Killian was standing inside with the smile of the cat that ate the canary. On his desk was a large tape machine that was obviously from the higher and more sophisticated reaches of the Audio-Visual Kingdom.

"Ayyyyyyyyyy!" said Killian. "Have a seat. Get a good grip on yourself. Wait'll you hear this."

Sherman sat down beside the desk. "What is it?"

"You tell me," said Killian. Quigley stood next to Killian, looking at the machine and fidgeting like a schoolboy onstage to receive a prize. "I don't want to get your hopes up too high over this thing," said Killian, "because there's a couple very serious problems with it, but you'll find it interesting."

He pushed something on the machine, and a stream of low static began. Then a man's voice: "I knew it. I knew it at the time. We should have reported it immediately." For the first second or so he didn't recognize it. then it sank in. My own voice! My own voice! It continued: "I can't believe I'm-I can't believe we're in this situation." It continued: "I can't believe I'm-I can't believe we're in this situation."

A woman's voice: "Well, it's too late now, Sherman." Shuhmun Shuhmun. "That's spilt milk."

The entire scene-the fear, the tension, the very atmosphere of it-flooded through Sherman's nervous system...In her hideaway the evening the first article about Henry Lamb appeared in The City Light... The City Light...HONOR STUDENT'S MOM: COPS SIT ON HIT'N'RUN...He could see the headline itself on top of the oak pedestal table...

His voice: "Just...tell what actually happened."

Her voice: "That'll sound wonderful wonderful. Two boys stopped us and tried to rob us, but you threw a tire at one of them, and I drove outta there like a...a...hot-rodder, but I didn't know I hit anybody."

"Well, that's exactly what happened, Maria."

"And who's gonna believe it?..."

Sherman looked at Killian. Killian had a tight little smile on his face. He raised his right hand as if to caution Sherman to keep listening and not speak yet. Quigley kept his eyes fixed on the magical machine. His lips were pursed to hold back the broad grin he felt he was due.

Soon the Giant arrived. "You live here?" live here?"

His own voice: "I said we don't have time for this." He sounded terribly snooty and precious. All over again he felt the humiliation of that moment, the dreadful feeling that he was about to be forced into a masculine duel, very likely physical, that he could not possibly win.

"You don't live here, and don't live here, and she she don't live here. What you doing here?" don't live here. What you doing here?"

The snooty fellow: "That's not your concern! Now, be a good fellow and leave!"

"You don't belong here. Okay? We got a real problem." don't belong here. Okay? We got a real problem."

Then Maria's voice...the squabbling...a tremendous crack, as the chair breaks and the Giant hits the floor...his ignominious retreat...Maria's whoops of laughter...

Finally her voice saying: "Germaine pays only $331 a month, and I pay her $750. It's rent-controlled. They'd love to get her out of here."

Soon the voices stopped...and Sherman remembered, felt felt, the fitful session on the bed...

When the tape had played out, Sherman said to Killian, "My G.o.d, that's astounding. Where did that come from?"

Killian looked at Sherman but pointed his right index finger at Quigley. So Sherman looked at Quigley. It was the moment Quigley had been waiting for.

"As soon as you told me where she told you about her rent scam, I knew it. I just f.u.c.king knew it knew it. Those lunatics. This Hiellig Winter ain't the first one. The voice-activated tapes. So I went straight over there. This character has microphones hidden in the intercom boxes inside the apartments. The recorder's down in the cellar in a locked closet."

Sherman stared at the man's suddenly radiant face. "But why would he even bother?"

"To get the tenants out!" said Quigley. "Half the people in these rent-controlled apartments ain't in there legally. Halfa them are scamming, just like your friend there. But proving it in court is another thing. So this lunatic's taping every conversation in the joint with the voice-activated tape. Believe me, he ain't the first one, either."

"But...isn't that illegal?"

"Illegal," said Quigley with great joy, "it's so f.u.c.king illegal it ain't even funny! It's so f.u.c.king illegal, if he walked in that door right now, I'd say, 'Hi, I took your f.u.c.king tape. Whaddaya thinka that?' And he'd say, 'I don't know what you're talking about,' and walk away like a nice boy. But I'm telling you, these maniacs are crazed crazed."

