Lights Out

17

Eddie awoke with a question on his mind: Did it matter if JFK was alive? was somewhere? He didn’t know the answer.

Jack was gone. He’d left a note on the coffee table, beside the bills he’d laid there the night before.

“Bro-here’s the card that opens the door and a pass for the health club. Did I mention the concierge? Hector? Don’t tip him-the fucker’s already taken care of. Back in a day or two. Get some clothes. Have a swim. Boogie. J.” At the bottom was a map showing the location of the health club, near Grand Central Station, and of Macy’s.

Eddie counted the money-$350-and left it where it was. He dressed in his sneakers and Prof’s sweatsuit, pocketed the note, the cards, and his Speedo, and started for the door. His hand was on the knob when he turned back, went into the bedroom, and opened the closet.

The suit Eddie had hung up for Jack was still there, between two pinstripes, one charcoal, one navy. Eddie checked the inside jacket pocket. The check for $230,000 was gone. He returned to the sitting room, came close to picking up the $350-it was just about equal to his take for the past fifteen years-and went out.

It was cold and rainy again, and everyone on the street looked pained. Not Eddie: just being outside was enough to make him happy. The rain fell in icy little pats on his bald head, like some exotic form of massage.

The Midtown Athletic and Racquet Club had everything Eddie’s hometown Y did not-a juice bar, fluffy towels, rows of the latest Nautilus, StairMaster, and LifeCycle machines, a cushioned track, men and women in fancy outfits, squash and tennis courts-everything but swimmers of Eddie’s class, or even Bobby Falardeau’s; or so he thought, watching the slow passage up and down the lanes. He dove into an empty one.

Right from the start he felt much better than he had in the hometown Y the day before; now he was a fluid being in a fluid medium. He swam for about an hour, just stretching out, listening to the water go by. He barely noticed when someone came up in the next lane, passed him with an easy fluttering kick. Eddie would have let him go, except he was curious about the ease of that kick.

He let loose a little, drew close on the next length, cruised half a body length behind, studying the other man’s technique. Not bad: he was swimming about fifteen stroke cycles per length, riding high in the water, keeping his head still; and he had that easy kick.

Eddie swam on, losing himself in the water, forgetting the other man. Forgetting, until the other man shot by him, passing him again. Shot by. And not because of an increase in arm speed. The other swimmer had decreased his arm speed, if anything; it was the underwater acceleration he’d speeded up.

Eddie did the same thing, felt himself surge. He was swimming beautifully, skimming, fluid and strong and fast. But the other swimmer drew farther and farther ahead. After three more laps, Eddie had lost sight of him. In ten more, he passed Eddie again. Eddie climbed out of the pool on his next touch.

The other man swam another lap, then fell back in the water, stretching. He looked up at Eddie and smiled. He was very young.

The young man climbed out, pulled on a Columbia sweatshirt. Columbia. Eddie didn’t remember it as a swimming power.

“You must have been really good,” the young man said. “Where’d you do your swimming?”

“Alcatraz,” Eddie replied. He’d learned something: It mattered whether JFK was alive, and where he was. It mattered a lot.

He went into the weight room. Eddie always started at the squat bar, but a woman in sheer tights and a pink leotard was there already. He waited until she finished her set and hoisted the bar back on the rack. She’d been lifting fifty pounds. Eddie added four hundred more, got under the bar, set his feet, got his grip, shouldered the bar, squatted, thrust himself back up. Usually he did three sets of ten, sometimes four. Today, feeling strong, he knew he could do five or even six. But after just that one lift, he lowered the bar back in the rack. He didn’t want to lift. Lifting was for making time go faster, a prison thing. Why would he want time to go faster now? He was free, free not to do something a little too much like breaking rocks in the hot sun. He walked away from the bar.

The woman in pink was chalking her hands and watching herself in the mirror at the same time; she was watching him too.

Eddie went into the showers. He was drying himself with one of the fluffy towels when he saw a sign: Steam bath: Co-Ed-Please Cover Up. He wrapped the towel around himself and went in.

Eddie had the steam bath to himself. It was small, with wooden benches lining three sides. He sat at the back, leaned against the tile wall. Steam hissed out of a nozzle in one corner, filling the room with wet heat, wonderful wet heat that reminded him right away of the shed by the red clay court.

I need more memories, he thought. He got hotter; sweat poured off him. Eddie forgot about the shed and simply felt his body relax, relax as though gravity had failed and all the muscles, ligaments, and tendons could finally stop straining to hold his bones together.

“Tell me your plans,” El Rojo had said.

And he’d answered, “A steam bath. After that I’d only be guessing.”

There was nothing wrong with the steam-bath part. It was a good plan. He wished he’d carried it out sooner. As he sweated he imagined that all the foulness, dirt, and corruption of the past fifteen years was seeping out of him, leaving him clean, pure, untouched.

Time passed. A man with a sandy mustache peered through the window of the steam-bath door but didn’t come in. Eddie grew thirsty, but he was so calm, so detached from everything outside that steam bath, that he made no move to leave. Even his thirst was strangely pleasant, perhaps because he knew he could slake it at will. Slake: he liked the word. It had lake in it, so it meant an endless supply of drinkable water. It was also good for rhyming.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

We could nor laugh nor wail;

Through utter drought all dumb we stood!

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,

And cried, A sail! a sail!

Arm biting, bloodsucking: Eddie had seen crazy things like that. He was remembering some of them when the door opened and a woman with a towel wrapped around her body materialized in the clouds of steam. She sat down on one of the side benches, sighed, and leaned her head against the wall.

The woman had a trim body, nicely cut hair, cool blue eyes. Because he didn’t think New York was the kind of place where you ran into people you knew, and because she wasn’t wearing her tortoiseshell glasses, it took Eddie a few surreptitious looks before he was sure he recognized her: Karen de Vere.

“Hi,” he said.

She gave him a cold glance, said nothing.

Karen? Miss de Vere? He wasn’t sure of the proper form. Ms. de Vere? Ms. sounded funny to him; he’d never used the word in conversation and it brought to mind eye-rolling black servants in old movies, but he had a hunch it was the right choice.

“Ms. de Vere?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re Karen de Vere, aren’t you?”

She squinted at him. “Do I know you?”

“Ed Nye. Jack’s brother.”

“Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I’m blind as a bat without my glasses.” Her towel slipped slightly, exposing the tops of her breasts. She hitched it back up.

“Jack’s a member here, isn’t he?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I never see him. I do aerobics and he’s into squash. The two crowds don’t mix. I suppose you’re a squash player too.”

“No,” Eddie said, trying to imagine Jack on a squash court. Even with the added weight, he’d probably be good. There wasn’t a game he couldn’t play.

