He pulled in his stomach and drew a deep breath. It made him feel woozy. He picked up the telephone and put the receiver to his ear. Look busy! That was the main idea. He found the dial tone soothing. He wished he could crawl inside the receiver and float on his back in the dial tone and let the hum of it wash over his nerve endings. How easy it would be to put his head down on the desk and close his eyes and catch forty winks. Perhaps he could get away with it if he put one side of his face down on the desk, with the back of his head to the city room, and kept the telephone over his other ear as if he were talking. No, it would still look strange. Perhaps...

Oh, Christ G.o.d. An American named Robert Goldman, one of the reporters, was heading for the cubicle. Goldman had on a necktie with vivid red, yellow, black, and sky-blue diagonal stripes. The Yanks called these bogus regimental ties "rep" ties. The Yanks always wore neckties that leapt out in front of their shirts, as if to announce the awkwardness to follow. Two weeks ago he had borrowed a hundred dollars from Goldman. He had told him he had to repay a gambling debt by nightfall-backgammon-the Bracers' Club-fast European crowd. The Yanks had very big eyes for stories of Rakes and Aristocrats. Since then, the little s.h.i.t had already pestered him three times for the money, as if his future on this earth turned on a hundred dollars. The receiver still at his ear, Fallow glanced at the approaching figure, and the blazing tie that heralded him, with contempt. Like more than one Englishman in New York, he looked upon Americans as hopeless children whom Providence had perversely provided with this great swollen fat fowl of a continent. Any way one chose to relieve them of their riches, short of violence, was sporting, if not morally justifiable, since they would only squander it in some tasteless and useless fashion, in any event.

Fallow began talking into the receiver, as if deep in conversation. He searched his poisoned brain for the sort of one-sided dialogue playwrights have to come up with for telephone scenes.

"What's that?...You say the surrogate refuses to allow the stenographer to give us a transcript? Well, you tell him...Right, right...Of course...It's an absolute violation...No, no...Now listen carefully..."

The necktie-and Goldman-were standing right beside him. Peter Fallow kept his eyes down and lifted one hand, as if to say, "Please! This call cannot be interrupted."

"h.e.l.lo, Pete," said Goldman.

Pete! he said, and not very cheerily, either. he said, and not very cheerily, either. Pete! Pete! The very sound set Fallow's teeth on edge. This...appalling...Yank...familiarity! And cuteness! The Yanks!-with their Arnies and Buddies and Hanks and The very sound set Fallow's teeth on edge. This...appalling...Yank...familiarity! And cuteness! The Yanks!-with their Arnies and Buddies and Hanks and...Petes! And this lubberly gauche lout with his screaming necktie has the gall to walk into one's office while one is on the telephone, because he's a nervous wreck over his pathetic hundred dollars!-and call one And this lubberly gauche lout with his screaming necktie has the gall to walk into one's office while one is on the telephone, because he's a nervous wreck over his pathetic hundred dollars!-and call one Pete! Pete!

Fallow screwed his face into a look of great intensity and began talking a mile a minute.

"So!...You tell the surrogate and and the stenographer that we want the transcript by noon tomorrow!...Of course!...It's obvious!...This is something her barrister has cooked up! They're all thick as thieves over there!" the stenographer that we want the transcript by noon tomorrow!...Of course!...It's obvious!...This is something her barrister has cooked up! They're all thick as thieves over there!"

"It's 'judge,' " said Goldman tonelessly.

Fallow flicked his eyes up toward the American with a furious black look.

Goldman stared back with a faintly ironic twist to his lips.

"They don't say 'stenographer,' they say 'court reporter.' And they don't say 'barrister,' although they'll know what you mean."

Fallow closed his eyes and his lips into three tight lines and shook his head and flapped his hand, as if confronted by an intolerable display of impudence.

But when he opened his eyes, Goldman was still there. Goldman looked down at him and put a look of mock excitement on his face and raised both hands and lifted his ten fingers straight up in front of Fallow and then made two fists and popped the ten fingers straight up again and repeated this gesture ten times-and said, "One hundred big ones, Pete," and walked back out into the city room.

The impudence! The impudence! Once it was clear the impudent little wet smack wasn't returning, Fallow put down the receiver and stood up and went over to the coatrack. He had vowed-but Christ G.o.d! What he had just been subjected to Once it was clear the impudent little wet smack wasn't returning, Fallow put down the receiver and stood up and went over to the coatrack. He had vowed-but Christ G.o.d! What he had just been subjected to was...just...a...bit...much was...just...a...bit...much. Without removing it from the hook, he opened the raincoat and put his head inside it, as if he were inspecting the seams. Then he brought the raincoat around his shoulders so that the upper half of his body disappeared from view. It was the kind of raincoat that has slash pockets with openings on the inside as well as the outside, so that in the rain you can get to your jacket or pants without unb.u.t.toning the coat in front. Beneath his poplin tent, Fallow felt around for the inside opening of the left-hand pocket. From the pocket he withdrew a pint-sized camping canteen.

He unscrewed the top, put the opening to his lips, and took two long gulps of vodka and waited for the jolt in his stomach. It hit and then bounced up through his body and his head like a heat wave. He screwed the top back on and slipped the canteen back in the pocket and emerged from the raincoat. His face was on fire. There were tears in his eyes. He took a wary look toward the city room, and- Oh s.h.i.t.