"And you just took it? How did you even get in there?"

Quigley shrugged with consummate smugness. "That's no big deal."

Sherman looked at Killian. "Christ...then maybe...if that's on tape, then maybe...Right after the thing happened, Maria and I went back to her apartment and we talked the whole thing over, everything that happened. If that's on tape-that would be...fantastic!"

"It ain't there," said Quigley. "I listened to miles a this stuff. It don't go back that far. He must erase it every now and then and record right over it, so he don't have to keep buying new tapes."

His spirits soaring, Sherman said to Killian, "Well, maybe this is enough!"

Quigley said, "Incidentally, you ain't the only visitor she receives in that joint."

Killian broke in: "Yeah, well, that's of historical interest at this point. Now, here's the thing, Sherman. I don't want you to get your hopes up too high over this. We got two serious problems. The first one is that she don't come right out and say she hit the kid and you didn't. What she says is indirect. Half the time, it sounds like she might be going along with what you're saying. Nevertheless, it's a good weapon. It's certainly enough to create doubt in a jury. She certainly seems to be concurring with your theory that this was a robbery attempt. But we got another problem, and to be honest with you, I don't know what the h.e.l.l we can do about it. There's no way I can get this tape into evidence."

"You can't? Why not?"

"Like Ed says, this is a totally illegal tape. This crazy guy Winter could go to jail for doing this. There is absolutely no way that a surrept.i.tious, illegal tape can be used as evidence in a court of law."

"Well then, why did you wire me me? That's a surrept.i.tious tape. How could that be used?"

"It's surrept.i.tious but not illegal. You're ent.i.tled to record your own conversations, secretly or not. But if it's somebody else's conversation, it's illegal. If this lunatic landlord Winter was recording his own conversations, there'd be no problem."

Sherman stared at Killian with his mouth open, his just-hatched hopes already crushed. "But that's not right! right! Here's Here's...vital evidence! They can't suppress vital evidence on a technicality!"

"I got news for you, bro. They can. They would. What we gotta do is think of some way to use this tape to get somebody to give us some legitimate testimony. Like if there's some way we can use this to make your friend Maria come clean. You got any bright ideas?"

Sherman thought for a moment. Then he sighed and looked off past the two men. It was all too preposterous. "I don't know how you'd even get her to listen to the G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing."

Killian looked at Quigley. Quigley shook his head. The three of them were quiet.

"Wait a minute," said Sherman. "Let me see that tape."

"See it?" said Killian.

"Yes. Give it to me."

"Take it off the machine?"

"Yes." Sherman held out his hand.

Quigley rewound it and took it off the machine very gingerly, as if it were a precious piece of hand-blown gla.s.s. He gave it to Sherman.

Sherman held it in both hands and stared at it. "I'll be d.a.m.ned," he said, looking up at Killian. "It's mine."

"Whaddaya mean, it's yours?"

"This is my tape. I made it."

Killian looked at him quizzically, as if searching out a joke. "Whaddaya mean, you made it?"

"I wired myself up that night, because this article in The City Light The City Light had just come out and I figured I might need some verification of what actually happened. What we just listened to-that's the tape I made that night. This is my tape." had just come out and I figured I might need some verification of what actually happened. What we just listened to-that's the tape I made that night. This is my tape."

Killian's mouth was open. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I made this tape. Who's going to say I didn't? This tape is in my possession. Right? Here it is. I made this tape in order to have an accurate record of my own conversation. Tell me, Counselor, would you say this tape is admissible in a court of law?"

Killian looked at Quigley. "Jesus H. f.u.c.king Christ." Then he looked at Sherman. "Let me get this straight, Mr. McCoy. You're telling me you wired yourself and made this tape of your conversation with Mrs. Ruskin?"

"Exactly. Is it admissible?"

