badly received and had not sold came out with a novel that stayed somewhere in the middle of the bestseller lists for two months; Damon swung a contract for a newspaperman to co-write an autobiography with a movie star and arranged for a whopping advance; an aunt in Worcester died and left him ten thousand dollars in her will. He no longer felt the need to drink and Sheila, at first suspicious that this was only a passing phase, finally became the old Sheila again and apologized for being a shrew. It was no longer necessary to reach out for her in bed because she now reached out for him.
Looking back at it now, he could date his happiness for the last decade from the day he went up to Julia Larch’s room. But now, remembering the events of the past few days, he felt that a new era, dark and cold, one of wire-taps and warnings, of men who dealt in murder, an era of shameful memories, ushered in by the continuing presence of the dead, was beginning for him. He knew he was going to get drunk that afternoon. He also knew that Sheila, her faith in him as a dependable provider now restored, would forgive him for it.
He had reached the store that sold electronic equipment and gazed into the window, marveling at the limitless ingenuity of mankind which had so cleverly solved the most abstruse of problems which nature had set before the race to produce the tiny computers, the radios and cassette players and minute television sets. Before he went in, he decided he’d buy a message-taking machine for his home telephone, but not the gadget with which he could turn himself into a peripatetic recording studio. I am not built for spying, he told himself righteously. But without really confessing it to himself, he knew he was being superstitious. If he wired himself for sound, when Zalovsky called next, he would feel compelled to see him. Unwired, there would be no good reason, he told himself, to confront the man.
He went in and crossed to a counter where a clerk was waiting on a customer. “I want one that’s small and light enough so that I can throw it into my bag when I travel,” the customer was saying.
Damon started as he heard the voice. It was the voice of the man who been in acting classes with him before the war and had been a shipmate and close friend of his in the Merchant Marine and shared an apartment with him for several years, Maurice Fitzgerald. At the time that Damon was deciding to give up acting, Fitzgerald was already doing very well on the stage and in constant demand. They had remained good friends, even though Damon had left the theatre, but had parted coolly. Their friendship had been irreparably damaged and Damon had not gone to the farewell party for Fitzgerald and Damon’s recent lover, Antoinetta Bradley, on the eve of their departure for London. But now, seeing the familiar jaunty face, under the Irish tweed hacking cap, the coolness was gone and replaced by the old comradely warmth of the days on the ship and of the bachelor apartment. In London, with his sonorous Irish voice and his ability to play any sort of part, Fitzgerald had made a solid career for himself as a dependable second lead. Despite his talents, he had known he never would be a star. He was short and his face, elastic and sly, would have been useful to a comedian in burlesque. He could never have been called handsome, even by his mother, as he used to say with a rueful smile.
Damon was tempted to go up to the man, whose back was now turned to him, and tap him on the shoulder and say, “On deck, mate.” But, feeling a strange, disturbing tingling all over his body and remembering his encounter with the man he had thought was Mr. Gray, he waited until he could get another good look before saying anything. One encounter in a week like the one with the false Mr. Gray was enough for anyone.
But when the man turned around, Damon saw that it was Fitzgerald: not the young man he had known, with black hair and an unlined face, but a man of
Looking back at it now, he could date his happiness for the last decade from the day he went up to Julia Larch’s room. But now, remembering the events of the past few days, he felt that a new era, dark and cold, one of wire-taps and warnings, of men who dealt in murder, an era of shameful memories, ushered in by the continuing presence of the dead, was beginning for him. He knew he was going to get drunk that afternoon. He also knew that Sheila, her faith in him as a dependable provider now restored, would forgive him for it.
He had reached the store that sold electronic equipment and gazed into the window, marveling at the limitless ingenuity of mankind which had so cleverly solved the most abstruse of problems which nature had set before the race to produce the tiny computers, the radios and cassette players and minute television sets. Before he went in, he decided he’d buy a message-taking machine for his home telephone, but not the gadget with which he could turn himself into a peripatetic recording studio. I am not built for spying, he told himself righteously. But without really confessing it to himself, he knew he was being superstitious. If he wired himself for sound, when Zalovsky called next, he would feel compelled to see him. Unwired, there would be no good reason, he told himself, to confront the man.
He went in and crossed to a counter where a clerk was waiting on a customer. “I want one that’s small and light enough so that I can throw it into my bag when I travel,” the customer was saying.
Damon started as he heard the voice. It was the voice of the man who been in acting classes with him before the war and had been a shipmate and close friend of his in the Merchant Marine and shared an apartment with him for several years, Maurice Fitzgerald. At the time that Damon was deciding to give up acting, Fitzgerald was already doing very well on the stage and in constant demand. They had remained good friends, even though Damon had left the theatre, but had parted coolly. Their friendship had been irreparably damaged and Damon had not gone to the farewell party for Fitzgerald and Damon’s recent lover, Antoinetta Bradley, on the eve of their departure for London. But now, seeing the familiar jaunty face, under the Irish tweed hacking cap, the coolness was gone and replaced by the old comradely warmth of the days on the ship and of the bachelor apartment. In London, with his sonorous Irish voice and his ability to play any sort of part, Fitzgerald had made a solid career for himself as a dependable second lead. Despite his talents, he had known he never would be a star. He was short and his face, elastic and sly, would have been useful to a comedian in burlesque. He could never have been called handsome, even by his mother, as he used to say with a rueful smile.
Damon was tempted to go up to the man, whose back was now turned to him, and tap him on the shoulder and say, “On deck, mate.” But, feeling a strange, disturbing tingling all over his body and remembering his encounter with the man he had thought was Mr. Gray, he waited until he could get another good look before saying anything. One encounter in a week like the one with the false Mr. Gray was enough for anyone.
But when the man turned around, Damon saw that it was Fitzgerald: not the young man he had known, with black hair and an unlined face, but a man of
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