Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (67 page)

 
          
 
"Mr. Pym?"

 
          
 
"Why, no. He's not here right now. May I
ask who's calling?"

 
          
 
"Mrs.''—don't be stupid. Ivy told
herself—' 'just a friend.''

 
          
 
"I see." The voice lost some of its
treacle. "I'm looking for him myself. I'm a big customer of his, and I
have a big order for him. When did you see him last?"

 
          
 
"What're you doing in his house?"

 
          
 
"Looking after it for him. I expected him
back by now."

 
          
 
"Maybe he's gone on holiday."

 
          
 
"Maybe he has. If you'd just give me
your—"

 
          
 
Ivy hung up. Were the TV people on to Mr. Pym
already? Was that fellow trying to keep her on the line till he could trace the
call? If David Hartman had Mr. Pym, how long could it be before he'd come
knocking at her door?

 
          
 
No, thank you. She'd had her fill of TV
people. After she spoke her mind about that Mengele fellow, she'd had calls
from a bunch of kooks. Morning,
noon
and night, even a couple after
midnight
. Some had called her a Communist. Some had
called her a barbarian. One guy had wanted to know exactly how you go about
skinning somebody.

 
          
 
She called her supervisor and said she was
sick and asked how much sick leave she had accumulated.

 
          
 
More than a month, her supervisor said, but
why did she want to know? Was she that sick?

 
          
 
"I'm afraid so," she said.
"This could be the end."

 
          
 
She returned to the kitchen and asked Jerome
how much money he could get for her as soon as the bank opened.

 
          
 
"Why?" Jerome asked.

 
          
 
"Your Uncle Buggywhip's sick. I have to
go to him."

 
          
 
"In
Bermuda
?"

 
          
 
Ivy nodded. "But if anybody asks, you
don't know. I told 'em at work it was me that's sick. Say I'm at one of those
fancy sanatoriums where they don't give out information about the
patients."

 
          
 
"How long you'll be?"

 
          
 
'*A while, I expect." Ivy touched
Jerome's head. "Don't you worry. You're a big boy. It's time you struck
out on your own."

 
          
 
''I TOLD Hal," Eva said. "I had to,
if we're going to ask him to help us."

 
          
 
"Sure. Fine." Burnham shook himself
awake and accepted a cup of coffee from Eva, who sat on the edge of the bed.
"What time is it?"

 
          
 
"Nine-thirty."

 
          
 
"Will he do it?"

 
          
 
"Ask him yourself." Smiling, Eva
pointed across the room.

 
          
 
Burnham rolled over and propped himself on one
elbow.

 
          
 
There was Hal, proud as a schoolboy on
graduation day, standing like a model in the middle of the room. He was wearing
new white espadrilles, pressed white ducks, a lavender Ralph Lauren Polo shirt,
a foulard ascot and a blue blazer so well worn that its elbows shone. His skin
was the color of meringue, against which his teeth stood out like drops of
amber.

 
          
 
"Reporting for duty," Hal said, and
saluted. "How do I look?"

 
          
 
"Perfect. Don't change a thing. You sure
you want to do this?"

 
          
 
"Timothy, my life is a monotone of dirty
towels, forsaken sweatsocks and shower drains clogged with unmentionables. I've
forgotten what a thrill feels like."

 
          
 
"If something goes wrong, you
could—"

 
          
 
"So I'll move on, to another town and
another Y, or maybe I'll get lucky and find a tennis club. At least let me have
the memory of excitement."

 
          
 
"It's yours. Got the tape?"

 
          
 
Hal grinned and patted the side pocket of his
jacket.

 
          
 
"Let me brush my teeth, and I'll rehearse
you." Burnham climbed out of bed and walked to the John. "By the way,
you're cleared through as Mr. Prince."

 
          
 
"Hal Prince." Hal savored the words.
"Prince Hal. Dashing. I like it. Suppose he won't see me."

 
          
 
"He'll see you," Burnham said.
"I guarantee it."

 
          
 
Hal departed at
quarter to ten
. At ten of, Burnham sat on the edge of the
bed, with Eva beside him, and dialed the White House number and asked for
Epstein's office.

 
          
 
Burnham heard the secretary draw a short,
sharp breath when he identified himself.

 
          
 
He said immediately, "Don't put a trace
on this call. I'm in a phone booth in
Bethesda
. I know all the tricks, and I'll hang up
before you can get to square one."

