Control

  “You know Illinois?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then what the fuck you care?”

  “Hey asshole, we’re on the same side, easy.”

  “Downstate. Not Chicago.”

  “And you had a break?”

  “Forty-five sambos, two not. But that’s over.”

  “You’ve got them all back?”

  “Practically.”

  ‘Then you haven’t got them all back.”

  “You a wise guy?”

  “Nope—but when I ask someone if something’s been done and they say, ‘practically as good as done,’ then I know it hasn’t been done. How many still at large?”

  “We’ve got one holed up now in Peoria. And Billy Boy’s been sighted in Chicago. Nobody could miss him, so that takes care of the lot.”

  Eric could feel starting now a slight pressure at his temple.

  “You still there?” the Illinois guy Said.

  “Why,” Eric asked, “could nobody miss him?”

  “On account of how he looks, obviously.”

  “Is he very big?”

  “Depends what you mean. He’s not all that tall, how tall are you?”

  “Under six two.”

  “That’s all he is, if that.”

  “Is he wide? Are his hands wide?”

  “That’s a funny question—”

  “—just answer it please.”

  “Well, yeah. What he looks like, he’s white and all, but what he looks like is one of those oriental guys, the sumo guys—shoulders out to here, broad in the beam—Billy Boy must weigh two eighty—one man can’t bring him down.”

  “I think he’s here,” Eric said.

  “Well you’re wrong,” the Illinois guy said. “Because first, like I said, we got a report he was spotted in Milwaukee, and B, he would never go to New York, never went near it yet—”

  “—his name, please.”

  “William Winslow. But like I told you, Billy Boy’s what he’s called.”

  William Winslow, Eric wrote down. William “Billy Boy” Wins-low.

  “I’ll tell you something—be glad he ain’t there—count your blessings, from what I read you got enough troubles.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You know the expression that goes something like that if you can’t say something good about somebody don’t say anything at all? Well, you can V say anything good about Billy Boy. He’s a shit sadist with a brain like a pea. Also he’s fucking eerie.”

  Eric waited.

  “He claims he’s special—he ‘senses’ things, he ‘knows’ things, the past and the future and all that—lots of people are interested in that; hell, everybody’s interested in it, my wife reads her horoscope every day in the papers—only Billy Boy believes it. I’m telling you, count your blessings he’s not there.”

  “I will,” Eric said, and he got off the phone as gracefully as he could, because if Billy Boy could “sense” things, well why should he have the monopoly on that ability.

  He was here. No question in Eric’s mind, he was here. An eerie shit sadist had come to town. An eerie shit sadist killer with the brain of a pea. Eric rubbed his eyes.

  Good news for Rupert Murdoch and the tabloids, bad for the rest of the world…

  2

  Henry the K

  Immaculate, fastidious, and desperately uncomfortable, Leo Trude made his way through Times Square. His custom-made Meledandri suit and tailored topcoat could not have been more out of place anywhere than here, in the midst of the porn parlors, derelicts, and drifters who somehow thrived on 42nd Street.

  He resented having to walk, did Leo, but it was snowing lightly, traffic was totally snarled, and he was late for his meeting with the Duchess. Rarely did she ever contact him and on those occasions, it had been more than worth his while. Leo picked up his pace, contenting himself with the thought that he would not be with her long—he disliked the Duchess—he disliked all cripples and the Duchess certainly qualified. Blind with her head forever tilted left and old with black glasses and parchment skin and that giant killer dog she adored and—

  —someone had recognized him. A drunk, leaning against the glass window of the fast food emporium. The drunk raised an arm as if to wave.

  Trude turned his head and hurried even fester.

  Up ahead now was the Port Authority building and just behind it, on Ninth, was the Duchess’s tiny parlor. Trude crossed Eighth and continued walking quickly on the far side of the street from the bus terminal.

  “God bless you,” an old lady said to him.

  Trude ignored her, or tried to ignore her, but he was aware that he was blushing just a bit. Not enough so anyone would notice.

  Anyone except himself. Angry, Trude stormed on. Ahead he noticed a group of moronic Spanish youths in a doorway, probably wondering whom to mug next, whose lives to alter. Trude touched his inside coat pocket without really meaning to, but he didn’t normally carry a thousand dollars in new bills in this part of town. The Duchess was expensive.

  Value for money was always expensive.

  He got to Ninth and crossed again, then moved down toward his destination. The snow was falling more heavily now, and he cursed himself for not wearing his homburg. His brown curly hair was wet and his glasses needed cleaning.

  “Please, sir,” a well-dressed woman said—a Jersey commuter most likely. She held out a piece of paper and a pencil stub.

  Trude kept on walking.

  She walked with him. “I know you must think I’m intruding—”

  “—you are intruding,” he assured her.

  But she would not be denied. “It would just mean so much to my children.” She was pleading now. “My son … you’re a hero to my son. I mean that.” She hurried in front of him now, blocking his way.

  Trude sighed.

  “Here. And bless you.”