Karen was starting to sweat too. Her skin shone; a drop rolled down her neck, disappeared between her breasts. Her eyes went to the “Yeah?” tattoo on Eddie’s arm, then up to his face.

“What do you do to keep in shape, Eddie?”

“Swim.”

“Do you belong to a place like this in Albany?”

“Albany?” said Eddie, and then remembered. “I use the Y.”

Karen’s towel slipped again. This time she didn’t bother adjusting it. “What do you do up there?”

“Nothing too hard,” Eddie said. “Just stretching out a little.”

She laughed. “I didn’t mean in the pool. I meant for a living.”

Why not tell her the truth? Eddie thought of a reason immediately: Jack did business with her, and knowing his brother was an ex-con might give her second thoughts, especially if Jack had spun some cover story about him last night. On the other hand, Jack might have told her the truth. “Didn’t Jack tell you?”

“He was very mysterious.”

“There’s no mystery. I’m looking for work.”

“In what area?”

“The junk-bond revival.”

Karen laughed. Jack had already prepared her for the fact that Eddie was a bit of a character.

“It’s tough out there, I know,” Karen said. “Any leads?”

“Plenty. I’ve got friends in low places.”

Karen laughed again and the towel slipped some more. Eddie didn’t think there was anything to it: this was just big-city sophistication.

“But at least you’re taking courses in the meantime,” Karen said. “That’s smart.”

“Courses?”

“That Monarch you dropped. Don’t worry-I won’t snitch to your prof.”

“Prof?”

“I had one who confiscated any crib she saw. Like it was smuggled dope or something.”

Eddie’s muscles, tendons, ligaments, didn’t feel so relaxed anymore, and he was very thirsty. “It’s just for pleasure,” he said.

She smiled. “Dope?”

“The Monarch.”

“I’m teasing. What kind of Monarch does anyone read for pleasure?”

For some reason, Eddie didn’t want to tell her. He could see no way to avoid it. “ ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’ ”

“You’re kidding.”

“I guess it’s just a trifle,” Eddie said, recalling Ram’s opinion; a trifle like “The Cremation of Sam McGee.”

“I hope not,” said Karen. “I wrote my senior thesis on it. ‘The Cruciform Bird: Christian Symbolism, Coleridge, and the Fate of the Mariner.’ ”

Karen laughed. Eddie laughed too. This was fun-fun to sit in the steam bath with this beautiful woman, wrapped in fluffy towels, throwing words around. The man with the sandy mustache peeked through the window again and went away.

“If it’s for pleasure, why not just read the poem?” Karen asked.

“I know the poem,” Eddie said. “It’s just that-”

“What do you mean, you know it?”

“By heart.”

“The whole thing?”

Eddie nodded. She looked at him, bathed in sweat now. “I don’t believe you.”

Eddie could have recited the beginning, as he had for the bookstore boy. Or he could have recited the arm-biting stanza, since it had just been on his mind. Instead, he began:

Her lips were red, her looks were free,

Her locks were yellow as gold.

His voice dropped.

“Go on.”

He didn’t want to go on. The sentiment was crude, the comparison inappropriate, applying to Sookray, maybe, but not to this woman.

Karen, in a low voice, finished it for him:

Her skin was as white as leprosy,

The nightmare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,

Who thicks men’s blood with cold.

There was silence, except for the hissing steam.

“What does your crib make of that?” Karen said.

“I don’t know,” Eddie said. “I got it to find out something else.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s kind of stupid.”

“I doubt it.”

They looked at each other through the steam. Her legs had parted slightly. Her left knee was almost touching his right. His whole right leg tingled, as though it were being acted upon by some force.

Eddie cleared his throat. “I’m trying to find out why the Mariner shoots the albatross in the first place.”

Karen didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. He started to like her. “There are only two explanations I can see,” she said.

“What are they?”

“The first, less supported by the text, is the Everest explanation.”

“Because it was there?”

“Check. And the second, which fits much better, is the apple-and-Eve explanation.”

“Meaning?”

“Original sin.”

Eddie didn’t like that one. He preferred some of his own devising-such as the Mariner was afraid of sailing fast, or jealous that the bird could fly.

“Doesn’t grab, huh?” said Karen.

“No.”

“I didn’t believe in original sin either for the longest time. My work has convinced me otherwise.”

What had Jack said? She managed family money. “You’re an investor?”

“Right.”

Eddie didn’t see how that would give her special insight into original sin, and she offered no elaboration.

“I’m going to melt,” Karen said. She stood up, leaving a sweaty imprint of her sex on the bench. “And I’ve got to give your brother a call, as a matter of fact.”

Eddie rose too. “He’s out of town.”

Her voice grew sharper. “Where?” She hitched up her towel.

Eddie paused. They were very close. The heat, the nearness of their almost-naked bodies: what would happen if he just put his arms around her? He had no idea. He looked down into her eyes. There was something odd about them, but he couldn’t place it.

“I can’t believe he didn’t tell me,” Karen said, backing away. Suddenly she was angry. “That’s so sloppy of him. He knew this was rollover day. We discussed it last night. This is going to cost-him and us.”

Eddie didn’t know what rollover day meant, or how missing it would cost anyone. But it all sounded probable. “He’s gone to Grand Cayman. I don’t know where he’s staying.”

“Thank Christ,” Karen said. “I know where he stays. You just saved him a bundle. And me.”

Eddie was pleased, and more pleased when she smiled and said: “Now I owe you one.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. And I’m free for dinner tonight.”

“Me too.”

She laughed. He felt her breath on his face, cool in the atmosphere of the steam bath. “Pick you up at six,” she said. “Dress casual.”

And then she was out the door, trailing steam. For a moment Eddie was breathless, and not just because of the heat.

It wasn’t until later, in the shower, that he realized what had been odd about Karen’s eyes: he’d seen the circular outlines of transparent discs floating on her cool blue irises. How could she be blind as a bat when she was wearing contact lenses?

18

Dress casual: what did it mean?

Eddie wandered around Macy’s, checking out the clothes and lots of other things, even trying on a blue blazer in front of a three-way mirror. He noticed stubble on his head. He hadn’t shaved it for a while, no longer had his Remington, of course; that was one of the gifts he’d left for Prof. The stubble had a tarnished sheen. Eddie stepped closer to the mirror, and saw that his hair was growing in gray.

“Fabulous,” said the clerk. “It fits you like a glove.”

Eddie left Macy’s without buying the blazer or anything else, and returned to Jack’s suite at the Palazzo. Jack would know how to dress casual. In the bedroom, he opened drawers full of stuff, better than anything he’d seen at Macy’s. There were all kinds of colors and textures. Eddie had worn denim so long he’d forgotten what matched what. He began putting on and taking off clothes, reminded of a scene in a book about Marie Antoinette.

