gallagher's suggestion had been relayed to Merrion by Dan Hilliard, president of Hampton Pond Community College.

Hilliard's request for a special supplemental appropriation of $3.9 million to finance construction of a new HPCC building incorporating a student union and computer center along with 'much-needed faculty offices and expanded vocational counseling facilities' was short one vote for inclusion in the consensus budget under review by the Senate Committee on Ways and Means. Sen. Tobias Green of Boston controlled that vote.

"I can't budge him, Dan," Gallagher told Hilhard. "You know I love you dearly and I want you to have your game room and your bar-and-grill and pool hall, jai-alai court and rumpus room. Everything you say you've got to have or else the students starved for knowledge'll burn down the entire campus and put you out of work. But Green's the swing-vote, and he's not gonna budge until he gets what he wants, which is a court clerkship for this Thomas kid. Not later; right now. Green has checked and he knows there's one open out at your end of the world, in Canterbury. If it's promised to someone else and you can't pry it loose, that's all right. At least it's all right with me. It wont be all right with Tobias; he'll call you a racist and say now he knows you're in the Klan. He thinks that, you don't get your building."

Hilhard said he'd make the call and get back to Gallagher. Mernon said to Hilhard: "Good. Send that darky out here on the next stage. This's the best news I've had since my no-good fucking brother Chris swore to me for I think it was the fourth time that he'll never speak to me again. This time I think he means it. Now you come along and tell me that this means that fucking vacancy more like an open sore is finally going to be filled.

"My Christian heart is filled with joy. Now I know Larry was telling the truth when he said he was happy when I got the job. He told me when Chassy Spring he was appointing me, 'cause you had hammered Chassy, he'd never been so damned relieved in all of his born days.

"You getting it meant I was free. Free of all the nagging bastards who been after that damned job. "Sorry," I could then tell them, "Dan Hilhard's man's the winner. You gotta beef, it's with him. I can't help you one bit."

"I didn't believe him then, but now I do, I do. It's the exact same thing with me. Now I can finally tell the late Richie Hammond's favorite nephew and also the late Larry Lane's grandson that the fucking job is filled and they are out of fucking luck, "So stop pestering me and beat it."

"The Lane grandson especially. His mother came from miles away she was in Japan, the time to help boot Grampa Larry out of his own house and make him go somewhere else to die. But her kid is delicate; he told me he suffers from chronic depression and can't leave his bedroom about ninety-eight days a year. I told him this makes it hard for me and Lennie Cavanaugh to see how he could possibly hold down a job in the courthouse. I told him having to go to the courthouse every day makes even perfectly normal and stable people like me, haven't got a thing wrong with them, feel pretty depressed quite a lot.

"He thinks that shouldn't matter. He thinks the fact his gallant unsung dad singlehandedly resolved some trade dispute with Taiwan should make everything all right for him, always, in perpetuity. In other words, what I think doesn't matter. He wants the job and therefore I should give it to him.

"Now I can tell him he's probably right, but I can't do it for him.

And: "If you're down in Hell hstenin', Larry, understand that this one's for you." I can tell the same thing to the Hammond kid, too, who obviously doesn't know his late Uncle Richie hated me and did everything he could think of to fuck me over, or what warm feelings I still have for the bastard. "And Larry, if you're still kstenin', if you should run into Richie down there, tell him this one's also for me."

"I will say to those two fresh kids: "Hate to tell you this, guys, but the both of you seem to've lost out. To a nigger, can you beat it?

Hey, it's Affirmative Action what can I tell you? I've been neutered, made to sing soprano and rendered powerless, also my hands have been tied. But I want you to know, I'll always have you in my heart."

"Same for the other four hundred and thirty-two people who've also let it be known that they'd like the job. Not a bunch of fireballs; most of them look to me like they need their rest and generally manage to get it. I will tell them you got me in a hammerlock, ignored my piteous cries, and ordered me like the Nazi you are to give it to this fine young gentleman of color. So now they can stop calling me and start calling you day and night to threaten you with death for giving it to Amos. Or was it Andy you just said? Whichever, doesn't matter;

I can't wait 'til he gets here."

Senator Green until his entry into politics in 1981 had for several years taught social studies and coached the jay vee football and basketball teams at Cambridge Ridge and Latin High School, where he had encountered Tyrone Thomas. Thomas had been the youngest son of a single mother whose two elder boys, by different footloose fathers, had both been in trouble with the law before apparently getting themselves straightened out as US Army volunteers. Tyrone had not been a standout as student or athlete, but he was a genuinely nice kid, and he had become one of Green's favorites, using his average intelligence as diligently in the classroom as he did his body and his average skills when playing sports, cheerfully doing what Green, his mentor and after a while his surrogate father told him to do. He earned a B+ average and varsity letters as a second-stringer in football, basketball and track, and received a need-based scholarship from the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester.