  Trude scribbled quickly, handed it back to her. Then she excitedly ran across the street against traffic and entered the terminal. Trude watched, half hoping a cab might clip her. He was genuinely upset now, and he needed a moment before dealing with the Duchess, so he stepped under an awning, got out his Sulka kerchief, cleaned his glasses, mopped his hair, all the while contemplating his curse.

  Was it his fault he looked like Henry Kissinger?

  Ever since Nixon made the fat Jew (the Nixontan terminology) head of state, Trude’s life had been intermittently annoying. Yesterday someone had confided to him on Fifth Avenue—a Wall Street type it was—that he had it on unimpeachable authority that Haig was on his way out and he, Henry the K, would soon be reannointed. When he had dined once at The Palace he had been asked three times where were his secret service men.

  The outrage of course was that Trude didn’t really resemble the other man that much. Trude was thinner, taller, younger, had no Strangelovian accent. In fact, when he and Kissinger both taught at Harvard, Trude disliked the other man intensely, thought him a second-rate thinker with no real talent save self-aggrandizement.

  But to much of the general populace, they might as well have been Chang and Eng.

  Composed finally, Trude took the last few steps, walked into the Duchess’s parlor.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  Trude looked at the thick black glasses and wondered again if she was, in fact, blind. “I could have been anybody,” he said, “I hadn’t spoken.”

  “Your walk betrays you. You walk like an arrogant man.”

  Trude decided not to pursue that line of inquiry any further. “It’s snowing, I had to walk.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that it snows—I know such things, I hear the snow fall.” Her voice had gotten louder.

  Trude decided he didn’t much want to pursue that one either. She sat alone on the couch, her head tilted. Behind her was a beaded curtain. From back there now: a growl.

  “Come or stay as you wish,” she said.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Trude began.

  “I was
not speaking to you. He heard me raise my voice and he worried.”

  Trude watched the beaded curtains part and then the giant dog came toward him.

  “Stand still, there’ll be no harm.”

  Trude made very sure he stood very very still.

  The animal sniffed him, then turned, curled up at her feet. But its eyes remained on Trude.

  “To business,” the Duchess said.

  “You contacted me. I came.”

  “Did you bring money?”

  “Some.”

  “Did you bring a thousand?”

  “A thousand means an ultra,” Trude said. No point in giving it to her without some prodding. “Are you sure? Have you proof?”

  “Yes I am sure. But proof is your province.”

  “True.”

  She held out her hand for the money.

  “What’s his name?” Trude asked before paying.

  She dropped her hand. The Beast began to make its sound. Trude gave her the envelope. She took out the bills, counted them, running her fingers over and over the green paper.

  How does she know they’re not singles, he wondered.

  Evidently, she did. “Winslow,” she answered finally.

  “And where is he?”

  “He comes here many times, but irregularly.”

  “Where does he stay?”

  “Different places. He does not wish to be found. I can tell you with assurance he is not a member of the College of Cardinals.”

  Trude sat in a chair across from her, took out his pen and note pad. “Tell me everything you know.”

  “I will. But you must be careful this time.”

  “I’m always careful,” Trude said.

  The Duchess shook her head. “Remember the Mazursky business.”

  “Ah yes, well, that…”

  3

  Water

  Once the ambulance got Edith to the emergency room at New York Hospital, it became very soon apparent that She wasn’t going to die. There was so much blood that the work was at first feverish but that phase passed and the interns functioned as they usually did, with quick and telling adroitness. By the time she was finally wheeled to a private room, there was no doubt in any attending physician’s mind about her survival.

  Not that she was about to go anywhere; she was in something, probably shock, and a tremendous number of stitches were needed to close up her arms, which took longer than wished because of the enormous number of glass slivers that were caught in and beneath her skin.

  Sally and Phillip began their vigil immediately. They sat with k the unconscious body, took occasional strolls down the corridor so Sally could smoke. Phillip had his theories, Which he told Sally. Sally told him his theories were, frankly, horseshit. Phillip, his Lincolnian look getting a bit strained by events, wondered if Sally had any better reasons explaining why Edith Mazursky Holtzman should, one February afternoon, become suicidal in a department store.

  #Sally didn’t.

  Edith slept more than a day. Phillip had to leave eventually, not because of business but because he had three girls at home, three teen-age girls at home, and how did you explain to them that this odd event had happened that would probably cloud their lives, probably forever.

  Sally thought there were times it wasn’t so terrible being a daughter of Lesbos.

  “Should I lie to them?” Phillip wondered.

  “Of course,” Sally said. “You must, since we don’t know what the truth is.”

  Phillip nodded. He hugged Sally, got up to go. He looked so suddenly withered Sally could only think of the beautiful young girl who had left Shangri-la. He came back eventually, many hours later, stayed as long as he could, then left again, a pattern he continued.

  Sally simply moved into the hospital. She kept her gallery closed for the duration, and when she needed toilet articles, she tipped an orderly an obscene amount to dash out to the drugstore. When the nurses tried pulling their official act it was no contest —although not as cute and perky as in her Radcliffe days, Sally was still more than presentable, and the combination of her June Allysonish appearance coupled with her sailor’s use of language routed the opposition.

