snot.”
Berryman knelt in the middle of the bed and kissed her, without touching his pink chest against her.
He told her that ladies in Texas never cursed, and that they always kept scented handkerchiefs in their bosoms, and that they talcumed their rear ends.
Outside the bay window, far across the highway in the sand dunes, Ben Toy sat in darkness on the hood of the white Mustang. He studied the glowing second floor window. In his mind, he was there to protect Tom-Tom and the Irish girl. In return, they had to protect him.
A few times out on the dunes Toy heard a black woman’s voice announcing it was James Horn’s mother. One time he heard his father. Ben Toy thought he was having a nervous breakdown, and he was right.
Oona and Thomas Berryman continued to smoke the night away, and at a time when neither of them could do much more than nod their overblown heads, he started to ramble about a southern blackman he had been paid to kill.
As he described his plans for the unfortunate man, Oona Quinn threw up on the bed and then conveniently passed out.
Hampton Bays, June 19
In the morning, he was wearing a gray PROPERTY OF NEW YORK KNICKS sweatshirt and looking innocent as a new M.D.
He was ministering to the sick, too. Fluffing feather pillows. Opening old singed shades to bright ocean sunlight.
He carried Oona a pewter pot of coffee and honey cakes in a different bedroom from the one she’d thrown up in. The two of them didn’t have much to say, and only slowly did she realize he’d moved her, and changed her clothes sometime between night and morning. Put her in black tights.
“If you don’t want to stay,” he said, “you ought to go pretty soon. I had to find out, you know. You don’t have to be afraid to leave.” He continued to break bags of natural sugar into her coffee. “I’ve never harmed any friend. Not even anyone I liked. Don’t be afraid.”
She sipped the steamy coffee and watched him over the cup’s rim. Her eyes were slow and sad. Berryman had already figured that if she’d wanted to go, she would have tried to sneak away earlier.
“Coffee all right?”
He frowned at the dumbness of his question.
Oona refused to pout, however, “S’all right,” she said. She was drinking it.
“Scumbag,” she added after another sip.
Berryman felt obliged to offer her some explanation. “It just gives me too much freedom to stop now,” he offered first. “I don’t even think I want to.
“I remember when I was … some teenage year. Eighteen. Seventeen, nineteen … I drew up this philosophy. Ben and I did … I suppose it was more me than Ben…
“It was more complicated, but it really boiled down to—fuck it all. Somebody named me the pleasure king. At least I made a choice,” he said.
“Let me put it another way. Take an average person. Approach him with an offer to do what I do. Bad stuff, right? All kinds of immoral. Imagine it, though.
“Say this man is offered fifty to kill a total stranger. Say he has the know-how to do it. That’s important for it to be a fair question.
“What do you think would happen? In most cases?”
Oona’s chin hadn’t moved from the coffee cup. “I don’t know,” she said.
“That’s no answer, babe.
“OK, that’s what you think. No, then. He’d call the police, OK?”
Berryman could see she was looking for some killer line. Some way to flush his toilet but good. He wouldn’t let her. “So you mean if I put fifty thousand dollars on this bed,” he asked her. “Better yet, if I’d left it at that little shop where you worked. Real money. Tens, twenties, fifties. And I’d told you—just to take a weak example—‘get rid of the manager of the Hyannis A&P’? No action, huh? …”
She said
scheis.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You said something. Say it.”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.
Scheis
means shit in Russian.”
“Uh. I don’t think so.”
Oona Quinn didn’t say any more, but she didn’t go
Berryman knelt in the middle of the bed and kissed her, without touching his pink chest against her.
He told her that ladies in Texas never cursed, and that they always kept scented handkerchiefs in their bosoms, and that they talcumed their rear ends.
Outside the bay window, far across the highway in the sand dunes, Ben Toy sat in darkness on the hood of the white Mustang. He studied the glowing second floor window. In his mind, he was there to protect Tom-Tom and the Irish girl. In return, they had to protect him.
A few times out on the dunes Toy heard a black woman’s voice announcing it was James Horn’s mother. One time he heard his father. Ben Toy thought he was having a nervous breakdown, and he was right.
Oona and Thomas Berryman continued to smoke the night away, and at a time when neither of them could do much more than nod their overblown heads, he started to ramble about a southern blackman he had been paid to kill.
As he described his plans for the unfortunate man, Oona Quinn threw up on the bed and then conveniently passed out.
Hampton Bays, June 19
In the morning, he was wearing a gray PROPERTY OF NEW YORK KNICKS sweatshirt and looking innocent as a new M.D.
He was ministering to the sick, too. Fluffing feather pillows. Opening old singed shades to bright ocean sunlight.
He carried Oona a pewter pot of coffee and honey cakes in a different bedroom from the one she’d thrown up in. The two of them didn’t have much to say, and only slowly did she realize he’d moved her, and changed her clothes sometime between night and morning. Put her in black tights.
“If you don’t want to stay,” he said, “you ought to go pretty soon. I had to find out, you know. You don’t have to be afraid to leave.” He continued to break bags of natural sugar into her coffee. “I’ve never harmed any friend. Not even anyone I liked. Don’t be afraid.”
She sipped the steamy coffee and watched him over the cup’s rim. Her eyes were slow and sad. Berryman had already figured that if she’d wanted to go, she would have tried to sneak away earlier.
“Coffee all right?”
He frowned at the dumbness of his question.
Oona refused to pout, however, “S’all right,” she said. She was drinking it.
“Scumbag,” she added after another sip.
Berryman felt obliged to offer her some explanation. “It just gives me too much freedom to stop now,” he offered first. “I don’t even think I want to.
“I remember when I was … some teenage year. Eighteen. Seventeen, nineteen … I drew up this philosophy. Ben and I did … I suppose it was more me than Ben…
“It was more complicated, but it really boiled down to—fuck it all. Somebody named me the pleasure king. At least I made a choice,” he said.
“Let me put it another way. Take an average person. Approach him with an offer to do what I do. Bad stuff, right? All kinds of immoral. Imagine it, though.
“Say this man is offered fifty to kill a total stranger. Say he has the know-how to do it. That’s important for it to be a fair question.
“What do you think would happen? In most cases?”
Oona’s chin hadn’t moved from the coffee cup. “I don’t know,” she said.
“That’s no answer, babe.
“OK, that’s what you think. No, then. He’d call the police, OK?”
Berryman could see she was looking for some killer line. Some way to flush his toilet but good. He wouldn’t let her. “So you mean if I put fifty thousand dollars on this bed,” he asked her. “Better yet, if I’d left it at that little shop where you worked. Real money. Tens, twenties, fifties. And I’d told you—just to take a weak example—‘get rid of the manager of the Hyannis A&P’? No action, huh? …”
She said
scheis.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You said something. Say it.”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.
Scheis
means shit in Russian.”
“Uh. I don’t think so.”
Oona Quinn didn’t say any more, but she didn’t go
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