the spinning, buzzing euphoria inside my brain. Such a wonderful reality.
But it ended soon enough, with a headache and an upset stomach, and I was back there in that basement with the rats and the wretched, dying man. The old, implacable reality had returned, the only reality I had ever known, and I resolved never to have another drink. It was too awful to escape for a while, and then have to go back again.
When I laid the sheets of paper down, I felt as if Fingold had given me a never-ending bottle of vodka. I looked up at him and gestured at the sheets. "Could I borrow these for a while? I promise to bring them right back."
Fingold shook his head. "Absolutely not." He passed me a pad of yellow paper. "Why don't you copy down the information you want?"
"I'm afraid that won't do. I need proof for my client. Hell, I could just make up a list out of my head and show it to him. Why should he believe me? He'll want to see the originals."
Fingold took the sheets from the desk. I stared at them: the pardon snatched from the condemned man. I tried smiling my most winning smile. "Listen," I said. "This is pretty important to me. Isn't there some way—"
He waved me silent and stood up. "Come with me," he said, looking disgusted.
I went with him. We left his office, walked down the corridor, and turned into a small alcove. It contained a waist-high boxlike gray machine.
"The damn thing never works," Fingold said, "but I guess it's worth a try."
He pulled up the lid on the machine and placed the top sheet face-down on a piece of glass inside. He pressed a button. There was a flash of light and the hum of movement inside. After a few seconds the machine disgorged a piece of paper—the thing looked to me like a gray monster sticking out its white tongue at the world. "Son of a gun," Fingold said. He picked up the piece of paper and gave it to me.
Xerox. I saw the word on the side of the machine—a word from the world I had never experienced. A strange, wonderful word. I managed to restrain myself from yelping with delight. "This will do," I said. "Can you make Xeroxes of the rest?"
"Say a prayer."
I did. He did. I folded the Xeroxes and put them in my pocket. "Thank you very much," I said to Fingold.
"Don't mention it," he replied. "I mean that. Just tell your friend I did my part."
"I'll be happy to."
I held out my hand. Fingold shook it—somewhat reluctantly, I thought—and then headed back to his office.
I walked down to the lobby and cheerfully bought back my gun from the soldier. Then I hurried off to the Ritz, thinking of other wonderful words from the old days, words that till now had been as foreign to my experience as hieroglyphics: Coke, Jacuzzi, parking meter, Big Mac.
Words that might now be more than a congeries of letters on a page, a faded photograph in a moldy magazine. Words that Dr. Winfield might now bring to life for me through some magic I dared not imagine.
I had come through for him. Would he come through for me?
Chapter 13
Dr. Winfield was shitfaced.
He looked as if he hadn't left his room since the last time I had been there. He was barefoot and unshaven, and the white shirt he wore was wrinkled and stained. He had graduated from wine to whiskey: a half-empty bottle stood on the night table by his bed. He did not inspire confidence.
"Mr. Sands, your deadline has arrived," he said mock-dramatically when he opened the door. "Want a drink?"
"No, thanks."
He staggered to the bed and sprawled face-down on it. I was afraid he had passed out. "You want to see what I've got?" I asked.
He said something unintelligible to the bedspread. I waited, and eventually he half turned over and waved. I put the sheets into his hand and sat down. He managed to turn himself completely over, groaned, squinted at the pages for a few moments, and then tossed them aside.
The gesture did not inspire optimism. I waited for a further response, but Winfield merely closed his eyes and folded his
But it ended soon enough, with a headache and an upset stomach, and I was back there in that basement with the rats and the wretched, dying man. The old, implacable reality had returned, the only reality I had ever known, and I resolved never to have another drink. It was too awful to escape for a while, and then have to go back again.
When I laid the sheets of paper down, I felt as if Fingold had given me a never-ending bottle of vodka. I looked up at him and gestured at the sheets. "Could I borrow these for a while? I promise to bring them right back."
Fingold shook his head. "Absolutely not." He passed me a pad of yellow paper. "Why don't you copy down the information you want?"
"I'm afraid that won't do. I need proof for my client. Hell, I could just make up a list out of my head and show it to him. Why should he believe me? He'll want to see the originals."
Fingold took the sheets from the desk. I stared at them: the pardon snatched from the condemned man. I tried smiling my most winning smile. "Listen," I said. "This is pretty important to me. Isn't there some way—"
He waved me silent and stood up. "Come with me," he said, looking disgusted.
I went with him. We left his office, walked down the corridor, and turned into a small alcove. It contained a waist-high boxlike gray machine.
"The damn thing never works," Fingold said, "but I guess it's worth a try."
He pulled up the lid on the machine and placed the top sheet face-down on a piece of glass inside. He pressed a button. There was a flash of light and the hum of movement inside. After a few seconds the machine disgorged a piece of paper—the thing looked to me like a gray monster sticking out its white tongue at the world. "Son of a gun," Fingold said. He picked up the piece of paper and gave it to me.
Xerox. I saw the word on the side of the machine—a word from the world I had never experienced. A strange, wonderful word. I managed to restrain myself from yelping with delight. "This will do," I said. "Can you make Xeroxes of the rest?"
"Say a prayer."
I did. He did. I folded the Xeroxes and put them in my pocket. "Thank you very much," I said to Fingold.
"Don't mention it," he replied. "I mean that. Just tell your friend I did my part."
"I'll be happy to."
I held out my hand. Fingold shook it—somewhat reluctantly, I thought—and then headed back to his office.
I walked down to the lobby and cheerfully bought back my gun from the soldier. Then I hurried off to the Ritz, thinking of other wonderful words from the old days, words that till now had been as foreign to my experience as hieroglyphics: Coke, Jacuzzi, parking meter, Big Mac.
Words that might now be more than a congeries of letters on a page, a faded photograph in a moldy magazine. Words that Dr. Winfield might now bring to life for me through some magic I dared not imagine.
I had come through for him. Would he come through for me?
Chapter 13
Dr. Winfield was shitfaced.
He looked as if he hadn't left his room since the last time I had been there. He was barefoot and unshaven, and the white shirt he wore was wrinkled and stained. He had graduated from wine to whiskey: a half-empty bottle stood on the night table by his bed. He did not inspire confidence.
"Mr. Sands, your deadline has arrived," he said mock-dramatically when he opened the door. "Want a drink?"
"No, thanks."
He staggered to the bed and sprawled face-down on it. I was afraid he had passed out. "You want to see what I've got?" I asked.
He said something unintelligible to the bedspread. I waited, and eventually he half turned over and waved. I put the sheets into his hand and sat down. He managed to turn himself completely over, groaned, squinted at the pages for a few moments, and then tossed them aside.
The gesture did not inspire optimism. I waited for a further response, but Winfield merely closed his eyes and folded his
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