 
          
 
"But—"

 
          
 
"Just put me through. Now."

 
          
 
"Yes, sir."

 
          
 
Epstein came on the line, as amiable as a puff
adder. "Well?" was all he said.

 
          
 
"In about eight minutes, you're gonna
have a visitor, Mario. See him."

 
          
 
"Fuck you!" Epstein shouted.
"Who do you think you are, giving me orders? Listen, you two-bit phony,
you're as good as crucified. If you think I'm gonna—"

 
          
 
Burnham let Epstein fulminate, venting his
rage and frustration. He wished only that he could have seen Epstein's face as
he arrived at work this morning and found himself locked in the basement,
surrounded by armed guards.

 
          
 
"Mario," Burnham said pleasantly
when Epstein had run out of steam, "you're in over your head. Unless you
want to spend the rest of your life as the special assistant to the assistant
vice-president of the Allstate Insurance Company, you'll do what I tell you.
Now get up and go into the bathroom."

 
          
 
There was a pause while Epstein challenged his
ears and composed a new outburst. "I'll see you bum in hell, you . . . you
Communist."

 
          
 
"You'll be sorry, Mario. Look how I've
already spoiled your day, and it's not even
ten o'clock
. Don't you want to know what else I did at
three o'clock
in the morning? Sure you do. You don't want
another nasty surprise. Forewarned is forearmed."

 
          
 
When Epstein said nothing, Burnham repeated,
"Now get up and go into the bathroom. Pick up the phone in there."

 
          
 
Burnham heard the telephone receiver clunk
against the wooden desk top, and the wheels of Epstein's chair roll across the
plastic carpet shield, and the bathroom door open, and then the phone click off
its hook on the bathroom wall.

 
          
 
"Good," he said, trying to picture
Epstein standing by the toilet, his face livid. "Now pick up the toilet
seat."

 
          
 
"Godd—"

 
          
 
"Pick it up, Mario! And tell me what you
see."

 
          
 
Burnham closed his eyes, willing himself into
the bathroom with Epstein. He saw Epstein lift the toilet-seat cover and find
nothing and want to slam it down but instead lift the toilet seat itself, and
there, between the two little rubber bumper buttons, see Scotch-taped to the
underside of the toilet seat—

 
          
 
"A tape."

 
          
 
"A microcassette, to be precise. Take it
into your office and listen to a little bit of it. I'm sure you'll recognize
it, and when you do, I know you'll be eager to see the chap who'll be visting
you in about . . . five minutes."

 
          
 
"Why sh—"

 
          
 
"Because I have all the rest of them,
Mario, all the ones that were in your closet there, the ones that go back
God-knows-how-many weeks, starring you and all kinds of fascinating folks
saying things—I haven't had time to listen to all of them—that would probably
set the capital ablaze and for sure would cause the President to stick a Roman
candle up your ass and blow you all the way to Uranus, let alone the
interesting dilemma they'd pose for the Justice Department, since taping other
people's conversations without telling them is an awkwardness especially for
someone in your exalted position.

 
          
 
"The fellow who'll be coming to visit you
will have another tape for you, Mario, to prove his bona fides. It's a
particularly juicy one—you refer to Benjamin Winslow as being like Stevie
Wonder, you have to lead him from pillar to post—and the fellow will give it to
you as a gesture of good faith. Listen to what he has to say, Mario, 'cause if
I hear that you didn't . . . well, you better buy yourself a couple extra television
sets 'cause your mother'll be calling you tonight to tell you that you're all
over the evening news!"

 
          
 
Burnham spat out the last few words and
slammed down the phone.

 
          
 
"Wow!" said Eva.

 
          
 
"Mondo macho." Burnham smiled.
"I feel like Charles Bronson."

 
          
 
"You think he'll see Hal?"

 
          
 
"I know he will, unless he's gone
kamikaze overnight. He doesn't dare not. But whether he'll do what Hal will
tell him to do . . . that's something else. I have faith in Dr. Johnson."

 
          
 
"What's he got to do with this?"

 
          
 
"He said patriotism is the last refuge of
a scoundrel. I don't think Mario's so close to the end of his rope that he'll
suddenly turn patriotic. None of this 'I regret that I have but one life to
give to my country' crap for Mario. He's enough of an egomaniac to see that
when defeat is inevitable, there's wisdom in compromise.

 
          
 
"I hope."