crossed the room and drew open the blinds. Propping a foot on the low windowsill, I stared morosely out into the night. The lights of Los Angeles were diffused by the city’s inevitable smog, reducing the harsh neon brightness of sign shapes to the softness of pastel abstractions, disembodied in the darkness.
What could I do?
The question seemed almost academic, because the problem was so impossibly complex. I remembered the difficulty I’d had learning chess. To each thrust there was a possible counterthrust—then an answering thrust to the counterthrust, and so on and on. This problem was the same. Russo could check Carrigan, but Carrigan could checkmate Russo—provided Carrigan himself could escape from check. And both men could eliminate me upon the merest whim, because both represented vast forces within society, just as did bishops and knights and kings and queens on the chessboard. By comparison, I was a pawn—a vassal, indentured for the most menial work. I sought merely money—eight thousand dollars more.
Eight thousand dollars—more than some people saved in a lifetime.
I sighed, straightened and blinked my eyes into focus. I must think. I must analyze the problem, clearly and concisely—once and for all.
Probably because I had a college diploma, Frank Russo liked me. Yet Russo was a businessman. He was responsible for the efficient functioning of a large, complicated enterprise engaged in the very serious business of narcotics, prostitution and gambling. Therefore, Russo could not permit a personal whim to alter company policy or to compromise company discipline. He must …
Beyond the window, the pastel tints of faded neon dissolved into the velvet darkness of a deeper night. Stars shown brilliantly in the sky; beneath the stars curved the surf, a phosphorescent tracery along the dark, deserted beach. The structure stood stark against the sky—the house with the lighted door. In the doorway stood the stocky, stolid silhouette of a man, staring sightlessly out into the night, listening.
Nearby stood the woman, silent and watching. She was draped in a coarsely woven cloak, falling in long Gothic folds to the sand at her feet. She stood motionless, her face concealed by the cowl of her cloak. They were alone in the night: the man in the doorway, listening—and the still figure on the beach, waiting.
Then, slowly, a third figure approached, emerging from the surrounding night like a silent, furtive actor leaving the darkened wings to take his place on a dimly lit stage. The third figure stealthily drew closer to the man in the doorway. Now the woman on the beach raised her arm in some slow, imperious command. The third figure suddenly tensed, crouching—scrabbling for a close-by concealment. The man in the doorway was turning, seeking escape—slowly, dreamily lifting first one leg, then the other—running in the agonized suspension of a nightmare, helplessly. One stride, two. The man was smaller now in the orange rectangle of the doorway light, escaping. But now the third figure stepped again quickly into full view, and in that instant the running man halted in midstride, frozen. Then he fell, stricken. The movement was surrealistically slow, as if his lifeless body were suspended by invisible strings, gently collapsing.
As the body finally lay inert, the orange rectangle of light faded into the surrounding darkness.
6
A LL THROUGH THAT SUNDAY night the vision of the three tortured figures writhed in my twisted dreams, leaving me sleepless and exhausted when morning finally came. It was a sensation I’d often experienced during the past few years. What had I actually seen? What had I imagined? What did it all mean? If the one lifeless figure was Dominic, who were the other two—the faceless woman and the furtive assassin? Was it all a meaningless fantasy, signifying nothing? It had happened before.
Was it a fantasy? Pure imagination?
Until I either identified the two figures, or proved them
What could I do?
The question seemed almost academic, because the problem was so impossibly complex. I remembered the difficulty I’d had learning chess. To each thrust there was a possible counterthrust—then an answering thrust to the counterthrust, and so on and on. This problem was the same. Russo could check Carrigan, but Carrigan could checkmate Russo—provided Carrigan himself could escape from check. And both men could eliminate me upon the merest whim, because both represented vast forces within society, just as did bishops and knights and kings and queens on the chessboard. By comparison, I was a pawn—a vassal, indentured for the most menial work. I sought merely money—eight thousand dollars more.
Eight thousand dollars—more than some people saved in a lifetime.
I sighed, straightened and blinked my eyes into focus. I must think. I must analyze the problem, clearly and concisely—once and for all.
Probably because I had a college diploma, Frank Russo liked me. Yet Russo was a businessman. He was responsible for the efficient functioning of a large, complicated enterprise engaged in the very serious business of narcotics, prostitution and gambling. Therefore, Russo could not permit a personal whim to alter company policy or to compromise company discipline. He must …
Beyond the window, the pastel tints of faded neon dissolved into the velvet darkness of a deeper night. Stars shown brilliantly in the sky; beneath the stars curved the surf, a phosphorescent tracery along the dark, deserted beach. The structure stood stark against the sky—the house with the lighted door. In the doorway stood the stocky, stolid silhouette of a man, staring sightlessly out into the night, listening.
Nearby stood the woman, silent and watching. She was draped in a coarsely woven cloak, falling in long Gothic folds to the sand at her feet. She stood motionless, her face concealed by the cowl of her cloak. They were alone in the night: the man in the doorway, listening—and the still figure on the beach, waiting.
Then, slowly, a third figure approached, emerging from the surrounding night like a silent, furtive actor leaving the darkened wings to take his place on a dimly lit stage. The third figure stealthily drew closer to the man in the doorway. Now the woman on the beach raised her arm in some slow, imperious command. The third figure suddenly tensed, crouching—scrabbling for a close-by concealment. The man in the doorway was turning, seeking escape—slowly, dreamily lifting first one leg, then the other—running in the agonized suspension of a nightmare, helplessly. One stride, two. The man was smaller now in the orange rectangle of the doorway light, escaping. But now the third figure stepped again quickly into full view, and in that instant the running man halted in midstride, frozen. Then he fell, stricken. The movement was surrealistically slow, as if his lifeless body were suspended by invisible strings, gently collapsing.
As the body finally lay inert, the orange rectangle of light faded into the surrounding darkness.
6
A LL THROUGH THAT SUNDAY night the vision of the three tortured figures writhed in my twisted dreams, leaving me sleepless and exhausted when morning finally came. It was a sensation I’d often experienced during the past few years. What had I actually seen? What had I imagined? What did it all mean? If the one lifeless figure was Dominic, who were the other two—the faceless woman and the furtive assassin? Was it all a meaningless fantasy, signifying nothing? It had happened before.
Was it a fantasy? Pure imagination?
Until I either identified the two figures, or proved them
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