Running Dog (15 page)

When the unit was dry he leveled out the finger grooves
and used the belts and sanders to get the handle down to a tighter, firmer fit.

He buffed the wood and brass to a fine sheen. Then he alternately polished and sharpened the blade, finally using various buffing wheels to get the edge and finish he wanted.

Sharpness: the sight of blood edging out of a cut in your thumb.

He climbed the back stairs to the kitchen and opened a can of beer, taking it with him up one more flight to the bedroom. He moved quietly past the cradle and looked at Tran Le curled in bed. Her face was touched pearl gray by a night light nearby. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, a Saigon bar girl at fourteen, leaning against a parked jeep eating an Almond Joy when he first set eyes on her eight years ago. He took off his shirt. When he sat on the edge of the bed, she turned toward him.

“Sleep,” he said.

“Where Van is, Earl?”

“Out of town. With Cao.”

“Business.”

“They be back maybe tomorrow, next day. You sleep.”

“Sleep,” she said.

“Maybe Van come back with gift for his sister. This because Van know she such a good little wife. Earl tell Van. She is de sweetest little wife in de whole wide world.”

Mudger’s rudimentary speech often degenerated into stock Negro dialect, catching him unaware. All those recruits he’d trained and pained. The less power you have, the more dominance you maintain in secondary areas. Speech rhythms, foot speed, hair texture. He finished his beer sitting on the edge of the bed. He needed only a couple of hours sleep. Then he’d watch the sun come up.

The woman was young with a healthy reddish face, oval in shape, and large brown eyes. Her hair, center-parted, billowed
evenly to either side. She wore an ordinary shift and sandals.

Selvy watched her walk to the outer office. The room was medium sized with a few vinyl chairs, a coffee table and a lamp constructed out of a football helmet. In a corner was a folding bed, doubled up, on casters.

“Stony, is this all?”

“What you see.”

“They said two minimum.”

“Man’s been waiting.”

“I’m kind of beat, frankly.”

“Tell him a story, Nadine. Man’s entitled.”

“Being I’m new, I won’t make waves. But ordinarily there’d be a tussle over this. Two’s the minimum, Stony, and you know it.”

“Do him a quickie, hon, and we’ll all go home.”

She sat across from Selvy. Her knees had a tender sheen. He liked shiny knees. He also liked her voice, a modified drawl. It took her a second or two to gear up to the introductory routine.

“Goes like this: you’re allowed to pick one story out of the following three. More, you pay extra. Each story runs ten minutes, depending. Longer of course for activities. Okay. ‘Flaming Panties.’ The Valley of the Jolly Green Giant, Ho Ho Ho.’ And the ‘Story of Naomi and Lateef.’ The second one’s mostly gay, just so we get our preferences right.”

“Wouldn’t I want a man to tell it?”

“Look, who knows?”

“You’re new here.”

“My second full week and I’m ready to bow out. Quit while they still love you. How much did you give Stony?”

“Fifteen down.”

“Just checking,” she said. “You have to do that with horseplayers. Okay, pick one.”

“I’ll try ‘Naomi and Lateef.’ ”

“You’re only the second person to pick that. Most everybody
picks ‘Flaming Panties.’ It’s really sick, too. The mind that comes up with stuff like that.”

“They’re not your stories.”

“I don’t make them up. I just recite them.”

“I thought they were your stories.”

“If I made up ‘Flaming Panties,’ I don’t know, I think I’d run a sword through my body. It is
the
sickest.”

Selvy heard the man in the outer office talking to someone. He seemed agitated, although the words weren’t clearly audible through the closed door.

“If you get stimulated by the story, pay attention, you can give me an extra ten if you want, or an extra twenty, depending. We leave it up to customer preference. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“That’s just Stony making life hard for the kid who brings his sandwich.”

Selvy nodded.

“The ‘Story of Naomi and Lateef,’ ” she said, standing momentarily to unzip the shift down the back, then stepping out of it and sitting down again. She looked at him impatiently.

“What?” he said.

“If you keep your clothes on, it means you’re a cop.”

“I see. I didn’t realize.”

“Nude storytelling, it says on the door.”

“Everybody, that means.”