Correctly assessing as poor his prospects of even a brief career in professional sports, and believing that the practices and games took too much time away from his studies, Thomas dropped football midway through his first season and basketball after his sophomore year at the Cross, slightly disappointing one of the basketball coaches who had hoped he might develop into a capable substitute small forward, but gratifying Green. Green said Thomas's decision was a mature judgment, confirmed by his subsequent graduation with a 2.7 grade-point low B average in sociology, and his subsequent admission to the New England School of Law in Boston.

Thomas earned his J.D. while partially supporting himself and two children his wife, Carol, also worked, as a $17,000-a-year clerk-typist in the State Department of Revenue as a $24,000-a-year assistant manager of the Great American Inn motel on Fresh Pond Parkway in Arlington. When he graduated he had firm assurances from GAI upper management that his record in Arlington coupled with his college and law degrees put him on the fast track for early promotion to the national executive offices in Alexandria. He was flattered and inclined to stay with the company.

Senator Green told him not to do it. He said: "If you do that, Tyrone, if you sell yourself to them, you will be a big fool. Because that is how they do it now. They don't sell us in the markets any more to white planters who will own us 'til they decide it's time to sell us again. What they show us now is this tinhorn fantasy of a great career so that we will sell ourself on it; do it to ourselves. What they will do with you is they will take you down there to Virginia, and give you some hocus-pocus about how grand you're going to be, if you stay with Good Kind Massa Company.

"What that grandness will be, Tyrone, when you finally achieve it and your head has cleared enough so that you can see what you have got, will be a desk and a chair outside of the office where the white boys go inside and shut the door to run the store, and that is where you'll always be, no matter where they send you. And send you they will. They will make you move and move, and then they'll make you move again, all around this great big country, anywhere they need to put a black man's face where folks can see it. No matter what they call it, that will be your purpose. That's what you'll be for. A mannequin, store-window dummy, nothing more 'n that; and you and Carol and your kids will have one lousy life. You wont ever be, anywhere, son.

"You'll always be where you happen to be now, on the way to someplace else. Not where you were before and not where you're going next, never anywhere. And then one day you'll get old and be retired, and you wont know where you want to be, or even where you've been. That's what they've always done to us, kept us on the move. "Noplace" will be your home. And that's no way to live.

"No, you listen to me, Tyrone. I've never let you down. I will find something for you. I will find you a good place."

"What was the other one's name there again now?" Whalen said. "The woman, I mean, not the new black kid. Jeannie, Jeannie Flagg there, 'm I right? Now there is a very nice broad. All of us like her a lot.

Not much to look at, I grant you that, she should lose a few pounds, but still, a very nice broad. Very businesslike woman. Knows what her job is and does it. Very professional person. Last week there we had her in here both nights. Didn't see you at all.

"Anyway, it's been a while we seen you in here. Nice to have you back.

Got something goin' on, have you, getting' too good for us here? You been very busy or something?"

"Not particularly, no," Merrion said, feeling easy and relaxed and in command. "No busier'n usual, for the summer months, at least. I hadda have a woman we've got under more or less loose supervision come and see me in the office this morning. We've been hearin' some things that we didn't like, kind of thing she might be doin'. Kind of a sad case, really. Isn't what you'd call too sharp. Doesn't have a steady job; lost the one she had. No one to watch out for her, take care of her.

Not much you can really do. So I made her come in today. Give her another talkin'-to, see if maybe that'll do a little good, get her straightened out again. Though of course it's hard to say. You know how it is, you guys: want to help the people that you come in contact with, but whether what you do does help, you never really know."

Whalen showed no sign of interest in the woman's problem or identity.

That indicated either that he already knew all he felt he needed to know about Janet LeClerc, or else that he knew nothing and was relying on his good and well-informed friend Ambrose Merrion to bring him up to speed if there was anything about her that he ought to know. All right, then, nothing to be concerned about; it was always hard to know what detail in any offering would capture Whalen's magpie attention as the jewel to be seized, and often necessary to offer several choices.

"Got in a round of golf with Danny after lunch this afternoon. Went down to West Springfield, saw my mother in the home. Geez, those nuns're awful good. They really do good work. All those poor people in there half-gaga, two-thirds of them out of their gourds, no idea which end is up, and those nuns're with them all the time. Don't get any relief. It must be an awful strain on them, hard life to hoe.