Some time later he was standing in front of the mirror again, wearing a black cotton turtleneck, a blue wool sweater, gray corduroy pants rolled up an inch or two and held in place by a tightly cinched woven-leather belt, gleaming loafers with tassels on them.

He studied his reflection. A clever trick, like the photographic blending of ruffian’s head on Ivy Leaguer’s body. Fabulous. Fit like a glove, but someone else’s. He stuck his hands in the pockets, trying for casual, and withdrew a half-full pack of Camels. He came close to lighting one, came close to throwing the pack away, ended by putting it back in his pocket.

At six o’clock the phone buzzed. “I’m downstairs,” said Karen de Vere.

Karen did look fabulous: her hair was swept up, revealing the substructure of her face, at once strong and fine. She wore jeans, leather boots, a leather jacket; and her tortoise-shell glasses. She offered her hand. He shook it: warm, dry, not without power.

“You look so much like your brother,” she said, “except for the hair. But I guess everyone tells you that.”

“We don’t hang out with the same people,” Eddie replied.

Karen almost laughed; but how could she have gotten the joke? Eddie saw the laugh coming in her eyes; then she stifled it.

“Did you get in touch with him?” Eddie asked.

“Everything’s fine.”

Karen had a car outside, a low Japanese two-seater. “Not too hungry, I hope,” she said. “It takes about an hour.”

“Fine.”

They drove out of Manhattan, onto a bridge, headed north. She stuck a cassette into the tape player. “Like jazz?” she said. “I’m sick of rock.”

A bass played a bouncy line that made Eddie think of hippos, then came a trumpet, soaring above. “Me too.” He’d heard nothing but rock blasting out of the cell blocks for fifteen years.

Karen drove fast, cutting from lane to lane. She watched the road ahead. From time to time, he watched her. The clouds darkened and darkened, and then it was night.

“Funny thing,” she said, as they crossed the Connecticut line. “I’ve known Jack a number of years. Business, but we’ve had lunch a few times, went to a hockey game once, if I recall.”

“You like hockey?”

“Just the fighting,” said Karen. “The point is, in all the time I’ve know him, he never mentioned you.”

“I’m the black sheep.”

“How so?”

“You know how families are,” Eddie said, although his own didn’t deserve the name.

“I know how mine is-completely screwed up,” Karen said. She glanced at him; oncoming headlights glared on the lenses of her glasses. “What makes you the black sheep?”

Eddie shrugged.

“Jack did make an animal analogy last night about you, now that I think of it, although it was to a bird, not a sheep.”

Eddie waited.

“The albatross, specifically. Odd, given our earlier conversation about ‘The Mariner.’ ”

An icy wave flowed across Eddie’s shoulders and down his spine. He hadn’t felt anything like it since the moment in the shower room when he’d come to and realized what Louie and the Ozark brothers had done. Icy: because Jack considered him an albatross; because Jack would tell someone; because of what it said about his own obsession-yes-with the poem.

Karen was looking at him again. This time there was no headlight glare, and her eyes were nothing but black sockets. The trumpeter began something that sounded like “Where or When” and quickly lost its wistfulness. Karen said: “Sometimes there are coincidences that don’t mean anything-like when you’re reading a word and someone says it on the radio at the same time. But some coincidences mean a lot.”

“Do they?” Eddie said.

“If you believe that things go on under the surface.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Eddie said. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re smart, and you know something about life. Anyone can see that.”

“Not Floyd K. Messer,” said Eddie.

“Who’s he?”

“An old colleague.”

“In what business was that?”

“Warehousing.”

Karen turned off at an exit, drove through a prosperous town and onto a country road. The headlights picked out details in the darkness: the white fence of a stable, reflective tape on the heels of a jogger’s shoes, a sign that read “Antiques” in Gothic letters, to prove how old they were.

“That’s to prove how old they are,” Eddie said.

Karen laughed. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Some coincidences mean a lot. The icy feeling subsided.

In a few miles they came to the restaurant, Au Vieux Marron. Outside it looked like a barn; inside like a French country inn, or what Eddie imagined a French country inn to be. The maitre d’ welcomed them in French. Karen answered him in French. She said something that made him laugh. He showed them to a table by a window overlooking a pond. A waiter arrived.

“Something to drink?”

“Kir,” said Karen.

“Monsieur?”

Eddie didn’t know what kir was, thought that beer might not be fancy enough. “Armagnac,” he said.

“Prior to the meal, monsieur?”

The waiter was watching him; so was Karen. “With ice,” Eddie said. The waiter withdrew.

Drinks came, and later food. Eddie ordered canard because it was the only word he knew on the menu. He’d never had duck like this-thin underdone slices of breast served with a sauce that tasted like raspberries, only more tart. The name of the recipe seemed to have something to do with Inspector Maigret; Eddie had read several books in the series, liking them mostly for their descriptions of food and drink, and the relish with which Maigret consumed them.

“Good?” said Karen.

“Good.”

She was eating something Eddie couldn’t identify from the menu, still couldn’t identify when it arrived. It didn’t matter. The food was delicious; she had another kir, he had another Armagnac-she taught him how to order it “avec glacons,” and how to say several other things in French, such as, “I’m going to call the cops,” and “Take it or leave it.” Eddie caught a glimpse of what life could be like at the happy-go-lucky end. Under the table their feet touched; Karen waited a few moments before shifting hers away.

It was all false, of course. He knew that deep down the whole time, knew it up front between courses, as soon as Karen looked at him over the rim of her glass and said, “So tell me about yourself, Eddie Nye.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“It’s true.”

“It can’t be. You’re between jobs, for instance.”

“Right.”

“Tell me about that.”

“It’s the same old story.”

“What did you do before?”

Why not just tell her the truth? He knew it wasn’t simply to protect Jack. He didn’t want to tell her because he didn’t want to see the expression that would come into those cool blue eyes when she found out.

“I was involved in a resort development.”

“Was this after the warehousing business?”

“The warehousing business doesn’t count.”

Karen stabbed a strange-looking mushroom. “Where was the resort?” She popped it in her mouth.

“In the Bahamas.”

“Which island?”

“The banana-shaped one.”

Karen laughed, but only for a moment. He was starting to like that laugh-it was loud and came from deep inside-and was trying to think of a way to trigger it again, when she said: “What’s this banana island called on the map?”

“Saint Amour.”

“It’s lovely.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Sailed by a few years ago. I hope you didn’t spoil it.”

“Spoil it?”

“With your development.”

“It wasn’t my development. I just worked there.”

She stabbed another mushroom. “Was Jack involved?”

“Yes.”

“Funny.”

“Funny?”

“He never mentioned that either.”

“He went on to bigger and better things.”

“Don’t I know,” said Karen.

Soon the waiter arrived with coffee. “Another Armagnac, monsieur?”