-the Dead Mouse was looking straight at him. Fallow didn't dare so much as blink, much less smile. He wanted to provoke no response in the Mouse whatsoever. He turned away as if he hadn't seen him. Was vodka truly odorless? He devoutly hoped so. He sat down at the desk and picked up the telephone again and moved his lips. The dial tone hummed, but he was too nervous to surrender himself to it. Had the Mouse seen him under the raincoat? And if he had, would he guess anything? Oh, how different that little nip had been from those glorious toasts of six months ago! Oh, what glorious prospects he had p.i.s.sed away! He could see the scene...the dinner at the Mouse's grotesque flat on Park Avenue...the pompous, overformal invitation cards with the raised script: Sir Gerald Steiner and Lady Steiner request the pleasure of your company at dinner in honour of Mr. Peter Fallow Sir Gerald Steiner and Lady Steiner request the pleasure of your company at dinner in honour of Mr. Peter Fallow ( (dinner and and Mr. Peter Fallow Mr. Peter Fallow written in by hand)...the ludicrous museum of Bourbon Louis furniture and threadbare Aubusson rugs the Dead Mouse and Lady Mouse had put together on Park Avenue. Nevertheless, what a heady evening that had been! Everyone at the table had been English. There were only three or four Americans in the upper echelons of written in by hand)...the ludicrous museum of Bourbon Louis furniture and threadbare Aubusson rugs the Dead Mouse and Lady Mouse had put together on Park Avenue. Nevertheless, what a heady evening that had been! Everyone at the table had been English. There were only three or four Americans in the upper echelons of The City Light The City Light anyway, and none was invited. There were dinners like this all over the East Side of Manhattan every night, he had soon discovered, lavish parties that were all English or all French or all Italian or all European; no Americans, in any case. One had the sense of a very rich and very suave secret legion that had insinuated itself into the cooperative apartment houses of Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue, from there to pounce at will upon the Yanks' fat fowl, to devour at leisure the last plump white meat on the bones of capitalism. anyway, and none was invited. There were dinners like this all over the East Side of Manhattan every night, he had soon discovered, lavish parties that were all English or all French or all Italian or all European; no Americans, in any case. One had the sense of a very rich and very suave secret legion that had insinuated itself into the cooperative apartment houses of Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue, from there to pounce at will upon the Yanks' fat fowl, to devour at leisure the last plump white meat on the bones of capitalism.

In England, Fallow had always thought of Gerald Steiner as "that Jew Steiner," but on this night all base sn.o.bberies had vanished. They were comrades-in-arms in the secret legion, in the service of Great Britain's wounded chauvinism. Steiner had told the table what a genius Fallow was. Steiner had been swept off his feet by a series on country life among the rich that Fallow had done for the Dispatch Dispatch. It had been full of names and t.i.tles and helicopters and perplexing perversions ("that thing with the cup") and costly diseases, and all of it was so artfully contrived as to be fireproof in terms of libel. It had been Fallow's greatest triumph as a journalist (his only one, in point of fact), and Steiner couldn't imagine how he had pulled it off. Fallow knew exactly how, but he managed to hide the memory of it with the embroideries of vanity. Every spicy morsel in the series came from a girl he was seeing at that time, a resentful little girl named Jeannie Brokenborough, a rare-book dealer's daughter who ran with the Country Set as the social runt in the stable. When little Miss Brokenborough moved on, Fallow's daily magic vanished with her.

Steiner's invitation to New York had arrived just in time, although Fallow did not see it that way. Like every writer before him who has ever scored a triumph, even on the level of the London Dispatch Dispatch, Fallow was willing to give no credit to luck. Would he have any trouble repeating his triumph in a city he knew nothing about, in a country he looked upon as a stupendous joke? Well...why should he? His genius had only begun to flower. This was only journalism, after all, a cup of tea on the way to his eventual triumph as a novelist. Fallow's father, Ambrose Fallow, was a novelist, a decidedly minor novelist, it had turned out. His father and his mother were from East Anglia and had been the sort of highly educated young people of good blood and good bone who after the Second World War had been susceptible to the notion that literary sensitivity could make one an aristocrat. The notion of being aristocratic was never far from their minds, nor from Fallow's. Fallow had tried to make up for his lack of money by being a wit and a rake. These aristocratic accomplishments had gained him nothing more than an insecure place in the tail of the comet of the smart crowd in London.

Now, as part of the Steiner brigade in New York, Fallow was also going to make his fortune in the fat white-meat New World.

People wondered why Steiner, who had no background in journalism, had come to the United States and undertaken the extremely costly business of setting up a tabloid newspaper. The smart explanation was that The City Light The City Light had been created as the weapon of attack or reprisal for Steiner's much more important financial investments in the United States, where he was already known as "the Dread Brit." But Fallow knew it was the other way around. The "serious" investments existed at the service of had been created as the weapon of attack or reprisal for Steiner's much more important financial investments in the United States, where he was already known as "the Dread Brit." But Fallow knew it was the other way around. The "serious" investments existed at the service of The City Light The City Light. Steiner had been reared, schooled, drilled, and handed a fortune by Old Steiner, a loud and pompous self-made financier who wanted to turn his son into a proper British peer, not just a rich Jewish boy. Steiner fils fils had become the well-mannered, well-educated, well-dressed, proper mouse his father required. He had never found the courage to rebel. Now, late in life, he had discovered the world of the tabloids. His daily dive into the mud- had become the well-mannered, well-educated, well-dressed, proper mouse his father required. He had never found the courage to rebel. Now, late in life, he had discovered the world of the tabloids. His daily dive into the mud-SCALP GRANDMA, THEN ROB HER-brought him inexpressible joy. Uhuru! Uhuru! Free at last! Every day he rolled up his sleeves and plunged into the life of the city room. Some days he wrote headlines himself. It was possible that he had written Free at last! Every day he rolled up his sleeves and plunged into the life of the city room. Some days he wrote headlines himself. It was possible that he had written SCALP GRANDMA SCALP GRANDMA, although that had the inimitable touch of his managing editor, a Liverpool prole named Brian Highridge. Despite the many victories of his career, however, he had never been a social success. This was largely due to his personality, but anti-Jewish sentiment was not dead, either, and he could not discount it altogether. In any case, he looked with genuine relish upon the prospect of Peter Fallow building a nice toasty bonfire under all the n.o.bs who looked down on him. And so he waited...