Makes you kinda think twice, all this stuff we keep hearin' all the time, cutting' back on Medicare. Nuns look to me as though they're getting' pretty old themselves, getting' right up there. And no young ones comin' up, young girls goin' inna convents, you believe what you read inna paper. Makes you wonder a little, you know? "Well, what's gonna happen, we get old and so forth, take care of us?" Kind of makes you stop and think: "Whoa, what we doin' to ourselves here?"

"Danny's still do in' good, is he?" Merrion wasn't sure but Whalen seemed to be showing more interest.

"Oh yeah, Danny's always doin' great," Merrion said, dialing up his alertness a notch or two. "Doin' very well, he is. Extremely well, in fact. Kicked the shit out of me again out on the course today, for one example cost me the usual twenny bucks. So yeah, I'd say he's doin' all right. Danny's lookin' good."

This'd be out at Grey Hills there, wouldn't it?" Whalen said, slightly disconcerting Merrion by seeming to act as though he, not Merrion, had been the fisherman feeling the soft tenative strike and Merrion, not he, was going to be the fish. "You and him, Danny Hilliard: this'd be the spot there where you two guys always play?"

"Well, ah, yeah," Merrion said, thrilling slightly, finding himself either playing or being played in a game he didn't fully understand but which seemed as though it could be dangerous, 'that's where we belong.

So that's where we generally play. Pay all that money, you know, to belong, get so you know the course pretty good — doesn't hardly seem to make much sense, really, you then go and play somewhere else."

"I heard that's a pretty hard place to get into," Whalen said, musing.

"Heard it costs a lot of money, too. Arm and your other fuckin' leg to go with it, as the fella likes to say. "Course Danny and you, you can prolly afford it. Danny really must've done awful good in that job, what I hear, when he was bein' a rep. House in Bell Woods anna one onna Cape, Martha's Vineyard, wherever it was."

"Well," Merrion said, 'he doesn't…"

"You know I never been on Martha's Vineyard?" Whalen said it with a note of surprise. "Never went there in my life. Always thought I'd like to some day. People say it's so nice." He paused and considered.

"Lots of things I haven't done," he said, and frowned. Then he shook his head once, as though clearing it.

"An' thenna divorce; he had that too, did dun he, few years ago?"

Whalen said. Merrion nodded. "Sure, that's what I thought," Whalen said. "And they can be very expensive. Have to figure that cost him some dough. So I wouldn't know how much he's got left, probably not very much. But still, like I say, must've done awful good, for a guy that was just a state rep. You, you been single, all of your life, so prolly you could afford it." He paused again, as though expecting a comment, but Mernon's mouth had become dry and he did not know what to say. He said nothing.

"But I never could, alia rich guys; I could never belong to no club like that. I know that without even askm'. Hell, I never even been m one. Only golf course I ever even been to was the Veterans', anyone can get in down in Springfield. I went there once with Billy, my wife's kid brother, Billy. He always used to play a lot there, back when he was still alive. He was on total disability, the full one-hundred fuckin' percent. So he always had plenty of time. Money, too. Plenty of time and plenty of money. Guess it ought be that way, though, you got hit with something means you're gonna die that young.

He got sprayed with Agent Orange, Vietnam. So there wasn't any question it was honest; he was sick. You couldn't really begrudge him.

He was always onna lookout for company, someone to go with him when he played. He played every chance he got, every day the weather let him.

I was workin' mostly nights then, so he asked me once did I think I'd like to try it, maybe even take it up.

"I said: "Shit, I dunno. How'd I know? I did dun know the first thing about it." And he said: "Well, that's how you find out. Otherwise you never know. You should come with me, some time, and find out how you like it." Well, I didn't really wanna, but his sister, who's my wife, she was always after me, be nice to Billy. "He is dyin' and we have to treat him nice." So we made a date and the next time he was going he came over and he picked me up and I went with him. To the Veterans', like I said; that was where he always played.

"I didn't actually play, myself. What I did was, I just walked around with him. But I didn't think I'd like it. It seemed like it was awful complicated, before you even got so you were learnin' how to go about it. And you hadda have an awful lot of stuff there, that equipment, which I then had to figure… well, Billy, he said you could rent it if you didn't have it yourself and you weren't sure that you wanted to go out and buy it. Special shoes and everything, which I guess you have to wear. Not that I did, just had sneakers, but of course I wasn't playin'.

"I figured even that it'd have to cost a lot of money, and Christina and me, we sure didn't have much of that stuff lying around loose at that time or any other time I can recall, the kid and all. I never came right out and told him that I wasn't gonna do it. We just sort of left it hanging up in the air there, the way you'll do when you don't really want to decide about something but you sort of know you have.

