Dry Bones (26 page)

He was being followed.

In Liggett’s, he meandered up and down the aisles, bought cigarettes and shaving cream as well as earplugs, stood by the cutout of Garry Moore by the checkout counter and watched hurried flow in and out of the store. People zeroed in on the items they wanted—pens, prescriptions, shampoo—paid and left. Turnover at the lunch counter was slower, patrons distinctly older,
slightly shabby, residents of East Side tenements, there more for air-conditioning than a meal.

He crossed the street, lingered in the entrance of the Y. The tail was gone. Or maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he misread accidental zig for intentional zag. It happened. Radar operator misidentifies flock of birds as fighter plane; blip on sonar turns out to be school of fish instead of submarine. The heat might have played a part; dizziness he’d felt.

After his swim, he walked to the Roosevelt Hotel, through the lobby to the entrance into Grand Central, across the great hall to the Graybar entrance.

He knew for sure he was no longer being tailed. Maybe he never had been.

The rain on Saturday cooled things off. He caught up on paperwork, watched TV. For dinner he had a couple of beers and a corned beef sandwich at the Blarney Stone on Third Avenue. The heat returned on Sunday. He took a long walk through Central Park. He visited the zoo. The monkeys barely moved. The lions slept. The lone polar bear in view was comatose.

Buzz.
Monday morning. Miss O’Keefe on the intercom: “Moss is eager to see you. He says it’s important. What time shall I tell him?”

Dunne flipped the pages of the newspaper spread on his desk. “Anytime.” He went back to the paper.
Cuban government reports rebels routed in Oriente Province. Red China will probably have an atomic bomb within five years. Sale on summer suits at Rogers Peet.

Buzz.
Intercom again.

“What is it now?”

“Mr. Moss is here.”

“‘Eager’ was an understatement.”

“Shall I send him in?”

Dunne folded the paper and stuck it in his briefcase. He pulled a file from his desk, opened it, poised pen as if to write. “Fire when ready, Gridley.”

Moss’s smile resembled that of the cat savoring the taste of swallowed canary.

“Sit, please.” Dunne put down the pen. “You’ve got news I’m told.”

“Happy news.”

“I can see.”

“My ship’s come in.”

“Staten Island Ferry or Good Ship Lollipop?”

“Best ship afloat.”

“Which is that?”

“Bartlett and Partners. I’ve been hired at twice what I make here. I’ll have my own assistant, an office with three windows, and an expense account.”

“Congratulations. Did Bartlett do the hiring?”

“The colonel?”

“That’s how he liked to be addressed.” Dunne resisted mention of “the Pear,” the derisory nickname employed when Bartlett wasn’t around.

“Of course, I forgot. You were both OSS. I should’ve known you were buddies.”

“‘Buddies’ is stretching it.”

“He hasn’t been part of the firm for a while now.”

Dunne dusted off a cobwebbed memory: Item in the paper on Bartlett’s return to government service. Aglow with praise for his wartime record and role in helping set up the CIA, it read like he wrote it himself, which he probably had. “Sorry to see you go.”

“You’re not still sore about that piece in
Modern Detection
?”

“I’m grateful. It got me thinking.”

“I’m glad because here’s the kicker: It got me the job.”

“How’s that?”

“The crew over at Bartlett’s loved it. It’s exactly the kind of ‘proactive public relations’ they want inside their shop. They want to make intraindustry publications the norm for all types of businesses—create the template in-house, tailor the articles to the client, and target a specific audience. When they found out the piece was not only my idea but that I’d written it, I was offered the position of corporate editorial director.”

“Nice title.”

“Nice job.”

“You tell Billings yet?”

“A minute ago.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Wynne is thrilled. He said he’s been thinking for some time how to build a relationship between ISC and Bartlett and Partners. Louie Pohl was a big stumbling block. He insisted we keep our distance. But with Louie out of the picture and me going over there, Wynne thinks we’ll have a real opportunity to work together.” Moss gave him a casual imitation salute and was off.

Dunne gazed out the window. He was sorry Moss was departing. He wouldn’t have expected to feel that way, particularly after his initial reaction to the article in
Modern Detection
. Although there was no physical resemblance, something about Moss reminded Dunne of Peter Bunde—youthful enthusiasm blended with inexperience, one part optimism, two parts innocence, a desire to do the right thing and the presumption it would all work out in the end.