And waited. At first, Fallow's expense account, which was far larger than any other City Light City Light writer's (not counting the rare foreign a.s.signment), caused no concern. After all, to penetrate the high life one had to live it, to some extent. The staggering lunch bills, dinner bills, and bar bills were followed by amusing reports of the swath Mr. Peter Fallow was cutting as a jolly Brit giant in fashionable low dives. After a while they were not amusing anymore. No great coup in the chronicling of the high life was forthcoming from this particular soldier of fortune. More than once, Fallow had turned in stories only to find them reduced to unsigned column items the following day. Steiner had called him in for several progress reports. These chats had become chillier and chillier. His pride wounded, Fallow had begun entertaining his colleagues by referring to Steiner, the renowned "Dread Brit," as the Dead Mouse. Everyone seemed to enjoy this enormously. After all, Steiner writer's (not counting the rare foreign a.s.signment), caused no concern. After all, to penetrate the high life one had to live it, to some extent. The staggering lunch bills, dinner bills, and bar bills were followed by amusing reports of the swath Mr. Peter Fallow was cutting as a jolly Brit giant in fashionable low dives. After a while they were not amusing anymore. No great coup in the chronicling of the high life was forthcoming from this particular soldier of fortune. More than once, Fallow had turned in stories only to find them reduced to unsigned column items the following day. Steiner had called him in for several progress reports. These chats had become chillier and chillier. His pride wounded, Fallow had begun entertaining his colleagues by referring to Steiner, the renowned "Dread Brit," as the Dead Mouse. Everyone seemed to enjoy this enormously. After all, Steiner did did have a long pointed nose like a mouse and no chin and a crumpled little mouth and large ears and tiny hands and feet and eyes in which the light seemed to have gone out and a tired little voice. Recently, however, Steiner had become downright cold and abrupt, and Fallow began to wonder if in fact he somehow had learned of the Dead Mouse crack. have a long pointed nose like a mouse and no chin and a crumpled little mouth and large ears and tiny hands and feet and eyes in which the light seemed to have gone out and a tired little voice. Recently, however, Steiner had become downright cold and abrupt, and Fallow began to wonder if in fact he somehow had learned of the Dead Mouse crack.

He looked up...there was Steiner, six feet away in the doorway to the cubicle, looking straight at him, one hand resting on a modular wall.

"Nice of you to pay us a visit, Fallow."

Fallow! It was the most contemptuous sort of school-proctor stuff! Fallow was speechless. It was the most contemptuous sort of school-proctor stuff! Fallow was speechless.

"Well," said Steiner, "what do you have for me?"

Fallow opened his mouth. He ransacked his poisoned brain in search of the facile conversation for which he was renowned and came up gasping and sputtering.

"Well!-you'll remember-the Lacey Putney estate-I mentioned that-if I'm not mistaken-they've tried to give us a very hard time at the Surrogate's Court, the-the-" d.a.m.n! Was it stenographers or something about reporters? What had Goldman said? "Well!-I hardly-but I've really got the whole thing now! It's just a matter of-I can tell you-this is really going to break open..."

Steiner didn't even wait for him to finish.

"I sincerely hope so, Fallow," he said quite ominously. "I sincerely hope so."

Then he left and plunged back into his beloved tabloid city room.

Fallow sank down into his chair. He managed to wait almost a full minute before he got up and disappeared into his raincoat.

Albert Teskowitz was not what Kramer or any other prosecutor would call a threat when it came to swaying a jury with the magic of his summations. Emotional crescendos were beyond him, and even what rhetorical momentum he could manage was quickly undercut by his appearance. His posture was so bad that every woman on a jury, or every good mother, in any case, was aching to cry out, "Hold your shoulders back!" As for his delivery, it wasn't that he didn't prepare his summations, it was that he obviously prepared them on a yellow legal pad, which lay on top of the defense table.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the defendant has three children, ages six, seven, and nine," Teskowitz was saying, "and they are in the courtroom at this moment, awaiting the outcome of this trial." Teskowitz avoided calling his client by name. If he could have said Herbert Cantrell, Mr. Cantrell, or even Herbert, it would have been all right, but Herbert wouldn't put up even with Herbert. "My name is not Herbert," he told Teskowitz when he first took the case. "I am not your limo driver. My name is Herbert 92X."

"It was not some criminal sitting in the Doubleheader Grill that afternoon," Teskowitz continued, "but a workingman with a job and a family." He hesitated and turned his face upward with the far, far, far-off expression of someone about to have an epileptic seizure. "A job and a family," he repeated dreamily, a thousand miles away. Then he turned on his heels and went to the defense table and bent his already stooped torso at the waist and stared at his yellow legal pad with his head c.o.c.ked to one side, like a bird eyeing a wormhole. He held that pose for what seemed like an eternity and then walked back to the jury box and said, "He was not an aggressor. He was not attempting to settle a score or make a score or get even with anybody. He was a workingman with a job and a family who was concerned with only one thing, and that he had every right to, which was his life was in danger." The little lawyer's eyes opened up like a time exposure again, and he did an about-face and walked back to the defense table and stared at the yellow pad some more. Bent over the way he was, he had a silhouette like a slop-sink spigot...A slop-sink spigot...a dog with the chuck horrors...Rogue images began to seep into the jurors' minds. They began to be aware of things such as the film of dust on the huge courtroom windows and the way the dying afternoon sun lit up the dust, as if it were that kind of plastic they make toys out of, the kind that picks up light, and every housekeeper on the jury, even the bad ones, wondered why somebody didn't wash those windows. They wondered about many things and about almost anything other than what Albert Teskowitz was saying about Herbert 92X, and above all they wondered about the yellow legal pad, which seemed to have Teskowitz's poor bent scrawny neck on a leash.

"...and find this defendant...not guilty." When Teskowitz finally completed his summation, they weren't even sure he had finished. Their eyes were pinned on the yellow legal pad. They expected it to jerk him back to the table once more. Even Herbert 92X, who hadn't missed a beat, looked puzzled.

Just then a low chant began in the courtroom.

"Yo-ohhhhhhh..." It came from over here.

"Yo-ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." It came from over there.

Kaminsky, the fat officer, started it, and then Bruzzielli, the clerk, picked it up, and even Sullivan, the court reporter, who was sitting at his stenotype machine just below the brow of Kovitsky's bench, joined in with his own low discreet version. "Yo-ohhh."

Without batting an eye Kovitsky tapped his gavel and declared a thirty-minute recess.

