The Second Saladin

31

Only Chardy and Uckley, the security man, remained. They stood discreetly in one corner of the living room in their lumpy suits. Lanahan was off somewhere playing Napoleon, and the private detectives engaged by the Agency had not accompanied Danzig from the television studio.

Dramatic people swirled about, bright and glittery, and in the center of it all sat Joe Danzig. In point of fact, at no time in their brief association had Chardy seen him quite like this: a sheen of perspiration stood out on his forehead and upper lip and he held a half-empty scotch glass almost like a scepter. He knew everybody here — or most of them — and he had taken his coat off and loosened his tie and collar, an absurd costume, since he still wore his vest. They came to him, the younger ones with some respect, the older ones out of camaraderie. Chardy was surprised to see so many kids. He thought kids hated Danzig, architect of bombing in Vietnam; but no, they did not, or these kids did not. Danzig listened earnestly and awarded the brightest with a smile or a nod which pleased them immensely. And the women: the women especially were drawn to his preposterous, rumpled figure. They crowded around him, touching and jostling. Even in these clever precincts? Chardy had no idea what being on television meant, what celebrity meant.

“They love him, don’t they?” he said to Uckley.

“They sure do, sir,” said Uckley.

The room had jammed up and become bright and hot with people. It was not so much furnished as equipped, largely with spacey-looking hi-fi components, a jungle of plants and books. Somebody loved books, for they were ceiling to floor on three of the walls and the other was bare brick. There were little steel spotlights mounted on racks on the ceiling, throwing vivid circles of light on Japanese prints and twisted modern paintings. It was like some kind of museum; somebody had spent a lot of money turning this living room into a museum. Chardy was catching a headache and all the noise and smoke pitched it higher. It looked like Danzig would be here for hours — until the dawn, among the horde of intellectuals.

Not all, but most, most had the same look: the high, pale foreheads, the glasses covering wasted eyes, the delicate wrists. They all had weak hands and looked sick. Funny, after the Marines, Chardy knew a uniform when he saw it, and here were uniforms: suede shoes, baggy chinos and plaid shirts, and an occasional little off-color tie. Everybody was drinking wine; everybody was talking, gesturing with unfiltered cigarettes. A woman drifted by in leotard and tights, smoking a cigar. She had a slightly crazed expression on her face and was made up like an Egyptian goddess.

Chardy checked his watch. It was 11:20.

“Have you seen Lanahan, Sarge?”

“No, sir,” said Uckley.

Chardy hunted through the mass of bodies and at last spotted Miles sitting by himself in a corner. He turned back to Uckley.

“Look, do you think you can handle this?”

“There’s nothing to handle, sir.”

“I’ll stay if you’d prefer.”

“No, sir.”

“I may be back in a little while.”

“Take your time.”

Chardy shook himself free of the wall and edged through the crowd. Lanahan sat disconsolately by himself.

“Not your crowd, Miles?”

Lanahan looked up, but did not smile. “I don’t have a crowd,” he said.

“Look, would it be a big deal if I slipped out a little early?”

“It would be a very big deal.”

“Well, I’m going to do it anyway. Why don’t you talk to somebody, have a good time? Meet some people. You look like the village priest at the great lord’s manor for the first time.”

Lanahan looked at him through narrow dark eyes in a field of skin eruptions. Flecks of dandruff littered his small shoulders.

“You shouldn’t joke about priests, Paul.”

“Miles, I’m going. All right?”

Lanahan didn’t say anything.

“Come on, Miles, cheer up.”

“Just go, Paul. You don’t have any responsibility; you can sneak off. I’ll stay. I’m expecting a call from Yost anyway.”

“Be back shortly,” said Chardy. He fought to the hall, squeezed down it to the door, where an older woman stood talking to several others in the overflow.

“Leaving so early? Did you have a coat?”

“No, I’m all right.”

“Glad you could come.”

“I had a wonderful time,” he said.

He stepped out the door, went down three steps, and followed the short walk to Hawthorne Street.

“There he is,” she said.

They watched Chardy pick his way down the steps, pause at the sidewalk for just a second, and then head down the street. They watched in silence until he disappeared.

“Just Danzig. Nobody else. Please, you swore.”

He turned and looked at her with a cold glare.

“Please,” she said. “You promised. You swore.”

“I go now.”

“I’ll come too.”

“No,” he said. “I can go alone. Many people, no guards. People come and go. America is open, they told me.”

“Please. I—”

“No.”

“I’ll be here then. To drive you away.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if I get away. Get away yourself, now. Cross that border now, Dada Johanna.”

He climbed from the car and strode across the street, a tall, forceful figure.

She watched him move. A pain began to rub inside, between her eyes. She sat back. She could not face the future, the explanations, excuses, attention. It all seemed to weigh so much. She thought of it as weight, mass, as substance, a physical thing, pressing her down. She fought for breath. She thought of facing Chardy in the morning. She thought of the pain her parents would feel. She could not imagine it.

She watched. Ulu Beg knocked on the door. She could not see his gun; he’d hidden it, probably under the tweed sport coat.

The door opened. She could see them talking. What would he say? She wanted to cry. She was so scared.

Chardy knocked on Johanna’s door.

There was no answer.

“Johanna?” he called into the wood. “Johanna?”

Now what the hell was going on?