"Then he died. I never did find out what happened to his clubs. They were nice. He told me that they cost four hundred dollars. I don't think I ever saw them after that, when he was dead. Maybe one his buddies must've took 'em. Had to've been that he didn't have no kids to take 'em so it wouldn't've been them. Friend of his must've come and took 'em.

"You two, though, I guess you and Hilhard there, you've belonged up Grey Hills there a pretty long time, right? So you two must've played a lot."

"Over twenty years," Merrion said. "Joined there back in the Seventies. "Way back, turn of the century, it was a big private estate. Belonged to a guy named Jesse Grey. Big mill-owner, Holyoke.

Went to hell in the Depression. Then the bishop bought it, diocese of Springfield. After the war a group of wealthy people from around here got together and bought it from him, from the diocese: Warren Corey, all his pals. They thought they were aristocrats, elite. Very snobby and selective. Had to know who your grandparents were and more'n that, had to've liked 'em; didn't count if they'd been the servants 'fore they'd let your ass in the front door. Not all that keen on Catholics, either, unless they're from 'way out of town hadda be New York, London or Paris. Or Nazareth, maybe; that might've done it."

He hesitated but Whalen's face showed no sign of amusement. "Anyway, hadda be famous places like that. Very picky, back in those days, about who they'd let in. But then after a while, the snobs reached the point where they were beginning to run out of money. Gave them a whole different attitude, new outlook on the Great Unwashed. They decided they needed new blood, or at least new bank accounts. So they announced that they were expanding; that was when me and Danny joined up."

"Pretty expensive, I suppose?" Whalen said.

"Well, it certainly wasn't cheap," Merrion said. "Not by my standards, at least. It's been so long ago I forget what it was, but I know it sure wasn't cheap.

"We thought long and hard about it 'fore we did it, Dan and I did,"

Merrion said, feeling he was talking too much and too nervously, giving away more information than he wanted to, but hoping to create some harmless tangent that would divert Whalen from the topic of Dan Hilliard's finances. "We talked it over quite a bit, thought about it a hell of a lot. Our feeling then was that Yeah, it was too expensive, but this might be the only opening wed ever get. And even if it wasn't, we knew wed never see a better price. Financially, no, it wasn't the best time in the world for us, either one of us, no, but the way we looked at it, we had to move. The chance probably wouldn't come along again. They got enough other new members to get them over the hump, they'd close the membership again. So we said: "What the hell, only go around once," and went ahead and signed up."

"How much did it cost you, don't mind me asking," Whalen said.

"Hell no, I don't mind," Merrion said, minding a great deal indeed and silently cursing the man. "I'd tell you if I knew, but that was a long time ago. It was no small amount, I can tell you that much, but exactly, I don't remember."

"Tell me about, then," Whalen said, 'about how much do you think it was? A thousand or two thousand bucks?"

"Oh no," Merrion said, thinking Fuck, hoping he was still speaking calmly, "I know it was more'n that. I remember saying to Danny back then: "I must be nuts. I could trade in my car on a new one for this, get a brand new Olds for myself." So it must've been two or three grand." Whalen's eyes widened and he looked like he might be going to say something, so Merrion hurried on. "But we went through with it anyway. One way or the other we scraped up the dough. I ended up driving the same car for about nine years, I think it was, and the cars they built then didn't last as long as the ones they're building today.

It was always breaking down on me, really a pain in the ass.

"But now I'm glad I did it. Now I think it was worth it. You need something like that to stay sane."

"Maybe that's why the wife's always saying that I'm nuts," Whalen said mildly, his voice carrying no hint of sarcasm. "I never had nothing like that at all. No way to stay sane. Couldn't afford one. Not if it cost as much as a new Oldsmobile. Heck, I never even had a new Studebaker or something; I never had a new car."

"We always have a good time," Merrion said, beginning to feel some hope that if he could just keep talking, scattering shiny conversational chaff in the air between them until the prisoners started to come out, he would be safe. "Well, Danny usually has a better tim en I do, 'cause he usually beats me. I have fun, he wins the bets. Always gets me on the back nine. We come into the turn, I'm usually doin' all right, you don't know what always happens next. I usually got at least a couple, maybe three or four strokes onna guy. This time comin' outta the turn, I'm up four.

"Okay then, boys and girls, here we go, then, into the vicious back nine. Both of us double-bogey the tenth, as usual. The booby trap. I can never play that hole, but Dan can't play it either. Over twenny years we've been playin' that damned hole, and for alia those years it's been beatin' us silly, poundin' the shit out of us. I dunno why it is. It looks so goddamned easy. Deceptive, is what it is. Looks like you could get your par you played it half-asleep.