Kramer didn't think twice about it. It was wagon-train time at the fortress, that was all. Wagon-training was standard practice. If a trial was likely to run past sundown, then you had to wagon-train. Everybody knew that. This trial was going to have to continue past sundown, because the defense had just completed its summation, and the judge couldn't adjourn for the night without letting the prosecution make its summation. So it was time to wagon-train.

During a wagon-train recess, all employees who had driven to work and who had to stay on at the courthouse after dark because of the trial got up and went outside and headed for their cars in the parking lots. The judge, Kovitsky, was no exception. Today he had driven himself to work, and he went to his robing room, which was through a door to one side of the bench, where he took off his black robe and headed for the parking lot, like everybody else.

Kramer had no car, and he couldn't afford to pay eight or ten dollars to take a gypsy cab home. The gypsies-many of them driven by recent African immigrants, from places like Nigeria and Senegal-were the only cabs that came near the courthouse day or night, except for the taxis that brought fares from Manhattan to the Bronx County Building. The drivers switched on the OFF DUTY OFF DUTY sign even before the brake pedal took its first bite of friction out of the drum, dropped off their fares, and then sped off. No, with a slight chill around the heart, Kramer realized that this was one of those nights when he would have to walk three blocks to the 161st Street subway station in the dark and stand there and wait on what was rated as one of the ten most dangerous subway platforms in the city, in terms of crime, and hope there was a car full enough of people so that he wouldn't be picked off by the wolf packs like some stray calf from the herd. He figured the Nike running shoes gave him at least half a fighting chance. For a start, they were camouflage. On the subway in the Bronx, a pair of Johnston & Murphy leather business shoes labeled you as a prime target right off the bat. It was like wearing a sign around your neck saying sign even before the brake pedal took its first bite of friction out of the drum, dropped off their fares, and then sped off. No, with a slight chill around the heart, Kramer realized that this was one of those nights when he would have to walk three blocks to the 161st Street subway station in the dark and stand there and wait on what was rated as one of the ten most dangerous subway platforms in the city, in terms of crime, and hope there was a car full enough of people so that he wouldn't be picked off by the wolf packs like some stray calf from the herd. He figured the Nike running shoes gave him at least half a fighting chance. For a start, they were camouflage. On the subway in the Bronx, a pair of Johnston & Murphy leather business shoes labeled you as a prime target right off the bat. It was like wearing a sign around your neck saying ROB ME ROB ME. The Nikes and the A&P shopping bag would at least make them think twice. They might take him for a plainclothes cop on the way home. There no longer existed a plainclothes cop in the Bronx who didn't wear sneakers. The other thing was, if the evil s.h.i.t ever did rain down, with the Nikes he could at least run for it or dig in and fight. He wasn't about to mention any of this to Andriutti and Caughey. Andriutti he didn't really give a d.a.m.n about, but Caughey's contempt he knew he couldn't stand. Caughey was Irish and would have sooner taken a bullet in the face than wear f.u.c.king camouflage on the subway.

As the jurors headed back to the jury room, Kramer stared at Miss Sh.e.l.ly Thomas until he could feel feel the smoothness of her brown lipstick as she walked past, and she looked at him for an instant the smoothness of her brown lipstick as she walked past, and she looked at him for an instant-with just a trace of a smile!-and he began to agonize over how she would get home, and there was nothing he could do about it, since of course he couldn't go near her and convey any sort of message to her. Even with all this yo-ohhhhhing yo-ohhhhhing no one ever informed the jury or the witnesses about wagon-training, not that a juror would be allowed to go to a parking lot during a trial recess, in any case. no one ever informed the jury or the witnesses about wagon-training, not that a juror would be allowed to go to a parking lot during a trial recess, in any case.

Kramer went downstairs to the Walton Avenue entrance, to stretch his legs, get some air, and watch the parade. Out on the sidewalk one group, including Kovitsky and his law clerk, Mel Herskowitz, had already formed. The court officers were with them, standing around like troop leaders. The big tub, Kaminsky, was on his tiptoes, craning around, to see if there was anybody else who wanted to come along. The parking lot favored by the courthouse regulars was just over the crest of the Grand Concourse and down the slope, on 161st Street, in an enormous dirt pit across from the Criminal Courts Building. The pit, which occupied an entire city block, had been dug as the excavation for a building project that never went up.

The group a.s.sembled with Kaminsky in the lead and another court officer bringing up the rear. The court officers had their .38s plainly visible on their hips. The little contingent headed off bravely into Indian country. It was about 5:45. Walton Avenue was quiet. There wasn't much of a rush hour in the Bronx. The parking s.p.a.ces on Walton Avenue next to the fortress were at a 90-degree angle to the curb. Only a handful of cars remained. There were ten reserved s.p.a.ces near the entrance, for Abe Weiss, Louis Mastroiani, and other supreme bearers of the Power in the Bronx. The guard at the door put Day-Glo-red plastic traffic cones in the s.p.a.ces when the appointed users were away. Kramer noticed that Abe Weiss's car was still there. There was one other, which he didn't recognize, but the other s.p.a.ces were vacant. Kramer walked back and forth on the sidewalk near the entrance with his head down and his hands in his pockets, concentrating on his summation. He was here to speak for the one princ.i.p.al in this case who could not speak for himself, namely, the victim, the deceased, Nestor Cabrillo, a good father and a good citizen of the Bronx. It all fell into place very easily. Brick-wall arguments wouldn't be enough, however; not for what he had to achieve. This summation had to move move her, move her to tears or awe or, at the very least, to utter inebriation from a crime-high in the Bronx, featuring a tough young a.s.sistant D.A. with a golden tongue and a fearless delivery, not to mention a h.e.l.l of a powerful neck. So he walked up and down the sidewalk outside the Walton Avenue entrance to the fortress, cooking Herbert 92X's goose and tensing his sternocleidomastoid muscles while a vision of the girl with brown lipstick danced in his head. her, move her to tears or awe or, at the very least, to utter inebriation from a crime-high in the Bronx, featuring a tough young a.s.sistant D.A. with a golden tongue and a fearless delivery, not to mention a h.e.l.l of a powerful neck. So he walked up and down the sidewalk outside the Walton Avenue entrance to the fortress, cooking Herbert 92X's goose and tensing his sternocleidomastoid muscles while a vision of the girl with brown lipstick danced in his head.

