Barbary Shore by Norman Mailer

Street.
    Silently, I handed the pad back to McLeod. In a flat voice, not without mockery, he said to Hollingsworth, “You made a mistake. I never advocate the use of poison.”
    Hollingsworth had recovered. Diffidently, but not without firmness, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t like to disagree with a fellow, but you did say that. I heard you.”
    McLeod shrugged. “All right, leave it in.” He took a long puff at his cigarette. “Tell me, old man,” he drawled, “is there anything else I can do for you?”
    “Why, yes.” Hollingsworth adjusted the belt of his trousers. He leaned forward again, and his face which had been in shadow entered the cone of light cast by the bulb hanging from the ceiling. Upon his mouth he exhibited his apologetic smile.
    But there was little of apology in his other movements. Firmly, he pointed to the pad. “I wonder if you would affix asignature to this,” he said formally. “I would like to keep it as one of my souvenirs, and that would”—he searched for a word—“enhance the value thereon.”
    “Sign it?”
    “Yes, if you don’t mind.”
    McLeod smiled, tapped the pad upon his knee for a moment, and then to my astonishment, took a pen from the breast pocket of his shirt, scribbled a few words, and scratched his signature. He read aloud, “Transcript of remarks made by William McLeod—signed—William McLeod. Does that do?”
    “Oh, that’s fine,” Hollingsworth said. “It’s nice to meet people who are so co-operative.” When neither of us replied, he looked at his watch with great seriousness. “My, I’ve stayed longer than I thought.” He stood up, and took the notes which McLeod extended to him. “Well, I’d like to thank you fellows for being so nice about it all.”
    “Any time we can help you, any time,” McLeod nodded.
    Hollingsworth still remained at the door, fingering the pad. With a certain gentleness, he ripped off the top sheet on which they had written, and tore it in two. “You know,” he said, “on second thought perhaps I really don’t want this souvenir.”
    “It is valueless,” McLeod drawled again.
    “Yes, so it is.” He dropped the pieces to the floor, and was gone.
    When the door had closed, McLeod rested his head on his hands and laughed wearily. Upon his head beat the glare of the light bulb, seeming to burn through the frail thin hair at the peak of his scalp, and thrusting beyond him across the floor a distorted shadow of himself, elongated and bent, eloquent in its shadowed head and emaciated forearms. I became aware that the shades were down, and in this stifling room, nothing moved, nothing stirred, the books along the wall in silent witness beside myself. He raised his head and stared at the light as if he must excoriate himself like a fakir searing his vision into the sun.
    With what seemed an intense effort, he tore his eyes from the light, and looked at his hands. “You ever wait for anybody?” he asked quietly.
    I did not understand at first what he meant, but from some recess of my mind leaped again the image of the stranger, the door opening, the obscured face hovering above my bed. “I don’t know,” I said.
    He stood up and leaned against the bookcase, the end of his cigarette still pinched against his fingers. When he looked at me there was small recognition in his eyes. “One thing I’d like to find out,” he said. “Which team does he come from?”
    “I don’t follow you,” I said.
    Something flickered in his stare. Perhaps he was aware of me again. “That’s right, you wouldn’t know, would you, Lovett?” And then for an instant he grasped my wrist. “Of course it’s one of the techniques to leave the innocent behind, and he’s the one who carries away the valuable piece.” But as I met his look, he relaxed his grip upon me. “No, you’re not in it, I’m certain of that.” He snickered. “I suppose I have to be.”
    I stammered out a question and McLeod made no response.