Killian looked at Quigley, smiled, then looked back. "It's entirely possible, Mr. McCoy, entirely possible. But you gotta tell me something. Just how did you make this tape? What kind of equipment did you use? How did you tape yourself? I think if you want the court to admit this evidence, you better be able to account for everything you did, from A to Z."

"Well," said Sherman, "I'd like to hear Mr. Quigley here guess guess how I did it. He seems knowledgeable in this area. I'd like to hear him how I did it. He seems knowledgeable in this area. I'd like to hear him guess guess."

Quigley looked at Killian.

"Go ahead, Ed," said Killian, "take a guess."

"Well," said Quigley, "if it was me, I'd get me a Nagra 2600, voice-activated, and I'd..." He proceeded to outline in great detail just how he would use the fabled Nagra machine and wire himself and make sure he secured the highest-quality recording of such a conversation.

When he was through, Sherman said, "Mr. Quigley, you are truly knowledgeable in this area. Because you know what? That is exactly what I did. You didn't leave out a single step." Then he looked at Killian. "There you have it. What do you think?"

"I'll tell you what I think," Killian said slowly. "You surprise the h.e.l.l outta me. I didn't think you had it in you."

"I didn't, either," said Sherman. "But something's gradually dawned on me over the past few days. I'm not Sherman McCoy anymore. I'm somebody else without a proper name. I've been that other person ever since the day I was arrested. I knew something...something fundamental had happened that day, but I didn't know what it was at first. At first I thought I was still Sherman McCoy, and Sherman McCoy was going through a period of very bad luck. Over the last couple of days, though, I've begun to face up to the truth. I'm somebody else. I have nothing to do with Wall Street or Park Avenue or Yale or St. Paul's or Buckley or the Lion of Dunning Sponget."

"The Lion of Dunning Sponget?" asked Killian.

"That's the way I've always thought of my father. He was a ruler, an aristocrat. And maybe he was, but I'm not related to him anymore. I'm not the person my wife married or the father my daughter knows. I'm a different human being. I exist down here down here now, if you won't be offended by me putting it that way. I'm not an exceptional client of Dershkin, Bellavita, Fishbein & Schlossel. I'm standard issue. Every creature has its habitat, and I'm in mine right now. Reade Street and 161st Street and the pens-if I think I'm above it, I'm only kidding myself, and I've stopped kidding myself." now, if you won't be offended by me putting it that way. I'm not an exceptional client of Dershkin, Bellavita, Fishbein & Schlossel. I'm standard issue. Every creature has its habitat, and I'm in mine right now. Reade Street and 161st Street and the pens-if I think I'm above it, I'm only kidding myself, and I've stopped kidding myself."

"Ayyyyy, wait a minute," said Killian. "It ain't that bad yet."

"It's that bad," said Sherman. "But I swear to you, I feel better about it now. You know the way they can take a dog, a house pet, like a police dog that's been fed and pampered all its life, and train it to be a vicious watchdog?"

"I've heard of it," said Killian.

"I've seen it done," said Quigley. "I saw it done when I was on the force."

"Well, then you know the principle," said Sherman. "They don't alter that dog's personality with dog biscuits or pills. They chain it up, and they beat it, and they bait it, and they taunt it, and they beat it some more, until it turns and bares its fangs and is ready for the final fight every time it hears a sound."

"That's true," said Quigley.

"Well, in that situation dogs are smarter than humans," said Sherman. "The dog doesn't cling to the notion that he's a fabulous house pet in some terrific dog show, the way the man does. The dog gets the idea. The dog knows when it's time to turn into an animal and fight."

31. Into the Solar Plexus

It was a sunny day this time, a balmy day in June. The air was so light it seemed pure and refreshing, even here in the Bronx. A perfect day, in short; Sherman took it badly. He took it personally. How very heartless! How could Nature, Fate-G.o.d-contrive such a sublime production for his hour of misery? Heartlessness on all sides. A spasm of fear reached down to the very bottom of his descending colon.