Pretty soon the first of the cars arrived. Here came Kovitsky in his huge ancient white boat, the Pontiac Bonneville. He nosed into one of the reserved s.p.a.ces near the door. Thwop! Thwop! The huge door torqued, and he got out, an inconspicuous-looking little bald man in a very ordinary gray suit. And then here came Bruzzielli in some little j.a.panese sports car that he seemed about to burst out of. Then Mel Herskowitz and Sullivan, the court reporter. Then Teskowitz in a new Buick Regal. s.h.i.t, thought Kramer. Even Al Teskowitz can afford a car. Even him, an 18b lawyer, and I'm going home on the subway! Pretty soon practically every s.p.a.ce on the Walton Avenue side of the building was filled by the regulars. The last car to pull in was Kaminsky's own. He had given the other court officer a lift back. The two of them got out, and Kaminsky spotted Kramer and broke into a good-natured grin and sang out, "Yo-ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" The huge door torqued, and he got out, an inconspicuous-looking little bald man in a very ordinary gray suit. And then here came Bruzzielli in some little j.a.panese sports car that he seemed about to burst out of. Then Mel Herskowitz and Sullivan, the court reporter. Then Teskowitz in a new Buick Regal. s.h.i.t, thought Kramer. Even Al Teskowitz can afford a car. Even him, an 18b lawyer, and I'm going home on the subway! Pretty soon practically every s.p.a.ce on the Walton Avenue side of the building was filled by the regulars. The last car to pull in was Kaminsky's own. He had given the other court officer a lift back. The two of them got out, and Kaminsky spotted Kramer and broke into a good-natured grin and sang out, "Yo-ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"Yo ho ho," said Kramer.

The wagon train. "Yo-ohhhhhhh" was the cry of John Wayne, the hero and chief scout, signaling the pioneers to move the wagons. This was Indian country and bandit country, and it was time to put the wagons in a circle for the night. Anybody who thought he was going to be able to walk two blocks from Gibraltar to the parking lot after dark in the Four-four and drive peacefully home to Mom and Buddy and Sis was playing the game of life with half a deck.

Later in the day, Sherman got a call from Arnold Parch's secretary saying Parch wanted to see him. Parch had the t.i.tle executive vice president, but he was not the sort who very often summoned people from the trading floor into his office.

Parch's office was, naturally, smaller than Lopwitz's, but it had the same terrific view to the west, out over the Hudson River and New Jersey. In contrast to Lopwitz's office, with its antiques, Parch's was done with modern furniture and large modern paintings of the sort that Maria and her husband liked.

Parch, who was a great smiler, smiled and motioned to a gray upholstered chair that was so sleek and close to the floor it looked like a submarine surfacing. Sherman sank down until he had the sensation of being below floor level. Parch sat down in an identical chair across from him. Sherman was conscious mainly of legs, his and Parch's. In Sherman's line of vision, Parch's chin barely cleared the tops of his knees.

"Sherman," said the smiling face behind the kneecaps, "I just received a call from Oscar Suder in Columbus, Ohio, and he is really p.i.s.sed off about these United Fragrance bonds."

Sherman was astounded. He wanted to lift his head up higher, but he couldn't. "He is? And he called you? you? What did he say?" What did he say?"

"He said you called him and sold him three million bonds at 102. He also said you told him to buy them fast, because they were heading up. This morning they're down to 100."

"Par! I don't believe it!" I don't believe it!"

"Well, it's a fact, and they're going lower, if they're going anywhere. Standard & Poor's just knocked them down from double A to triple B."

"I don't...believe it, Arnold! I saw them go from 103 to 102.5 day before yesterday, and I checked with Research, and everything was okay. Then yesterday they went down to 102, then 101 7/8, and then they came back up to 102. So I figured other traders were spotting it, and that's when I called Oscar. They were heading back up. It was a d.a.m.ned good bargain at 102. Oscar had been looking for something over 9, and here was 9.75, almost 10, double A." it, Arnold! I saw them go from 103 to 102.5 day before yesterday, and I checked with Research, and everything was okay. Then yesterday they went down to 102, then 101 7/8, and then they came back up to 102. So I figured other traders were spotting it, and that's when I called Oscar. They were heading back up. It was a d.a.m.ned good bargain at 102. Oscar had been looking for something over 9, and here was 9.75, almost 10, double A."

"But did you check with Research yesterday, before you got them for Oscar?"

"No, but they went up another eighth after I bought them. They were going up. I'm bowled over by all this. Par! Par! It's unbelievable." It's unbelievable."

"Well, golly, Sherman," said Parch, who was no longer smiling, "can't you see what was happening? Somebody at Salomon was painting you a picture. They were loaded with U Frags, and they knew the S&P report was on the way, and so they painted a picture. They lowered the price two days ago, looking for nibbles. Then they brought it back up to make it look like there was some trading going on. Then they lowered it again yesterday and they pulled it up. Then when they got your nibble-quite a nice little nibble-they raised the price again, to see if you'd nibble again at 102 1/8. You and Solly were the whole market, Sherman! n.o.body else was touching it. They painted you a picture. Now Oscar's out $60,000 and he's got three million triple B's he doesn't want."

A terrible clear light. Of course it was true. He had let himself be suckered in the most amateurish fashion. And Oscar Suder, of all people! Oscar, whom he was counting on as part of the Giscard package...only $10 million out of $600 million, but that was $10 million he'd have to find somewhere else...

"I don't know what to say," said Sherman. "You're absolutely right. I goofed." He realized goofed goofed sounded as if he were letting himself off easy. "It was a stupid blunder, Arnold. I should've seen it coming." He shook his head. "Boy. Oscar, of all people. I wonder if I should call him myself?" sounded as if he were letting himself off easy. "It was a stupid blunder, Arnold. I should've seen it coming." He shook his head. "Boy. Oscar, of all people. I wonder if I should call him myself?"