“Okay,” Eddie said, although he was suddenly conscious of how much he’d been drinking since he’d found Jack.

“Avec glacons?”

“Now I can have it sans, can’t I?” Sans-it came to him from his reading: “La Belle Dame Sans Merci,” whatever the hell that was about. Karen laughed; even the waiter smiled.

Karen stirred her coffee. “So Windward wasn’t involved in the resort.”

“No.”

“J. M. Nye and Associates?”

“It was before all that.”

Karen shot him a quick glance. It said: You’ve been out of work for a long time.

The waiter laid the bill in front of Eddie. It came in a leather folder, as though there was something to hide. “Why don’t I take that?” Karen said. “I invited you.”

“I ate the most,” Eddie said, opening the folder: $107.50. That surprised him.

“I insist,” Karen said.

“Next time,” Eddie said. She smiled. He laid down the $100 bill and the rest of his money, making $124.75. Not enough tip. He remembered the $350 sitting on the table. Jack’s $350.

They went outside. The sky had cleared. There was a moon and stars. The trees were black, the pond silver. Karen took Eddie’s arm. “Let’s go for a walk.”

They walked around the pond, following a footpath of crushed stone. Karen still held his arm. “You don’t know much about your brother’s business, do you?” she said.

“Should I?”

“You were involved in it.”

“What do you mean?”

“At that resort.”

“It wasn’t Jack’s. We were just employees.”

“Who owns it?”

“I don’t know who owns it now.”

“Who owned it then?”

“People named Packer.”

She stopped. “You don’t mean Raleigh Packer?”

“No,” Eddie said. But then he remembered Brad and Evelyn’s son, the one Jack had met at USC. “Who’s Raleigh Packer?”

“One of Jack’s associates. Former associates.”

Eddie made another mental leap. “The one who went to jail.”

Karen let go of his arm. “So you do know something about Jack’s business.”

“That’s all I know.”

Karen was silent. Eddie picked up a flat stone and skipped it across the pond. It left footprints of quivering silver in the moonlight.

“What jail is he in?”

“Raleigh Packer? He’s in a halfway house somewhere. He only spent a few months in jail. Jail of the country-club type.”

“What for?”

“Stealing. The indictment was complicated, but it came down to stealing.”

“Stealing from who?”

“Investors.”

“You?”

“No. I just signed on with Jack last night, as a matter of fact.”

“So why do you know all this?”

“I do my research.”

Eddie scaled another stone. It bit into the water and disappeared on first contact. “I’d like to see Raleigh Packer.”

“Why?”

“Just to find out how he’s doing.”

“Did you know him?”

“I knew his parents.”

“We have something in common, then, besides Jack,” Karen said. “I’ve met his mother.”

“Where is she?”

“In the area.” Karen picked up a stone. “Try this one.”

Eddie whipped it over the pond. It skipped once off the silvery surface, rose, and disappeared into the night, as though launched into space.

Eddie stared out over the water. Karen moved close to him. “I like you, Eddie,” she said. “I think you should go back to Albany or somewhere similar.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just to be on the safe side.”

“The safe side of what?”

Karen didn’t answer. She just took his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. “I’m attracted to you,” she said. “And I haven’t been attracted to anyone in a long time. Remember that, no matter what happens.”

“What could happen?”

“Anything.”

Anything could happen when you were free; even getting kissed by a woman like this. Eddie took Karen in his arms, kissed her. She responded, even moaned, very low, but he heard it. The sound thrilled him, spurring his imagination. It rushed ahead, much too far, developing snapshots of a wonderful future: he and Karen, a house, even children. She pushed him away. “Let’s go,” she said.

“I like it here.”

“So do I, believe me. But I’m insane.” She walked toward the parking lot. He followed.

Karen drove. Eddie sat beside her. Jazz played. He wondered if she would reach out for him, touch his knee, hold his hand. She didn’t. After half an hour or so, she slowed the car and turned into a lane marked by two gateposts with carved owl heads on top.

“I just have to drop in on someone for a few minutes first,” said Karen, “if that’s all right with you.”

“First before what?”

“Before we go on.”

It was all right with him.

At the end of the lane was a big stone house with three chimneys. Karen parked in front of it. Her spine straightened, as though she was steeling herself for something unpleasant.

“Do you want me to wait in the car?”

“No.”

They got out, walked to the front door. Karen rang the bell. There was a small bronze plaque under it, very small, considering the size of the door, the house, the grounds. Eddie read it: “Mount Olive Extended Care Residence and Spa.”

The door was opened by a woman in a nurse’s outfit. Karen gave her name.

“This way, please,” said the nurse.

They followed her down a long parquet hall, past many rooms, into a library at the end. The room was furnished with leather chairs and couches, a Persian rug, and books from floor to ceiling. There was no one in it except a woman sitting at a table near the fire, bent over a jigsaw puzzle that was mostly open spaces.

“You have visitors, dear,” said the nurse.

The woman looked up. She had stringy hair, a gaunt face, unfocused eyes. Was there something familiar about her?

Karen approached the woman and took her hand. “Hello, Mrs. Nye,” Karen said.

The woman stared up at her. “Do I know you?” Her voice was familiar too; Eddie remembered a plane ride long ago, over an emerald sea. The woman had lost her tan and her self-confidence, but she still had her makeup and her painted nails. She looked at Eddie and smiled.

“Is this your husband?” she said to Karen.

It was Evelyn Packer.

19

“On second thought,” said Evelyn, picking up a puzzle piece, “he couldn’t be your husband-he looks like someone I know rather all too well.” She studied the piece for a moment, then slipped it down the front of her blouse.

“Now, now, Evelyn,” said the nurse: “We’ll never finish our puzzle that way, will we?”

“It’s not our puzzle,” Evelyn said. “It’s mine.”

The nurse started to say something, but Karen interrupted. “Thanks for showing us in.”

The nurse closed her mouth and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Karen pulled up a chair and sat at the table opposite Evelyn. Evelyn picked out another puzzle piece and tried it in several spaces. The borders of the puzzle were done-they were black-and there were clusters of black pieces here and there, some of them silvered. There was also a white shape, somewhat triangular, that might have been a mountaintop. Evelyn’s piece wouldn’t fit. She handed it to Karen and said: “Did you know my father?”

“I never had the pleasure.”

“Don’t be smarmy. Just yes or no.”

“No.”

“You-know-who killed him. He was a fine man. A good man. He never abused me in any way, not the mental way or the physical way or the sexual way. Unlike a certain aforementioned I could mention.” Her gaze rose, fastened for a moment on Eddie. Then she looked quickly away and whispered to Karen, a symbolic whisper, audible to anyone in the room: “Who is he?”

“Don’t you know?” said Karen.

“Whisper.”

Karen lowered her voice. “Don’t you know?”