He was in the back seat of a Buick with Killian. Ed Quigley was in the front seat, next to the chauffeur, who had dark skin, thick straight black hair, and fine, exquisite, almost pretty features. An Asian? They came down the ramp from the expressway right past the bowl of Yankee Stadium, and a big sign said, TONIGHT 7 PM YANKEES VS. KANSAS CITY TONIGHT 7 PM YANKEES VS. KANSAS CITY. How very heartless! Tens of thousands of people would come to this place tonight anyway- anyway-to drink beer and watch a white ball hop and pop around for two hours-and he would be back in there back in there, in a darkness he couldn't imagine. And it would begin And it would begin. The poor fools! They didn't know what the real thing was like! Tens of thousands of them in Yankee Stadium, watching a game game, a mere charade charade of war, while he was of war, while he was in in a war. And it would begin...the elemental physical violence... a war. And it would begin...the elemental physical violence...

Now the Buick was going up the long hill, up 161st Street. They would be there in no time.

"It's not the same courthouse," said Killian. "It's the building up on the top of the hill, on the right."

Sherman could see an immense limestone structure. It looked quite majestic sitting up there on the crest of the Grand Concourse in the sunlight of a perfect day; majestic and stupendously heavy.

Sherman could see the driver's eyes seeking him out in the rearview mirror, and then they locked in an embarra.s.sing contact and jumped away. Quigley, up front next to the driver, was wearing a tie and a jacket, but just barely. The jacket, a curious Meat Gone High teal-green tweed, was riding up away from the pitted skin of his neck. He looked like the kind of fidgety Hard Case who is spoiling for an opportunity to peel off the jacket and tie and start fighting and cultivating hematomas or, better still, intimidate some funk-ridden weakling who isn't ready to meet the challenge to fight.

As the car ascended the hill, Sherman could see a crowd in the street near the top, out in front of the limestone building. Cars were squeezing over in order to get by.

"What's going on?" he said.

"Looks like a demonstration," said Quigley.

Killian said, "Well, at least they aren't in front of your apartment house this time."

"A de-mon-strrra-tion? Hahahaha," said the chauffeur. He had a singsong accent and a polite and thoroughly nervous laugh. "What it is about? Hahahaha."

"It's about us," said Quigley in his dead voice.

The chauffeur looked at Quigley. "About yooouuu? Hahahaha."

"You know the gentleman who hired this car? Mr. McCoy?" Quigley motioned with his head toward the back seat.

In the mirror the chauffeur's eyes searched and locked on again. "Hahahaha." Then he became quiet.

"Don't worry," said Quigley. "It's always safer in the middle of a riot than out on the edge. That's a well-known fact."

The chauffeur looked at Quigley again and said, "Hahahaha." Then he became very very quiet, no doubt trying to figure out which to be more afraid of, the demonstrators he was approaching on the street or the Hard Case who was inside and merely inches away from his as yet unwrung neck. Then he sought out Sherman again with his eyes and locked on and then jumped inside the cavity and flailed away, bug-eyed with panic. quiet, no doubt trying to figure out which to be more afraid of, the demonstrators he was approaching on the street or the Hard Case who was inside and merely inches away from his as yet unwrung neck. Then he sought out Sherman again with his eyes and locked on and then jumped inside the cavity and flailed away, bug-eyed with panic.

"Nothing's gonna happen," Killian said to Sherman. "There'll be cops up there. They'll be ready for 'em. It's the same bunch every time, Bacon and that crowd. Do you think the people of the Bronx give a d.a.m.n one way or the other? Don't flatter yourself. This is the same bunch, doing their same weird number. It's a show. Just keep your mouth shut and look straight ahead. This time we have a surprise for them."

As the car neared Walton Avenue, Sherman could see the crowd out in the street. They were all around the base of the huge limestone building at the top of the hill. He could hear a voice coming over a microphone. People were answering the voice with a chant. Whoever was screaming over the microphone seemed to be up on the terrace of the stairway on the 161st Street side. There were camera crews with their equipment sticking up out of the sea of faces.

The driver said, "You waaaant me to stop? Hahahahaha."

"Just keep moving," said Quigley. "I'll tell you when to stop."

"Hahahaha."