  Which is why, when Edith finally opened her eyes the first time, Sally was there. Edith blinked, said nothing. Sally said nothing back. They simply touched fingertips till Edith drifted again. The second awakening was stronger—Edith managed to request food —broth—and got most of it down. The third time she roused herself. Color was returning to her face. Very softly Edith said, “You stayed.”

  “I should think you’d know me by now,” Sally said. “When there’s a major social event, nothing will drag me away.” She tried a bright smile.

  Edith watched her closely.

  Then the brightness left Sally’s face. “I tried,” she managed, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t tell you anything like this; the doctors said you’re not ready.”

  “Tell me what? Is Phillip all right? Are the children?”

  “Worse,” Sally whispered.

  “What could be worse?” Edith said.

  Sally looked straight at her and said it: “Bloomingdale’s canceled your charge card.”

  Even drugged and in pain, Edith began to laugh.

  “I fought them, though, Edith—I tried so hard—went all the way to the top—but they said there were strict store rules: ‘when a customer bleeds on the merchandise, that’s it.’ “

  “You were always mean, Sally Levinson,” Edith said. And then she drifted.

  Later. Edith blinking.

  Sally sitting as before.

  “Still here?” from Edith.

  Sally nodded. “They drop the price after six.”

  “I do care for you so.”

  “Love me so.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I love you and that’s why, my dear Edith, you can rest assured of something.”

  “What?”

  “That no matter what happens, that no matter how many thousands of hours we spend together as the years go by, that under no conditions will I ever bring up what happened in Bloomingdale’s.”

  Edith nodded.

  “Edith?”

  “Yes?”

  “What the fuck happened in Bloomingdale’s?”

  Edith made the saddest smile. And was silent for the longest time. She was tired and her voice was barely audible.

  Sally leaned far forward.

  “… control…” Edith said. Then she was drifting again.

  Night now. “What do you think happened?” Edith spoke the words with her eyes closed.

  Sally hesitated. She knew Edith more than well enough to know that the question meant that Edith wanted to talk about it, felt strong enough to. Sally told the truth: “Not the foggiest.”

  “And Phillip?”

  Careful. “What about him?”

  “You must have talked with him.”

  Easy now. “In generalities, sure. ‘Did she seem depressed? Was she upset about anything?’ But since the answers to all those were ‘no, not depressed, no, not upset’ he’s just as out to lunch as I am.” Edith’s eyes were open now, studying Sally. Sally put her palm up in the air and said what she always did when it was necessary to convince Edith of the truth: “My right hand to God.”

  Of course, she was lying.

  Phillip had an entire scenario worked out, and Sally had told him he was being a goddam fool. But he was not to be shaken.

  First of all, the crucifying reviews for her exhibit had rocked Edith much more terribly than she had ever let on.

  And second was the business with Doyle Ackerman.

  Sally asked who the hell that was.

  Phillip reprimanded her for lying—the Yale man, the beautiful swimmer that Edith was in love with, had had the affair with, back in school.

  Sally, stunned that Phillip knew a thing about Edith and the swimmer, was even more stunned to find that Phillip had discovered Doyle’s business card and handwritten phone number right
at the top of things in Edith’s purse. They were clearly seeing each other, Phillip concluded. And my suspicion is that he discarded her. Being thrown aside by her lover after failing so miserably in her art, that had done the Bloomingdale’s trick.

  Sally flailed at him, told him he was full of shit and to shut up.

  Phillip, easily the best man Sally had ever known, shook his head; he hadn’t been enough for Edith. If only he’d been a better man somehow, it all might have been avoided.

  Sally continued her attack, calling him fucking crazy.

  He replied that he was not, but that what had transpired in the store, that was crazy.

  Sally was forced to nod.

  And it did happen.

  Sally nodded again.

  Phillip’s peroration was brief and simple: if it happened, then there must be a reason, and he asked her to come up with a sounder scenario than his.

  Sally couldn’t. Only Edith could do that.

  “I was going to buy Phillip a new red silk tie,” Edith said then. “Among other chores. Items for the girls. So off I went.”

  Sally sat forward in the hospital chair, tucked her legs up under her. “You walked?”

  Edith hesitated, then smiled. ‘That’s right, I remember now, I had a silly moment with a cab. I hailed one and then decided I shouldn’t but by that time he’d stopped and I said something to the effect that it would be better for me if I walked and he looked at me and in that wonderful New York tone the old ones still use, he said, ‘For this she stops me?’ Something like that, anyhow, and I laughed and tipped him and started on my way.”

  “This is sure interesting so far, Edith,” Sally said. “Earthshak-ing stuff.”

  “Just wait. I was walking briskly, not doing much window-shopping—”

  “—do me a favor and spare me the window-shopping details, huh?”

  “Doyle Ackerman,” Edith said then, and she looked at Sally, almost smiling.

  Sally said, “That name supposed to mean something?”

  “Just think about it.”

  Sally hesitated for what she considered a proper amount of time. “The pimple-brained swimmer!” Their voices were a notch higher now; it was as if they were back in school.