"I wouldn't just yet. He's really p.i.s.sed off. He wanted to know if you or anybody else here knew the S&P report was coming. I said no, because I knew you wouldn't pull anything on Oscar. But in fact Research did know about it. You should've checked with 'em, Sherman. After all, three million bonds..."

Parch smiled the smile of no-hard-feelings. He obviously didn't like sessions like this himself. "It's okay. It happens; it happens. But you're our number one man out there, Sherman." He lifted his eyebrows and kept them way up on his forehead, as if to say, "You get the picture?"

He hauled himself up from out of his chair. Likewise, Sherman. With considerable embarra.s.sment Parch extended his hand, and Sherman shook it.

"Okay, go get 'em," Parch said with a large but flat smile.

The distance from where Kramer stood at the prosecution table to where Herbert 92X sat at the defense table was no more than twenty feet to begin with. Kramer took a couple of steps closer, narrowing the gap until everybody in the courtroom could tell that something odd was taking place without being able to tell exactly what. He had reached the part where it was time to demolish whatever pity for Herbert that Teskowitz might have managed to create.

"Now, I know we've heard certain things about the personal history of Herbert 92X," said Kramer, facing the jury, "and here Herbert 92X sits today, in this courtroom." Unlike Teskowitz, Kramer threw the name Herbert 92X into almost every sentence, until he began to sound like a sci-fi movie robot. Then he pivoted and lowered his head and stared Herbert in the face and said, "Yes, here is Herbert 92X...in perfect health!... perfect health!...full of energy!... energy!...ready to return to the streets and resume resume his life, in the Herbert 92X style which involves carrying a his life, in the Herbert 92X style which involves carrying a concealed unlicensed illegal .38-caliber revolver concealed unlicensed illegal .38-caliber revolver!"

Kramer looked Herbert 92X in the eye. He was now barely ten feet away from him, and he hurled health, energy health, energy, and resume resume in his teeth, as if he personally was ready to remove the man's health, energy, and potential for the resumption of a workaday life or life of any sort, for that matter, with his bare hands. Herbert was not one to shrink from a challenge. He contemplated Kramer with a cool smile on his face that as much as said, "Just keep on talking, sucker, because I'm going to count to ten and then in his teeth, as if he personally was ready to remove the man's health, energy, and potential for the resumption of a workaday life or life of any sort, for that matter, with his bare hands. Herbert was not one to shrink from a challenge. He contemplated Kramer with a cool smile on his face that as much as said, "Just keep on talking, sucker, because I'm going to count to ten and then...squash you." To the jurors-to her-Herbert must have looked as if he was close enough to reach out and throttle him and, on top of that, eager to throttle him. That didn't worry Kramer. He was backed up by three court officers who were already in high spirits from the thought of the overtime pay they would be getting for the evening's work. So let Herbert sit there in his Arab outfit and look as tough as he wants! The tougher Herbert looked in the eyes of the jury, the better it was for Kramer's case. And the more dangerous he looked in the eyes of Miss Sh.e.l.ly Thomas-the more heroic the aura of the fearless young prosecutor! you." To the jurors-to her-Herbert must have looked as if he was close enough to reach out and throttle him and, on top of that, eager to throttle him. That didn't worry Kramer. He was backed up by three court officers who were already in high spirits from the thought of the overtime pay they would be getting for the evening's work. So let Herbert sit there in his Arab outfit and look as tough as he wants! The tougher Herbert looked in the eyes of the jury, the better it was for Kramer's case. And the more dangerous he looked in the eyes of Miss Sh.e.l.ly Thomas-the more heroic the aura of the fearless young prosecutor!

The truly incredulous person was Teskowitz. His head was going back and forth slowly, like a lawn sprinkler. He couldn't believe the performance he was witnessing. If Kramer was going after Herbert this way in this piece a s.h.i.t, what the h.e.l.l would he do if he had a real killer on his hands?

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," said Kramer, turning back toward the jury but remaining just as close to Herbert, "it is my duty to speak for someone who is not sitting before us in this courtroom, because he was struck down and killed by a bullet from a revolver in the possession of a man he had never seen before in his life, Herbert 92X. I would remind you that the issue in this trial is not the life of Herbert 92X but the death of Nestor Cabrillo, a good man, a good citizen of the Bronx, a good husband, a good father...of five children... five children...cut down in the prime of his life because of Herbert 92X's arrogant belief... arrogant belief...that he is ent.i.tled to conduct his business with a concealed, unlicensed, illegal .38-caliber revolver in his possession..."

Kramer let his eyes grace each juror, one by one. But at the end of each orotund period they came to rest upon her her. She was sitting next to the end on the left side in the second row, and so it was a little awkward, perhaps even a little obvious. But life is short! And, my G.o.d!-such a flawless white face!-such a luxurious corona of hair!-such perfect lips with brown lipstick! And such an admiring gleam did he now detect in those big brown eyes! Miss Sh.e.l.ly Thomas was roaring drunk, high on crime in the Bronx.

Out on the sidewalk, Peter Fallow could see the cars and taxis speeding uptown on West Street. Christ G.o.d, how he longed to be able to crawl into a taxi and go to sleep until he reached Leicester's. No! No! What was he thinking? No Leicester's tonight; not a drop of alcohol in any form. Tonight he was going straight home. It was getting dark. He'd give anything for a taxi...to curl up in a taxi and go to sleep and head straight home...But the ride would be nine or ten dollars, and he had less than seventy-five dollars to last him until payday, which was next week, and in New York seventy-five dollars was nothing, a mere sigh, a deep breath, a pa.s.sing thought, a whim, a snap of the fingers. He kept looking at the front entrance to the What was he thinking? No Leicester's tonight; not a drop of alcohol in any form. Tonight he was going straight home. It was getting dark. He'd give anything for a taxi...to curl up in a taxi and go to sleep and head straight home...But the ride would be nine or ten dollars, and he had less than seventy-five dollars to last him until payday, which was next week, and in New York seventy-five dollars was nothing, a mere sigh, a deep breath, a pa.s.sing thought, a whim, a snap of the fingers. He kept looking at the front entrance to the City Light City Light building, which was a dingy Moderne tower from the 1920s, hoping to spot some American from the newspaper with whom he could share a taxi. The trick was to find out where the American was heading and then to pick out some destination four or five blocks short of there and announce that as one's own destination. No American had the nerve to ask one to share the cost of the ride under those circ.u.mstances. building, which was a dingy Moderne tower from the 1920s, hoping to spot some American from the newspaper with whom he could share a taxi. The trick was to find out where the American was heading and then to pick out some destination four or five blocks short of there and announce that as one's own destination. No American had the nerve to ask one to share the cost of the ride under those circ.u.mstances.

