smile," I said, seeing his grin swell so
that I believed his face might burst. "Where's the canary?"
"Trying to swallow the cat, seems to me," he said. "We'll
get into it momentarily, hon. Macaffrey can help us out a lot
sooner than they think, that's for sure-"
"How?" I asked, almost running to keep up with his long
stride.
"Ears," he said, shaking his head, glancing at the walls.
"Can't tell you how pleased I am you and Macaffrey get
along so well."
"That's big of you," I said. "I get along with anyone I can
talk with."
"Talk? Looked like Siamese twins when you two came in
this morning. Messiahs have a great need for affection, I
guess."
"Thatcher, he's-"
"You must feel like a dinosaur," he added, with
unsurprising tact. "Nothing wrong with robbing the cradle
long as you're not the one has to change the diapers."
Unexpected chords transposed the melody of his song.
Curious to discover how he might deal with the situation as
he seemed to perceive it, I refrained from explaining the
nature of my relationship with Lester, not that he had any
right to know of it in the first place.
"I'm glad you're taking this so well," I said. "I thought
you might be upset."
"Oh, hon, it's only business. We all play the whore
sometime." Before I could comment on that remark he
added: "How'd Bernard convince you to do it?"
"Bernard has nothing to do with this," I said. "I told you
Lester came back here-"
"Oh," he said, looked at me, and smiled. "So it was your
idea after all. That's a good sign. I knew my influence'd
wear off on you eventually. That's real good."
You get nowhere participating in a conversation with a
ventriloquist who perceives you only as a new dummy; I
said nothing more. Lester and Gus stood beside the desk in
Bernard's office, their backs turned toward the door. Gus
circled around before we entered. The commercial playing
on TV was one of Dryco's; the spot commanded the viewer
to enjoy life. One inspiration after another onscreened as
the narrator sang: pink children romped with golden dogs,
Christmas lights of a dozen colors outlined the gables of a
Victorian house, oreads and naiads lounged on skislope
and surfside, barely hidden beneath particolored shreds of
quilt; innumerable scenes of a perfect world's perfect people flashed by, scenes that to my eye could have been filmed
perhaps on Mars, but never on Earth, not any longer.
"Who knows?" Thatcher asked.
"None but God." By this ritual Gus signaled that he'd
deafened the room's ears and blinded its eyes. The windowpanes rattled as they vibrated within their frames,
shaken by the air conditioner's wind, assuring that none
without could eavesdrop by discerning the tones with
which our voices caused the glass to waver. Thatcher,
collapsing into the leather chair, lifted his feet onto the
desk, knocking the photo of Bernard's wife against the
drawing of their son. I sat next to Lester, on the sofa, took
his hand and squeezed it.
"What have they done to you?" I asked.
"Bored me to death," he said. "Till we came in here,
anyway. Gus and I get along pretty good."
"How's it hanging, Macaffrey?" asked Thatcher. "You
need anything, just ask Joanna. She'll see to your every
need. I guess you figured that out already-"
"Call me Lester."
"Nothing like a first-name basis. Lester, I got something I
want you to take a look at. See if you can pick up anything
from it."
"What do you want picked?"
"Anything in bloom," said Thatcher. "Here you go, bud.
Looks like a list, doesn't it?" Lester studied the note for a
minute after Thatcher passed it over to him. "Can you see
who wrote it?"
"Of course not," said Lester. "Does this have anything to
do with the employee who was murdered?"
I knew no more showed in my face than I noticed
showing in Gus's; Thatcher tried to give the impression of
one lobotomized, but his eyes held the most disconcerting
blend of desire and fear, the look of a molester listening for
that I believed his face might burst. "Where's the canary?"
"Trying to swallow the cat, seems to me," he said. "We'll
get into it momentarily, hon. Macaffrey can help us out a lot
sooner than they think, that's for sure-"
"How?" I asked, almost running to keep up with his long
stride.
"Ears," he said, shaking his head, glancing at the walls.
"Can't tell you how pleased I am you and Macaffrey get
along so well."
"That's big of you," I said. "I get along with anyone I can
talk with."
"Talk? Looked like Siamese twins when you two came in
this morning. Messiahs have a great need for affection, I
guess."
"Thatcher, he's-"
"You must feel like a dinosaur," he added, with
unsurprising tact. "Nothing wrong with robbing the cradle
long as you're not the one has to change the diapers."
Unexpected chords transposed the melody of his song.
Curious to discover how he might deal with the situation as
he seemed to perceive it, I refrained from explaining the
nature of my relationship with Lester, not that he had any
right to know of it in the first place.
"I'm glad you're taking this so well," I said. "I thought
you might be upset."
"Oh, hon, it's only business. We all play the whore
sometime." Before I could comment on that remark he
added: "How'd Bernard convince you to do it?"
"Bernard has nothing to do with this," I said. "I told you
Lester came back here-"
"Oh," he said, looked at me, and smiled. "So it was your
idea after all. That's a good sign. I knew my influence'd
wear off on you eventually. That's real good."
You get nowhere participating in a conversation with a
ventriloquist who perceives you only as a new dummy; I
said nothing more. Lester and Gus stood beside the desk in
Bernard's office, their backs turned toward the door. Gus
circled around before we entered. The commercial playing
on TV was one of Dryco's; the spot commanded the viewer
to enjoy life. One inspiration after another onscreened as
the narrator sang: pink children romped with golden dogs,
Christmas lights of a dozen colors outlined the gables of a
Victorian house, oreads and naiads lounged on skislope
and surfside, barely hidden beneath particolored shreds of
quilt; innumerable scenes of a perfect world's perfect people flashed by, scenes that to my eye could have been filmed
perhaps on Mars, but never on Earth, not any longer.
"Who knows?" Thatcher asked.
"None but God." By this ritual Gus signaled that he'd
deafened the room's ears and blinded its eyes. The windowpanes rattled as they vibrated within their frames,
shaken by the air conditioner's wind, assuring that none
without could eavesdrop by discerning the tones with
which our voices caused the glass to waver. Thatcher,
collapsing into the leather chair, lifted his feet onto the
desk, knocking the photo of Bernard's wife against the
drawing of their son. I sat next to Lester, on the sofa, took
his hand and squeezed it.
"What have they done to you?" I asked.
"Bored me to death," he said. "Till we came in here,
anyway. Gus and I get along pretty good."
"How's it hanging, Macaffrey?" asked Thatcher. "You
need anything, just ask Joanna. She'll see to your every
need. I guess you figured that out already-"
"Call me Lester."
"Nothing like a first-name basis. Lester, I got something I
want you to take a look at. See if you can pick up anything
from it."
"What do you want picked?"
"Anything in bloom," said Thatcher. "Here you go, bud.
Looks like a list, doesn't it?" Lester studied the note for a
minute after Thatcher passed it over to him. "Can you see
who wrote it?"
"Of course not," said Lester. "Does this have anything to
do with the employee who was murdered?"
I knew no more showed in my face than I noticed
showing in Gus's; Thatcher tried to give the impression of
one lobotomized, but his eyes held the most disconcerting
blend of desire and fear, the look of a molester listening for
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