“How would I? I’m not exactly in circulation. What’s the date today?”

Karen told her. Evelyn nodded, as though receiving news at once bad and unsurprising, then found the thread of the conversation. “I don’t even know you either, although you’ve been visiting lately.”

“Karen. Karen de Vere.”

“Evelyn. Evelyn Andrea Manning Packer Nye. Looks like hell, wants to die.”

“Don’t talk like that, Evelyn.”

She brightened. “No problemo. What ax are you grinding, Karen? Or is that just the sound of your teeth?” She started laughing, with the expectation that others would join in. None did.

“No ax, Evelyn,” Karen said. “But your father died of heart disease, according to the hospital records.”

“Driven to it,” said Evelyn, “by the aforementioned unmentionable.”

“Driven to heart disease?”

“You’ve never heard of stress?”

Eddie had been standing by the door, perfectly still on the outside, reeling within. He spoke: “Karen.”

Both women looked up at the sound of his voice. There was fear in Evelyn’s eyes; perhaps it wasn’t entirely absent from Karen’s either.

“I want to talk to you.”

Karen rose.

“Oo,” said Evelyn. “Big manny-man.” Then she had another look at Eddie and said, “Sorry.” Karen followed Eddie to the door. As they went out, Eddie heard Evelyn murmur, “Mental, physical, sexual.”

Eddie and Karen stood in the hall outside the library. “What’s going on?” Eddie said.

“In the old days they called it madness. Now we say dysfunctional.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant what are you doing? Why did you bring me here?”

“I thought you could help me.”

“Do what?”

“Shed some light on her situation.”

“Why would I be able to do that?”

“Because you’re her brother-in-law.”

“I don’t know her.”

“How is that possible? She’s been married to your brother for fourteen years. Besides, you already said you did.”

Eddie looked down into Karen’s eyes, saw complexity. Bits of information-Evelyn’s father and his connections, her madness, the $230,000 check-popped up in his mind but refused to cohere. All he knew was that he was being set up. He didn’t know how, why, or by whom, he just knew it was happening.

Karen put her hand on his arm. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” she said. “I meant what I told you at the pond.”

“Did you?” Eddie said. “I think you were pumping me.”

“No.”

Eddie shook off her hand. “And I don’t think Jack called me what you said he did. You invented that, just to divide us.”

Karen’s voice rose. “Think what you want.”

Down the hall a door opened. A man came out. He had a sandy mustache. Eddie recognized him from the health club: he’d peeked twice through the window of the steam bath, once before Karen entered, once after. Now he was here, living proof. Karen waved him away, too late.

“Where’s the woman in the pink leotard?” Eddie said.

“What are you talking about?” Karen said, but her eyes shifted.

“And next time you’re pretending to be blind as a bat, don’t let anyone see your contacts.”

“Everything all right?” said the man with the sandy mustache, coming down the hall.

“Please, Eddie,” Karen said, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

“I don’t talk to cops.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“He is.”

One of the mustached man’s hands disappeared inside his jacket. Arrest, Eddie knew, was next. Arrest, trial, prison. He knew the drill.

Eddie didn’t think. He just let things happen. Things like snatching the tortoiseshell glasses off Karen’s face and flinging them at the mustached man.

“Hold it right there,” the man said.

Things like moving, the way he could move. The mustached man had time to get his gun out, but not raise it, before Eddie hit him. The mustached man went down. Instant disorder. Eddie ran from it, down the parquet hall, past many rooms, to the front door, out. He kept going, down the lane, through the gateposts with the carved owl heads on top, into some woods across the road. There he stopped, listened for sounds of pursuit. Hearing none, he stayed where he was.

Through the trees Eddie could see lights in the windows of the Mount Olive Extended Care Residence and Spa. He felt like a barbarian coming upon an outpost of civilization: much safer where he was. A few minutes later clouds slid across the moon, blackening the night. Eddie felt safer yet. Then it began to rain. He didn’t care.

Not long after that, headlights appeared in the lane. Two cars drove out, the first a sedan, the second Karen’s Japanese two-seater. They turned onto the road and sped away. Eddie waited until their taillights vanished before leaving the woods.

He recrossed the road, went back through the gate, cut over the lawn to the library end of the house. He peered through a mullioned window.

Evelyn was sitting in the chair by the fire, shaking her head no. The nurse was standing over her, saying something Eddie couldn’t hear. They went on like that, the nurse talking, Evelyn shaking her head. After a while the nurse took Evelyn’s hand. Evelyn snatched it away. The nurse took it again, this time in both of hers. Evelyn tried to free herself, but failed. The nurse pulled Evelyn to her feet and led her from the room.

Eddie backed away from the house. Soon a light went on in an upstairs room, directly over the library. The nurse appeared in the window. She drew the curtains. A few seconds passed, long enough for her to cross the room. The light went out.

Eddie moved under a tree. Rain fell on him through the leafless branches. He wiped the top of his head, felt the stubble. Gray stubble: that made him mad.

Room by room, the house darkened. Eddie waited until every light had gone out except the one in the front hall. He approached the library and examined the windows. Casement windows-he remembered the name from one of the Inspector Maigret books-hinged on the outside, opening in the middle. He put his hand in the middle and pushed, not hard. The window didn’t budge. Eddie pushed harder, then much harder. The window gave, not without a splintering sound. Eddie stood still, waiting for an alarm, running footsteps, an anxious voice. There was none of that. He placed his hands on the sill and climbed into the library.

The fire in the grate burned low. It gave off enough light for Eddie to see that the jigsaw puzzle was finished. The black pieces were the night sky, the silvered ones were moonlight on the sea, the white triangle was the tip of an iceberg, the great blank space was now filled with the Titanic, steaming across the puzzle toward its doom. Only one piece was missing: the red base of the Titanic’s foremost smokestack.

Eddie walked out into the darkness of the corridor. The tassel loafers clicked on the parquet. Eddie took them off. Light glowed in the entrance hall. He moved toward it, soundless in his stocking feet.

Eddie reached the entrance hall. To his left was a desk. A man in a security-guard uniform had his head on it. To Eddie’s right, broad stairs led up into darkness. Eddie climbed them to the top.

The second-floor corridor was carpeted and lit with dim ceiling lights every ten or fifteen feet. Eddie walked past closed doors toward the end. Through one of them he heard a man muttering about Jesus.

The door to the last room, over the library, was closed too. Eddie put his hand on the knob and turned it. The door opened. Eddie went in.

The room was dark. Eddie couldn’t see a thing. He advanced with little sliding steps across the floor, his hands out in front of him, until he touched the wall. Then he felt along it for the curtains, found them, drew the string. Moonlight flooded in; the sky had cleared again. Eddie turned to the bed. Evelyn was lying in it, her eyes open, reflecting back the moonlight.