"Straightaway, par four, little over four hundred yards, four-oh-five's what the book says: Nothin' tricky, piece of cake. Nice wide fairway, all you gotta do's hit it straight and you'll be havin' candy.

Theoretically you want your second shot to be up onto the green, but for most of us ordinary mortals that's gonna be your third shot you'll be tryin' to lay up there nice and soft. But be reasonable here: I'll take a bogey-five on a four-hundred-yarder any day. Eighteen bogeys and what've I done? I've shot a ninety, is what; I never did that in my life.

"Well, a couple times, yeah, I did, but that was a long time ago. My hand-eye thing was much better then. Bound to slip some, you get older. I didn't think about things so much then; I just went ahead and I did them, and that's always the way to play golf. You get old, you get so you start thinkin' too much."

Whalen evidently wasn't interested in discussing the ravages of age; he said nothing. "But anyway, the green's uphill, and not only that but it's tiered, and the upshot of it anyway's we both take fuckin' sevens.

The tenth hole's beat us again.

"But that's all right. I'm still okay, still up by the four. But not for long. We're swappin' strokes alia way to fifteen. Wolf River runs along the left there; you got a hook like I do, you got that to think about. Which I of course do, think about it, and like I said, that's not a good thing to do. So as usual Danny tucks it to me. Par four, three-fifty-nine, and what do I take? A nine, a big fat nine. Splashed one, of course, so busy tryin' not to do that that I naturally do it two strokes right there. And then got inna bunker; for good measure; dub my wedge 'fore I can get out. And then after I'm out, what do I do? Over the green and into the opposite sand trap One beach is nice, try the other.

"And what's Danny doing, I am having all this fun? He's parring the thing, naturally, like he pretty nearly always does. He's got the Indian sign, some kind of hex thing on that fifteen hole. He owns it.

I don't know why that should be; it just is. Always been that way, too."

Whalen shifted his weight from his right foot to his left and moved his upper body away from the wall. Merrion hoped that indicated he was growing restless. "But then anyway, there we both are, playin' sixteen, even again like we started. We got three holes left.

Theoretically I should be able, get a stroke or two of my lead back.

Right. Both of us bogey the sixteenth, which I have had days, I could play that. This just didn't happen to be one of them. But then it all becomes academic, because I double-bogey the seventeenth and he comes away with a bogey. Danny's the one who picks up the stroke, and that'll be it for the day. The last one, the eighteenth we both take a seven. He ends up, he beats me by one. So it's me payin' him twenty bucks."

Whalen stood and looked at Merrion as though he had been led to expect that Merrion had an act that would entertain him, and while he had enjoyed what he had seen up to that point, he wasn't sure whether there might still be some more to come. Not wishing to offend Merrion by seeming to presume the performance was over, he would therefore wait quietly until he got some kind of signal. He did not say anything.

"So I would say: Yeah, Danny looked all right to me," Merrion said, moistening his lips. "Looked okay to me there, at least, he was taking my money. Of course his busy season's comin' up here pretty soon, all the kids come back and so forth. So he's got that on his mind. Gettin' ready for the fall. But he's used to that, of course. That's a normal thing for him; happens every year."

"Because I did hear," Whalen said, now apparently satisfied Merrion had finished his presentation, "I heard things maybe might not be, you know, goin' so good for him. And I figured if that was the case, well, you know him. You would know. But you didn't hear nothin', I guess?

You didn't hear nothin' like that?"

"I don't, ah, follow," Merrion said, feeling sudden tightness cramp his chest and thinking if it was a heart attack it would just have to wait; the business at hand was not to panic. He decided it would get him time and seem appropriate to frown and look mildly concerned. "What kind of things, exactly?"

Whalen dropped his hands, hunched his shoulders, shrugged, purged his face of expression, refolded his arms and leaned his right shoulder back against the cinderblock. "I dunno," he said. "I dunno what it was. You know how it is, you hear something. Don't always pay that good attention, when somebody's sayin' it. Then later on you see someone, maybe see somebody else, and that reminds you of it, you know?"

Merrion cleared his throat and said "Gee," but to his enormous relief Whalen seemed to believe they had had enough conversation and to expect no answer. He turned his head slightly away from the wall and turned it back over his left shoulder, contorting his face so that when he raised his voice instead of actually yelling down the hall behind him he was hollering at the pocked surface of the opposite wall. "Hey Thompson, for Christ sake, hell's holdin' you up? Got Mister Merrion sittin' around here like he's got nothin' better to do. I got him down here 'cause you told me you got work for him. Now you got him coolin' his heels. Get the lead out, willya Christ sakes? Move things along for a change." Then he looked at Merrion and grinned.