“You’re catching on,” she said.

“There are some people I’m trying to avoid, more or less.”

“We all get naked. If you don’t, you’re a cop. That’s what they told me. I’m also supposed to say we recommend the twenty-dollar activity, which is the one we need the bed for. That goes in at the part we came to before.”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

“Of course if you’re ashamed. We get all sorts. Maybe we can work out a compromise. I don’t think a person ought to be
forced to get undressed in front of a stranger. It’s just everybody’s so casual about their bodies.”

“There are some people I’m trying to avoid. What say you and I go out and get something to eat. Come on, put on your dress, we’ll go. Is there a back way?”

“Whoa, big fella.”

“I’ll take the twenty-dollar activity. Just not here, okay? We’ll grab a bite, come on.”

“Come, go; eat, sleep; dress, undress.”

“Nadine. Is that your name?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Never mind.”

“You’ll never reach twenty if you hang around here much longer. I’m your last chance.”

“At least you’re smiling. You’d better be smiling.”

“Come on, we’ll go to Little Rock.”

“What a thing to say.”

“Get your clothes on.”

“My sister lives in Little Rock,” she said.

Dressed, she led the way through a series of storerooms. They emerged in a larger room occupied by a woman wearing black boots, a long black military shirt and an iron cross hanging from her neck. The shirt included a red armband with a black swastika set inside a circular field of white. The woman sat smoking, her feet propped on the top rung of a small ladder.

“Passing through.”

“You’re the new one.”

“Nadine Rademacher. Hi. How’s business.”

“Sucks,” the woman said.

“Enjoy your break.”

“Who’s Johnny Lonesome?”

“Just a hanger-on,” Nadine said. “Can’t get rid of the kid.”

In the corridor they passed the same man Selvy had seen earlier, standing in a different doorway this time.

“Photograph live nudes.”

“Angelo, why don’t you go home?” Nadine said.

“Busload of Japanese coming down from the Hilton.”

At the top of the stairway Selvy asked Nadine to wait a moment. He followed the same route he’d taken after entering. Turning the corner into an empty hallway he palmed his .38 and held it flat against his thigh. Went past the window, the room full of novelties. Opened the black metal door. No one there. Stony’s racing form on the desk. He walked through into the studio. Empty. He holstered the gun and went out to find Nadine.

The street was even more crowded than it had been. Apparently there’d been action. Squad cars, an ambulance, a TV crew. People made faces for the camera. Selvy scanned the crowd, then led Nadine along the front of the building and down a cross street to the nearest restaurant. It was a dark cellar, a steak place, and the waiter wore spats. Only two other tables were occupied. An extramarital affair at one. Judge Crater at the other.

“My drama teacher talked me off L.A.,” Nadine said. “He kept saying New York. New York actors. Character actors. People with faces.”

“He seemed to think faces were important, did he?”

“He kept saying faces. People with faces. He said I wouldn’t learn anything in a place where there’s just one basic face.”

The waiter glided by.

“Kitchen’s closing if you want to order.”

The old man nearby, with long white stringy hair, sipped his complimentary cordial.

“So you’re an actress,” Selvy said.

“Aspiring.”

“That place you work at.”

“It was all a storage area. Is that what you mean? Why is it set up so everything’s so hard to get to? They kept materials there. Books, rubber and leather, film equipment, editing
equipment, everything. Then somebody in the organization decided to open it up to street trade, even though it’s hidden away on the second and third floor. It’s the accountants, Stony said. A tax matter. You’re not a cop. We established that. Am I right?”

“Right.”

“Talerico,” she said, fixing him with a meaningful look.

“Familiar.”

“There’s two of them. Paul. That’s the one who’s here. One of the New York families, as you can well imagine. Pornography, trucking, vending machines. Don’t you love it? That’s the legitimate end. The other one. That’s Vincent. He’s up-state or somewhere. They’re cousins, I think.”

“I know the names,” Selvy said.

“Vincent’s in charge of acquiring, Stony said. Acquisitions. He specializes in first-run movies. When they can’t get rights by bargaining, they send Vincent. He gets the film. He just takes it. Then they make their own prints. Then they distribute.”