Eddie spoke quietly. “That was a good job you did on the puzzle, when no one was watching.”

Evelyn spoke quietly too. “Thank you, manny-man.”

“Don’t you know me?” Eddie said.

“Sure. You’re the new inmate.”

Eddie felt that chill again, across his shoulders, down his spine. He sat on the bed. She went still. “Evelyn, what happened to you?”

“Since when?”

“Since we knew each other.”

“When was that? I’ve forgotten so many memories. It’s all because of the brain-loss diet they’ve got me on.”

“We met at Galleon Beach,” Eddie said.

There was a silence. Evelyn’s eyes moved, changing the angle of reflection of the moonlight. “I remember Galleon Beach,” she said.

“Then you remember me.”

She looked at him. “You’re the unfortunate bro.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because of what the pigs did to you.”

“What pigs?”

“The wild ones. They’ve got wild pigs down there. You know that, if you are who you say you are. I was married to one. Then I married a much wilder one.”

“Jack?”

“The aforementioned. He had designs on me. The same designs as Pig One, only bigger.”

“What designs?”

Evelyn sat up. “You’re a spy. Like Ms. de Cool.”

“I’m not. I just want some answers, that’s all.”

“Then you’ve got to ask questions, silly.” She lay back down. “Pharmaceuticals kicking in,” she said, and closed her eyes.

“Evelyn?”

“I hear you loud and clear. Over.”

“I’ve got a question.”

“Shoot. Over. And say over. Over.”

“Why did Jack get kicked out of USC?”

She opened her eyes. “Raleigh should have been kicked out too.”

“What did they do?”

“Does it matter now? Except that it’s how he got his foot in the door. In retrospect, if you take my meaning. He was clever. He knew how to sacrifice the pawn to topple the king.”

“What door are you talking about?”

“The same door Brad stuck his stinky foot in-the door to my father’s influence. Did you know him? — Daddy, I’m talking about, not Stinky.”

“No. What kind of influence did he have?”

“Contacts. From his practice, from Yale, from Groton. How do you think the aforementioned got started in the fleecing business?”

“Tell me.”

She started talking faster. “And it wasn’t enough. He wanted money too. Well, the joke is, Daddy didn’t have a lot of money, not the kind of money the big dreamers call a lot. Brad got himself punched by that punch line too. But it served him right for all his unfaithfulness.” She began to laugh, harsh and unpleasant. “I owe you thanks.”

“For what?”

“For fucking his little fuckee. Pardon my French.” She stared at Eddie. “But they made you pay. I forgot. So what good are thanks?”

“What do you mean-they made me pay?”

“Click,” said Evelyn. “Channel change. I’m tired of all your questions. Here’s one for you-why can’t men be faithful? Answer me that.”

“Were you having an affair with Jack at Galleon Beach?”

Evelyn’s voice rose. “What a nasty suggestion. I couldn’t help myself. Now go away.”

“Not till you tell me who made me pay.”

She thought. He could feel her thinking, feel her giving up. “The details are sketchy, like all details. Why not ask the cook? Or should I say aks?”

“The cook in this place?”

“What would he know? I’m talking about JFK.”

“That’s a good idea. Where is he?”

“Don’t take that patronizing tone.”

“Where is he?”

“Around. He showed up for money, like a lot of jetsam in the aforementioned’s glory days.”

“Around where?”

“Try the hospices.”

“What hospices?”

“In the city. Or ask the aforementioned.” She laughed the harsh laugh again. “On second thought, don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Eddie froze. Evelyn smiled at him, moonlight gleaming on her teeth. “You’re gonna get it,” she said.

Eddie put his finger to his lips. She grew solemn, then quickly pressed something into his hand. Eddie dropped down on the floor, rolled against the wall.

The footsteps came closer. The nurse said: “Can’t sleep, dear?”

“Yes, I can. I’m very good at it.”

“Then why don’t you, instead of talking to yourself?”

“I’m not talking to myself.”

“I could hear you all the way down the hall.”

“That doesn’t prove your insinuation in all its particulars.”

“And how do you expect to sleep with your curtains open?”

“I like the moonlight in Vermont, or anywhere in the lower forty-eight, for that matter.”

Footsteps. The snick of the curtain string being sharply tugged. Then darkness.

Footsteps, back to the bed. “I’m going to give you just a little something to help you sleep.”

“I don’t want a little something. I want to get intimate with manny-man.”

“A little something will help.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m Winnie-the-Pooh.”

A rustling of sheets. “This won’t hurt,” said the nurse.

Pause. “It did.”

“Sweet dreams.”

Footsteps retreated. The door closed. Footsteps faded away.

Eddie rose, sat on the bed, felt across the covers, found Evelyn’s hand, took it. She groaned.

“Evelyn?”

“Get me out of here.”

Eddie didn’t know what to say. He’d made the same plea to Jack, long ago.

“Get me out,” she said again. There was a long pause before she added, “of here.” The words came slow and sleepy.

She squeezed his hand, much harder than he would have thought she could. “I’ve done that puzzle…” Another long pause. Her hand relaxed, fell away. When she spoke again her voice was weaker. “A thousand times. Can you grasp that?”

“Yes.”

“So get me out.” Silence.

“Evelyn?”

“So get me out.”

“I’ll try, but first I want to talk to you.”

No response.

“Evelyn?”

She was asleep.

Eddie rose, shoes in hand, and left the room. He walked down the carpeted corridor, down the stairs. The desk in the hall was deserted. He followed the parquet to the library. The fire in the grate was almost out, but there was still enough light to see the puzzle. Eddie went to it. He knew what Evelyn had put in his hand. He took it now and fitted it in place: the red base of the Titanic’s lead stack.

Eddie slipped on the tassel loafers and climbed out of the casement window, closing it behind him.

20

Quietly, because of the possibility that Karen and the mustached man might be inside, Eddie let himself into Jack’s suite. Someone was slouched on the sofa watching a James Bond movie, but it wasn’t Karen or the mustached man. The man on the sofa had a beer in his hand, and there were empties all around. Bond said something funny and shot an Oriental gentleman in the balls. The man on the sofa laughed, unaware that he was no longer alone until Eddie stepped in front of him. The sight displeased him.

“Who the fuck are you?” he said. He was a broad, thick-necked man of about Eddie’s age and reminded Eddie of someone, although he couldn’t think who.

“I’m not in the mood,” Eddie said.

“Not in the mood for what?” The man rose, to show Eddie how big and tough he was.

“Any bullshit.” Bond climbed into bed with a big-breasted blonde. He stuck his gun under the pillow. She purred.

The thick-necked man stepped forward, close enough to jab his finger in Eddie’s chest. He jabbed his finger in Eddie’s chest. “The bullshit’s all coming from you, pal,” he said.