After a bit there emerged an American named Ken Goodrich, the City Light City Light's director of marketing, whatever in G.o.d's name marketing marketing was. Did he dare once more? He had already hitched rides with Goodrich twice in the past two months, and the second time Goodrich's delight over the opportunity to converse with an Englishman on the ride uptown had been considerably less intense; considerably. No, he did not dare. So he girded his loins for the eight-block walk to City Hall, where he could catch the Lexington Avenue subway. was. Did he dare once more? He had already hitched rides with Goodrich twice in the past two months, and the second time Goodrich's delight over the opportunity to converse with an Englishman on the ride uptown had been considerably less intense; considerably. No, he did not dare. So he girded his loins for the eight-block walk to City Hall, where he could catch the Lexington Avenue subway.

This old part of lower Manhattan emptied out quickly in the evenings, and as Fallow trudged along in the gloaming he felt increasingly sorry for himself. He searched his jacket pocket to see if he had a subway token. He did, and this provoked a depressing recollection. Two nights ago at Leicester's he had reached into his pocket to give Tony Moss a quarter for a telephone call-he wanted to be big about the quarter, because he was beginning to get a reputation as a cadger even among his fellow countrymen-and he produced a handful of change, and right there, among the dimes, quarters, nickels, and pence, were two subway tokens. He felt as if the entire table was staring at them. Certainly Tony Moss saw them.

Fallow had no physical fear of riding the New York subways. He fancied himself a rugged fellow, and in any case, nothing untoward had ever befallen him in the Underground. No, what he feared-and it amounted to a true fear-was the squalor. Heading down the stairs of the City Hall subway station with all these dark shabby people was like descending, voluntarily, into a dungeon, a very dirty and noisy dungeon. Grimy concrete and black bars were everywhere, cage after cage, level upon level, a delirium seen through black bars in every direction. Every time a train entered or left the station there was an agonized squeal of metal, as if some huge steel skeleton were being pried apart by a lever of incomprehensible power. Why was it that in this gross fat country, with its obscene heaps of wealth and its even more obscene obsession with creature comforts, they were unable to create an Underground as quiet, orderly, presentable, and-well-decent as London's? Because they were childish. So long as it was underground, out of sight, it didn't matter what it was like.

Fallow was able to get a seat at this hour, if a s.p.a.ce on a narrow plastic bench could be called a seat. Before him were spread the usual grim riot of graffiti, the usual dark shabby people with their gray and brown clothes and their sneakers-except for a pair just across from him, a man and a boy. The man, who was probably in his forties, was short and plump. He was wearing a tasteful and expensive-looking gray chalk-stripe suit, a crisp white shirt, and, for an American, a discreet necktie. He also wore a pair of trim, well-made, well-shined black shoes. American men usually destroyed otherwise presentable ensembles by wearing bulky, big-soled, badly kept shoes. (They seldom saw their own feet, and so, being childish, scarcely bothered about what was on them.) Between his feet was an obviously expensive dark leather attache case. He was leaning over to talk into the ear of the boy, who appeared to be eight or nine years old. The boy wore a navy school blazer, a white b.u.t.ton-down shirt, and a striped necktie. Still talking to the boy, the man cast his eyes here and there and gestured with his right hand. Fallow figured that here was a man who worked on Wall Street who had had his son down to his office for a visit and was now giving him a ride on the subway and was pointing out the arcana of this rolling dungeon.

Absentmindedly he watched the two of them, as the train picked up speed and settled into the rocking lurching roaring momentum of the trip uptown. Fallow could see his own father. A poor little weed, a sad little fellow, was all he had turned out to be, a poor little weed who had had a son named Peter, a poor little failure who sat there amid his bohemian props in a tumble-down house in Canterbury...And what am I, thought Fallow, sitting in this rolling dungeon in this insane city in this lunatic country? Longing for a drink, longing for a drink...Another swell of despair rolled over him...He looked down at his lapels. He could see them shining even in this miserable light. He had slid...below bohemian...The dread word popped into his head: seedy seedy.

The subway stop at Lexington Avenue and Seventy-seventh Street was dangerously close to Leicester's. But that was no problem. Peter Fallow was no longer going to play that game. As he reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the sidewalk in the twilight, he summoned the scene up into his mind, merely for the purpose of proving to himself his resolve and rejecting it. The old wood, the frosted-gla.s.s lamps, the lights from the well behind the bar and the way it lit up the rows of bottles, the pubby crush of people, the roaring hearth of their voices-their voices-English voices...Perhaps if he just had an orange juice and ginger ale and fifteen minutes of English voices...No! He would be firm. He would be firm.

Now he was in front of Leicester's, which to the innocent pa.s.serby no doubt looked like just another cozy East Side bistro or trattoria. Between the old-fashioned mullions of the panes he could see all the cozy faces cl.u.s.tered at the tables by the windows, cozy happy white faces lit up by rosy amber lamps. That did it. He needed solace and an orange juice and ginger ale and English voices.

As one enters Leicester's, from Lexington Avenue, one finds himself in a room full of tables with red-checked cloths, in the bistro fashion. Along one wall runs a big saloon bar with a bra.s.s foot rail. Off to one side is a smaller dining room. In this room, under the window that looks out on Lexington Avenue, is a table around which eight or ten people can be crammed, a.s.suming they are convivial. By unspoken custom this has become the English table, a kind of club table where, in the afternoon and early evening, the Brits-members of the London bon ton bon ton now living in New York-come and go, to have a few...and hear English voices. now living in New York-come and go, to have a few...and hear English voices.