She hunched way down in her chair, conspiratorially, her face just inches above the table top.

“They call him Vinny the Eye. Don’t you love it? It’s so dumb, I love it. I’ve only seen Paul. He was in the other day. Everybody went around saying,
‘Paul’s here, Paul, he’s in the building.’
I was disappointed in Paul. I was not impressed. It was disillusioning for a country girl like myself. I think Vinny’s the Hollywood one. The dresser. The fancy gangster type. It’s really dumb. I wish he’d come around so I could see him.”

When the food came she didn’t waste time, obviously hungry. Watching her eat relaxed him. It occurred to Selvy he hadn’t been hungry in years. He’d experienced weakness and discomfort from lack of food. But he hadn’t desired it really, except to ease the discomfort. He tried to recall the last time he’d felt a real desire for food.

“Are you seriously going to Little Rock?” she said.

“Thereabouts, sure, why not.”

“Ever since I’ve been working in that place I keep thinking the whole world smells of Lysol.”

“You owe me a story, you know.”

“ ‘Naomi and Lateef.’ ”

“I might change my mind,” he said.

“All I know, I’m not doing ‘Flaming Panties.’ That story’s so sick I’ve been changing it little by little. A little every day. I don’t care who complains. It’s a story that relies on combinations. Incest is just the beginning. It
starts
with incest. Then near the end it just becomes reciting words. Some words I just won’t say. It piles on the phrases. It becomes red meat.”

“Your customers.”

“They laugh, mostly. Some get embarrassed. You’d be surprised.”

“Sitting there naked, laughing.”

“Sheepish nudes, I told Stony.”

“So some words you just won’t say.”

She finished chewing the last bite of baked potato.

“Who are you trying to avoid anyway?”

Selvy looked toward the old man, who sat rigidly staring into space.

“Tieu to dac cong.”

He gave her a delayed smile, self-consciously weary, and signaled for the check.

Outside a police towaway crew was about ready to haul the battered Cadillac. Tourists were interested in the pimpmobile. A man, two women and two children posed for pictures, using the car as background. When they were finished, two other women and three children moved into position along the front door and fender. A conventioneer wearing an enormous name tag crouched in the gutter, inserting a flash cube in his Instamatic.

Earl Mudger stood on the patio, facing east, barechested despite the chill, a mug of coffee in his hand. He liked being
the first one up, coming down in the dark to start the coffee perking. He would roll his shoulders as he moved around the house, would swing his arms occasionally, feeling the stiffness ease away. Ever since he could remember, in whatever house or barracks he’d lived, with whatever people, family or military, he’d always been the first one up.

With pale light intensifying, aspects of sunrise visible through the trees, he went back into the kitchen. On the counter lay a manila folder and a spool of magnetic tape. He poured more coffee into his mug and sat on a stool, opening the folder and scanning the topmost page, a document headed:
Department of the Treasury, District Director, Internal Revenue Service
. Beneath this was a white label with a long series of numbers arrayed across the top, followed by Grace Delaney’s name and home address.

Mudger began turning pages, glancing at audit forms, photocopied documents, photocopied checks and bank statements, agent evaluations, notices of “unfavorable action.” He closed the folder and regarded the tape spool. It contained confidential information on the accounts of roughly five hundred taxpayers and had been acquired by Lomax from the same source, an IRS supervisor who had access to restricted files. Among the data was further information relating to Grace Delaney’s account.

Mudger finished his coffee and went downstairs. He rechecked the fit and worked some more on the handle section. Then he put on his magnifying glasses and studied the blade.

The knife was a modified bowie. It had a broad sweeping single-edged blade with a clipped point. Overall length was about eleven and a half inches. The blade measured seven and a quarter.

There was a display panel, a hinged triptych, fastened to the wall above a work table. Mudger’s knives were exhibited here, some he’d made himself, others turned out by custom knifemakers.

They had sex in the front seat of Selvy’s car, which was parked in the barren dells near the West Side Highway. It was an act they knew would take place as they walked through the dark streets to the car. It helped dispel certain disquieting energies. Times Square Saturday night.

“My hotel’s right near that restaurant. Why are we doing it here?”