Then the man was on the floor with a bloody face and a nose that wasn’t quite straight.

Bond said something insouciant. Eddie said: “Who are you?”

“I asked you the same question,” answered the man, getting up and dabbing his face with his sleeve.

“But not politely.”

The man gave him a hard look but kept his mouth shut. How familiar, thought Eddie, that sudden violence. He got the funny feeling that the thick-necked man had spent some time inside. His mind skipped a few steps and he said: “Out on a pass, Raleigh?”

The man frowned. “Do I know you?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that,” said Eddie. “I’m Ed Nye.”

There was a pause. Then Raleigh Packer said: “You could have mentioned that a little earlier.”

“We’d have missed the benefit of all this exercise.”

Raleigh dabbed at his face again, sat down on the sofa. Eddie noticed his anklet. Raleigh saw that he noticed. “Not a pass,” he said. “Parole.” He raised his pant leg a little more, revealing the lightweight plastic ankle bracelet with the box transmitter that allowed a computer to monitor him. “I’m on a beeper, just like the gofers on Wall Street.”

“Could be worse,” Eddie said.

Raleigh gave him a long look. “Where were you?”

Eddie named the prison.

“For ten years or something?”

Eddie corrected him.

“How did you stand it?” Raleigh wasn’t a tough guy: Eddie had known that from moment one.

“You can get used to anything.”

Raleigh dabbed at his nose again. “Bullshit,” he said, but not in a challenging way.

“Why don’t you go clean up?”

Raleigh went into the bathroom. Water ran. James Bond’s parachute failed to open. He pretended to look scared but there was a twinkle in his eye. Eddie noticed that the $350 was no longer on the coffee table.

Raleigh came back into the room, holding a towel to his nose. “I think it’s broken.”

“Noses are vulnerable,” Eddie said. “Where’s the three-fifty?”

“Huh?”

“Do I have to go to a whole lot of trouble to find it?”

“Is it yours?”

“It’s Jack’s.”

“Then consider it a down payment on what he owes me.”

“What does he owe you?”

“That depends on my billing rate, but the hours are twenty-four times three sixty-five.”

“Just the same,” said Eddie, “I’d better hang onto it till he comes back.”

Raleigh handed over the money in the resigned way an inmate would after the pecking order had been established. “You’re just like him.”

“Like who?”

“You know who. Where is he?”

“Out of town.”

“Out of town where?”

Eddie didn’t answer.

Raleigh glanced around the room. “Maybe he’s not coming back.”

“Of course he is,” Eddie said; but he wondered.

Raleigh touched his nose delicately with the tip of his finger.

“Let me see that,” Eddie said, went close to Raleigh, examined his nose, saw that he was making a fuss about nothing, saw too how much he resembled his father, the way Eddie remembered him. “You’re going to live,” Eddie said.

Raleigh snorted. That started the bleeding again. “On what?” he said.

“Your inheritance.”

“Is that a joke?”

“I thought your parents were rich.”

“What do you know about my parents?”

“Not much,” Eddie said, thinking of the Titanic plowing through the night. “How are they doing?”

“Just great. Dad’s dead and Mom’s in the nuthouse.”

“See much of her?”

“I’ve been out of circulation,” Raleigh said; almost his mother’s exact words about her own condition.

Eddie said: “Did you go to Groton and Yale and all that too?”

“What do you mean, ‘too’?”

Eddie didn’t answer.

“My grandfather went to Groton and Yale, if that’s what you’re referring to. But how did you know that?”

“Lucky guess.”

Raleigh studied him for a few moments in a way that again reminded Eddie of Brad Packer: not quite smart enough. “Groton yes, Yale no,” said Raleigh. He picked up his beer, drank.

Eddie went to the sideboard, got the Armagnac bottle, poured himself a glass. “Ever had Armagnac?”

“Of course.”

“Every night in the dining halls of Groton,” Eddie said.

“If you want to think in stereotypes.”

“I wouldn’t want to do anything like that.” Eddie was starting to feel manic, as though something exciting were about to happen and he couldn’t wait. He raised his glass.

“Here’s to USC,” Eddie said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a toast, to a fine institution.”

Raleigh took a sip. “That’s where I went to college.”

“I almost went there myself.”

“Did you?” Raleigh took another sip, bigger this time.

“Things didn’t work out. There was a whole chain of events, if you follow me.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“Would it help if I said that the first link in the chain was something that happened between you and Jack?”

Raleigh was still. “What do you mean?”

“You tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What happened between you and Jack.”

Raleigh took a big drink. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“I told you-out of town.”

“Out of town where?”

Eddie was silent.

“Why are you covering for him? You should be on my side. He’s such a bastard.”

“Watch it.” The warning came from Eddie’s own lips, but it took him by surprise.

Raleigh looked surprised too. “Watch what?”

“Watch what you say about him.”

Perhaps this time he didn’t say it with enough conviction. Raleigh started to laugh. He was still laughing when the door opened and Jack walked in.

He had on a long coat of somewhat Western cut-the kind a rich cattleman might wear-and he was smoking a cigar. “What convention is this?” he asked.

“Convention?” said Raleigh.

Eddie wasn’t sure what the remark meant either, but if the reference was to ex-cons he didn’t like it. Jack took off his coat. Underneath he wore faded jeans, a polo shirt, and Topsiders with no socks.

“Been away, Jack?” said Raleigh.

Jack didn’t answer the question. Instead he eyed Raleigh’s face and said, “What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

Jack’s gaze went from the pink-stained towel on the table to Eddie. Eddie smiled a noncommittal smile.

“Been away?” Raleigh repeated.

“Away?”

“Your brother here mentioned you were out of town.”

“You said that, Eddie?”

Eddie nodded.

Jack puffed his cigar. “Does Brooklyn count?”

Raleigh stood up. “I want to talk to you, Jack.”

“Talk.”

“In private.”

“How ill bred.” Jack smiled around his cigar. Eddie could see he was in a good mood. Jack came over to him, gave his shoulder a little squeeze. “You don’t mind, bro?”

Eddie shook his head. Bond peered doubtfully at a glass of red wine. Jack picked up the remote and switched him off.

Jack and Raleigh went in the bedroom. The door closed. They talked in low voices for a few minutes. They came out. Now Raleigh was smoking a cigar too.

“How about a celebration?” said Jack.

“Of what?” Eddie asked.

“You being here. Good enough?”

“Isn’t it a little late?”

“In this town? Let’s show him the kind of fun you can have in the city that never weeps.”

“Whatever you say,” said Raleigh.

“As long as we don’t leave your ankling area,” Jack added. Eddie saw that his brother was a bit manic too.

Raleigh almost managed a smile. He drained his glass and said: “Let’s go.”