Take along the Miraculous Medal; leave behind the lethal pill. It had worked out for Bunde, just not the way he expected.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The stabbing persistence of the intercom interrupted his reverie. He glanced at his watch. It was 11:30. He was incredulous at how long he’d been gazing into space.

Time, gentlemen, time.

“Mr. Dunne, I’ve confirmed your reservation.”

“What reservation?”

“At Longchamps.”

“When?”

“Lunch. Today at twelve forty-five.”

“Who with?”

“Mr. Lawson from Pan Am.”

“Cancel it.”

“
Now?
”

“I got a bad headache.”

“When did that happen?

“Just now.”

“I’ll bring you some aspirin.”

“I need fresh air, not aspirin. I’ll get it myself.”

He slapped on his hat and rushed past her desk. He felt her cold glare without seeing it. She’d a right to be peeved. He knew he should apologize. He didn’t have a headache. But the craving for fresh air was immediate. He couldn’t wait.

Maybe it was a delayed reaction to the mention of C. B. Bartlett’s name, like when you wake in the middle of the night suddenly short of breath, as if someone were sitting on your chest. Bartlett’s name brought so much back, memories he was happy to escape. More likely, it was the effect of Moss’s news. He’d come to feel that he could work with Moss, that with his help he could cut through Billings’s corporate gobbledygook and carve out a position at ISC in which he felt comfortable.

No more.

When the elevator reached the lobby, he realized he was out of cigarettes. He crisscrossed through the traffic inching its way down Lexington Avenue. A cab jerked ahead, cutting toward the curb by Grand Central. The brakes screeched as it stopped just short of slamming into Dunne.

Dunne slapped his palm on the hood. “Watch it!”

The cabbie poked his head out. “You watch it, asshole!”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Stick it up your stuck-up ass!”

As he reached the east side of the avenue, Dunne stopped, intending to have the last word, and caught a blurred reflection in the front window of Liggett’s. A figure darted behind him—male, tall; hat, straw—and veered to the left.

This time he wasn’t dizzy; this time he was sure: a tail.

He entered and exited through the revolving door. He turned left, walked rapidly to the corner of 42nd Street. He passed Grand Central. At the corner of Vanderbilt, he crossed to the south side of the street, ignored the entrance to Rogers Peet at 16 East 42nd Street, and went left at the corner to the store’s main entrance at 41st and Fifth.

The store was quiet and cool. A bow-tied clerk with round tortoise-shell glasses and slicked-back hair approached. He had an Ivy League look but none of the trademark hoity-toity reserve of a Brooks Brothers floorwalker. “Hot out there, huh?”

“Lot nicer in here.”

The salesman smiled. “Here for the sale?”

“I need a jacket.”

“This way.” He led the way toward the back of the store. “Smart to come now. Lunchtime, we’ll be swamped.”

Dunne stopped at the first rack of suits, fingered a blue-striped seersucker.

“Summer clearance. Best bargain in the store.” The salesman tapped the rack with his sales book. “Forty-nine dollars reduced to twenty-nine. Let’s see if we have your size.”

Dunne removed his suit jacket and tried on the one he’d been touching.

The salesman shook his head. “Not even close. The sleeves are too long. Look at the shoulders.” He put down the sales book, pinched the fabric, and tugged. “Way too big.” He began to search through the rack. “What size you usually take?”

“I’ll take this.”

“Huh?” Salesman’s eyes widened behind tortoise-shell circles.

Dunne took out his billfold. “It’s perfect.”

“It doesn’t fit.”

“It’s good enough.”

“You haven’t tried on the pants.”

“I don’t want the pants. I need a hat.”

“The hat department is upstairs.”

Dunne went over to a mannequin, took the straw hat, and donned it. It fit.

“That’s for display only.”

“This should cover the jacket and hat.” Dunne peeled two twenties and a ten from the billfold and handed them to the salesman.

“This is too much.”

“It includes a tip.” He removed the price tag from the jacket.

“T-t-tip?” the salesman stuttered. “I don’t get tips.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“I have to write up a sales ticket.” The salesman trailed behind Dunne.