The voices! The hearth was already roaring as Fallow walked in.

"h.e.l.lo, Peter!"

It was Grillo, the American, standing among the crowd at the bar. He was an amusing fellow, and friendly, but Fallow had had enough of America for one day. He smiled and sang out "h.e.l.lo, Benny!" and headed straight for the side room.

Tony Moss was at the Table; and Caroline Heftshank; and Alex Britt-Withers, who owned Leicester's; and St. John Thomas, the museum director and (on the QT) art dealer; and St. John's boyfriend, Billy Cortez, a Venezuelan who had gone to Oxford and might as well have been English; and Rachel Lampwick, one of Lord Lampwick's two remittance daughters in New York; and Nick Stopping, the Marxist journalist-Stalinist was more like it-who lived chiefly on articles flattering the rich in House & Garden, Art & Antiques House & Garden, Art & Antiques, and Connoisseur Connoisseur. Judging by the gla.s.ses and bottles, the Table had been in session for some time, and pretty soon they would be looking for a fish, unless Alex Britt-Withers, the owner-but no, Alex never forgave the tab.

Fallow sat down and announced that he was turning over a new leaf and wanted only an orange juice with ginger ale. Tony Moss wanted to know if this meant he had stopped drinking or stopped paying. Fallow didn't mind that, since it came from Tony, whom he liked, and so he laughed and said that in fact n.o.body's money was any good this evening since their generous host, Alex, was at the Table. And Alex said, "Least of all yours, I suspect." Caroline Heftshank said Alex had hurt Fallow's feelings, and Fallow said that was true and that under the circ.u.mstances he was forced to change his mind. He told the waiter to bring him a "vodka Southside." Everybody laughed, because this was an allusion to Asher Herzfeld, an American, heir to the Herzfeld gla.s.s fortune, who had gotten into a furious row with Alex last night because he couldn't get a table. Herzfeld had always driven the waiters and the bartenders crazy by ordering the noxious American drink, the vodka Southside, which was made with mint, and then complaining that the mint wasn't fresh. That got the Table to telling Herzfeld stories. St. John Thomas, in his flutiest voice, told how he had been to dinner at Herzfeld's apartment on Fifth Avenue, and Herzfeld had insisted on introducing the guests to his staff of four, which embarra.s.sed the servants and annoyed the guests. He was sure he had heard the young South American houseboy say, "Well, then, why don't we all go have dinner at my place," which probably would have made for a more amusing evening, in St. John's opinion. "Well, would it or wouldn't it?" asked Billy Cortez, with a hint of genuine reproach. "I'm sure you've taken him up on it since then. A pimply little Puerto Rican, by the way." "Not Puerto Rican," said St. John, "Peruvian. And not pimply." Now the Table settled in for the staple topic, which was the domestic manners of the Americans. The Americans, with their perverted sense of guilt, were forever introducing guests to servants, especially "people like Herzfeld," said Rachel Lampwick. Then they talked about the wives, the American wives, who exercised tyrannical control over their husbands. Nick Stopping said he had discovered why American businessmen in New York took such long lunch hours. It was the only time they could get away from their wives to have s.e.x. He was going to do a piece called "s.e.x at Noon" for Vanity Fair Vanity Fair. Sure enough, the waiter brought Fallow a vodka Southside, and, amid much gaiety and toasting and complaining to Alex about the condition of the mint, he drank it and ordered another. It was actually very tasty. Alex left the Table to see how things were going in the big room, and Johnny Robertson, the art critic, arrived and told a funny story about an American who insisted on calling the Italian foreign minister and his wife by their first names at the opening of the Tiepolo show last night, and Rachel Lampwick told about the American who was introduced to her father-"This is Lord Lampwick"-and said, "Hiya, Lloyd." But American university professors are all terribly hurt if one doesn't remember to call them Doctor, said St. John, and Caroline Heftshank wanted to know why Americans insist on putting return addresses on the face of the envelope, and Fallow ordered another vodka Southside, and Tony and Caroline said why didn't they order another bottle of wine. Fallow said he didn't mind the Yanks calling him by his first name, if only they wouldn't insist on condensing it to Pete. All the Yanks at The City Light The City Light called him Pete, and they called Nigel Stringfellow Nige, and they also wore bogus regimental neckties that leaped out in front of their shirts, so that every time he saw one of these screaming neckties it set up a stimulus-response bond and he cringed and braced himself for called him Pete, and they called Nigel Stringfellow Nige, and they also wore bogus regimental neckties that leaped out in front of their shirts, so that every time he saw one of these screaming neckties it set up a stimulus-response bond and he cringed and braced himself for Pete Pete. Nick Stopping said he had dinner the other night at the home of Stropp, the investment banker, on Park Avenue, and Stropp's four-year-old daughter, by his second wife, came into the dining room pulling a toy wagon, upon which was a fresh human t.u.r.d-yes, a t.u.r.d!-her own, one hoped, and she circled the table three times, and neither Stropp nor his wife did a thing but shake their heads and smile. This required no extended comment, since the Yanks' treacly indulgence of their children was well known, and Fallow ordered another vodka Southside and toasted the absent Asher Herzfeld, and they ordered drinks all around.

Now it began to dawn on Fallow that he had ordered twenty dollars' worth of drinks, which he was not about to pay for. As if bound together by Jung's collective unconscious, Fallow and St. John and Nick and Tony were aware that the hour of the fish had arrived. But which fish?

It was Tony, finally, who sang out: "h.e.l.lo, Ed!" With the heartiest possible grin on his face, he began beckoning a tall figure toward the Table. He was an American, well dressed, quite handsome really, with aristocratic features and a face as fair, pink, lineless, and downy as a peach.

"Ed, I want you to meet Caroline Heftshank. Caroline, this is my good friend Ed Fiske."