“This is supposed to be the latest,” said Jack, as they entered a club; so new that the sign was still clad in protective canvas.

Inside was a world of light, without fixed boundaries or dimensions. Floors, walls, ceilings didn’t exist; there were only curves, rounding into one another. And everything had a glow: pearly in the lower regions, shading up through greens and blues to indigo above.

A man dressed in a silver space suit greeted them. He spoke through a speaker in his helmet. “Welcome to Brainy’s,” he said. “Fifteen-dollar cover, two-drink minimum. The official opening’s not till tomorrow, so please bear with us.”

He led them to a table with a translucent surface that flickered in black and white, like snow on a TV screen. They sat in almost invisible clear-glass chairs. Mounted on the tabletop were concave viewers, the size of a human head. “Look in those,” said the man in the space suit. “Maneuver by sticking your right hand in those slots and experimenting. The waiter will be around to take your orders.” His gaze lingered on Eddie for a moment before he left.

“What the fuck is this?” said Raleigh.

“Five million dollars’ worth of software,” Jack replied.

Eddie put his face in the viewer. It was more than a viewer; it wrapped around his ears as well, covering them with perforated foam pads. He was in a place of total darkness, total silence. Nothing happened. He felt for the slot in the side of the table, stuck his hand inside a hand-shaped hole that felt like rubberized plastic. He fitted his fingers in the right openings. Something happened.

First came a strange noise, an eerie whine, like interstellar wind. It filled his head. Then the sun rose, so bright it hurt his eyes. He moved his fingers. That turned him slowly around, and away from the glare of the sun. Now he was soaring through a blue sky. He tried pressing his thumb on the rubberized plastic. That tipped him forward, made him look down, down at a green jungle. He fell toward it with sickening speed. He moved his hand again, pressed with different fingers. That slowed his descent. He drifted down, closer and closer to the trees, then right into them, through a gap, down, down. Below was an emerald-green pond with a waterfall cascading into it. It roared in his ears. He fell into the emerald-green water; the roaring turned to pounding. He fell deeper and deeper, down to the gurgling dark bottom, toward a pool of light. In the pool of light was a bare-breasted mermaid. She smiled and said, “May I take your order, sir?” He shifted his hand to try to get a little closer. Everything went black.

Eddie drew back from the viewer. The mermaid was talking to Jack: “Heineken, Beck’s, Beck’s Light, Corona, Sam Adams, Moosehead, Bass, Grolsch-”

“New Amsterdam.”

“We don’t carry it.”

“Bass, then.”

“And you, sir?” she said, turning to Eddie.

Not the mermaid, of course, and not bare-breasted and fishtailed, but the woman who had played the mermaid, if played was the word, down in the emerald-green pond. She wore a tiny silver space dress but no helmet.

“I’d like water,” Eddie said, wanting all at once to be sober.

“Evian, Perrier, Volvic, Contrexeville, Saratoga, San Pellegrino, Ramlosa, Poland Spr-”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She went away. “Mine was the wild west,” said Raleigh. “What was yours?”

“Skiing in Zermatt,” said Jack. “Eddie?”

“Falling.”

Jack glanced into his viewer. “There’s a pissload of money to be made in this, if you knew who to back.”

“To be made in what?” asked Raleigh.

“Virtual reality.”

The words almost triggered a memory in Eddie’s mind. He came close to dredging it up, a worrisome, champagne-drenched memory, but Raleigh broke his concentration by getting up to go to the bathroom. Eddie found himself gazing at his brother.

“Something on your mind, bro?”

“I don’t know. Does an albatross have a mind?”

Jack smiled; that flashing smile, but his eyes were blank. “Run that by me again.”

“I’ve got lots on my mind,” Eddie said.

“Like what?”

Where to begin? Karen? Evelyn? JFK? Galleon Beach? Grand Cayman? It all began at USC, didn’t it? Eddie rose. “Tell you in a minute.” He went off in the direction Raleigh had gone.

The bathroom was part of the experience. It was all pearly light and rounded surfaces. For a moment, Eddie thought it was supposed to be a giant urinal. There was a female attendant, dressed in a little space skirt and halter top. Eddie, trying to take her presence in stride, said, “All it needs are holes in the floor.”

“Everyone says that,” said the woman, toying with the change on her plate.

Eddie found Raleigh soaking his nose on a wet towel. Their reflections studied each other in the mirror.

“Now would be a good time,” Eddie said.

“For what?”

“For telling me what happened at USC.”

Raleigh zipped up. “Ask Jack. Didn’t I say that already?”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“No can do.” He faced Eddie. “You’re going to beat me up in here, aren’t you? That would be the inmate thing.”

It was true, both parts. Eddie backed away. “You did something and Jack took the blame.”

“Keep guessing,” Raleigh said and walked out the door, passing the attendant without leaving a tip. Her eyes were on Eddie.

“He didn’t even wash his hands,” Eddie said.

“Ninety percent of them don’t,” the attendant replied. “I wrote a poem about it.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s long,” said the attendant, “but it starts, ‘You stupid fucking fuckers / with piss-dripping dicks / and silver-dripping pockets / divine Manhattan Judases, artists of betrayal / so careful with every scheming breath / why do you forget to wash your pissy digits?’ ”

Quite different from the poem Eddie knew best, but he liked it. “I like it,” he said.

“You do? You’re not in publishing, by any chance?”

“No.”

“Maybe you know someone in publishing? A university press will do.”

“Sorry.”

“Shit.”

The door to one of the toilets opened. A man came out, short and fat, wearing a dark suit. It was Senor Paz. He went to the sink beside Eddie, washed his hands. They were plump pink hands with manicured nails; not what Eddie pictured as a surgeon’s hands. Eddie started to back away, thinking that Paz hadn’t recognized him. Then Paz spoke.

“Young lady,” he said, “will you leave us for a moment, please?”

She went out. Things came together in Eddie’s mind, and he realized where he was.

“I thought you were calling it Neuron.”

Paz smiled. “Or Synapse. But our consultants on Madison Avenue came up with Brainy’s. More impudent, they said, as though impudence were somehow desirable. What do you think?”

“I like Neuron better.”

“As do I,” said Paz. “You strike me as an intelligent man.” He sighed-theatrically perhaps, yet what wasn’t theatrical in a place like this? — and looked melancholy. “But isn’t there an English expression about being too smart for one’s own good?”

“Meaning what?”

“We’ll explore the subject of what it all means in good time,” said Paz. “Let’s just say some of us are very disappointed.” He glanced over Eddie’s shoulder.

Maybe it was the pearly light, or possibly the rounded surfaces. Both disorienting: dulling the fifteen-years-honed edge on Eddie’s alertness. He didn’t spin around, or start to spin around, until it was too late to avoid the first blow, that brought him to his knees, and the second, that sent him into unconsciousness.