“Keep it.” Dunne started toward the store’s 42nd Street entrance.

“And these?” The salesman held up the jacket and hat Dunne had arrived in.

“Send them to the Salvation Army.”

Dunne quickly exited and walked west to the corner and joined the current of pedestrians streaming down Fifth. A group of tourists studied the staid and dignified facade of the New York Public Library across the way, clicked cameras at the stone lions flanking the stairs as their guide talked in German.

He turned down the brim of his hat as if to shade his eyes from the sun and followed as the tourists moved south. On the east corner of 41st Street, a man lounged, back against wall,
face half hidden behind the newspaper he paged through. He wore a narrow-brimmed straw hat, white straw in the process of turning yellow—last year’s merchandise, maybe the year’s before. Periodically, he peered over the top of the paper at the store entrance. Taking no notice of Dunne, he lowered the paper and eyed his watch.

His face was clearly visible. Haggard, seeded with two days’ worth of stubble and creased by pleats that curved from eyes to chin and accented the sharply pointed nose, a compass needle holding steady north, at the entrance to Rogers Peet—it was unmistakable.

Turlough Bassante.

Dunne walked leisurely halfway to 40th Street before he turned back.

Bassante had tucked the newspaper under his arm and crossed the street. His face was pressed to the front window of Rogers Peet. He used the paper as a visor.

“Who you looking for?” Dunne positioned himself by Bassante’s right shoulder.

Bassante stepped back, studied the reflection in the window. “I should’ve known.”

“Known what?”

“Never try to outfox a fox.”

“Especially when there’s no need. If you left a number, I’d have called you back.”

“I wasn’t sure about getting you involved. Last time I almost got you killed.”

“Let’s talk.”

“This time might be no different.”

“Suppose we go back to my office.”

“No.” Dark patches underlined the furtive, darting movement of Bassante’s eyes. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

“Where?”

“Over there.” He nodded at the library on the other side of
Fifth. “Third floor, a bench opposite the entrance to the Main Reading Room. Tomorrow, at noon.”

“This is silly. I’m through playing games.”

“I’m not crazy, if that’s what you think.”

“I said silly, not crazy.”

“I’m scared. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Not if there’s something worth being scared about.”

“I’ll let you decide.”

“How do I know you’ll show?”

“You don’t. But I will. You’ve got my word.”

Bassante started to move away but stopped. “Oh, one other thing. Sorry to have put you to the expense of purchasing such an ill-fitting jacket.” He pinched the shoulders much as the salesman had. “I trust you can take it back.”

“It did its job. I’m going to donate it to the Salvation Army.”

“A worthy outfit—the Salvation Army that is, not the jacket.” Bassante crossed in the middle of the block. Stroll became sprint as the light changed and the pent-up herd of cars, cabs, and buses let loose and stampeded down Fifth.

Shorty before noon, Dunne sat on the library steps and smoked. He reserved judgment on Bassante’s sanity. It was obvious the years since the war hadn’t been kind: wrinkled and worn clothes, face, mind.

It crossed Dunne’s mind this was a charade on Bassante’s part to prepare to put the touch on for whatever he could get; a strung-out song and dance to make it seem he wasn’t a beggar but a wartime buddy caught in some mystery-shrouded vise. A man has his pride. Stripped of everything else—money, work, wife, family—that’s about all he has.

It was all so unnecessary. Over the years, he’d helped whoever came to him. When they asked for a loan—and money was always what they needed—they got it. No exceptions. He told
them not to worry about paying it back. But they’d insist they’d only take it on the understanding they’d pay it back. Which they never did. No exceptions.

Bassante was where he said he’d be, on a marble bench across from the entrance to the Main Reading Room, in the same clothes as yesterday. Hunched over, eagle’s beak pointed toward the floor, he held his hat between his legs and worked the brim.

A group of high school students gathered in the middle of the entrance hall around their guide, an attractive redhead in a pink blouse and tight black skirt. She pointed at the trompe l’oeil painted on the ceiling. They craned their necks.

Bassante leaned back. “Recognize it?”

“Sure.” Dunne sat beside him. He kept his eyes on the librarian. She moved away, hips swaying rhythmically. A sight that never got old.