Paul Levine - Night vision

"Pam doesn't believe me," Bobbie said, her eyes on the paddle fan, seemingly hypnotized by the churning blades. "She's obsessed with the thought that you and I are lovers…"

She let it hang there, and unspoken words passed between us. And if she believes it's true, why not make it true? Because, I reminded myself, she's married, promiscuous, and bisexual, and her husband…and so on and so forth.

And another reason, too, Lassiter, old buddy. The days of easy flesh are gone, my friend. Oh, a guy with an itch can still find an evening's diversion, just a bar stool or computer terminal away. There was a time when even a semi-tough linebacker knew every nightspot in the AFC East and most of the barmaids therein. But no more road trips, groupies fluttering in the lobby bar, then up the service elevator for curfew-busting pregame revelry. It's not the seventies anymore. The sexual revolution has been repealed by a vote of the electorate. And not just because of communicable rashes and deadly viruses. There's an old-fashioned word that makes us smart guys wince: morality. Or if that's too self-righteous for you, remember the flip side. Chilly awakenings in strange beds, the harsh light of morning, and not a word to say. What was her name: Susie, Sandy, Mandy, Candy? A flight attendant or travel agent or cosmetics salesgirl who liked opera or Cancun or hockey. Hey, it's hard enough when you're aglow with the buzz of someone special and it turns out to be a false alarm. No use sighing and sweating just for the exercise.

Jake Lassiter, number fifty-eight, placed on waivers, emotionally unable to perform. Refuses to hit and run. Welcome to the grown-up world, Lassiter. I'm almost proud of you, buddy.

"Look, I don't mean to be rude," I said, "but I've got other things on my mind besides your relationship with Pam."

"Such as?"

"Where's Max?"

She shrugged.

"I mean, if he's following you around, maybe I ought to find my Louisville Slugger, get ready-"

"I told him not to bother you again," Bobbie said.

"How considerate. Did you tell him not to bother Alex Rodriguez?"

She looked puzzled, so I told her. She kept shaking her head and biting her lower lip. "What time did it happen?"

"ME says between noon and three p.m. yesterday." Bobbie let her face relax. "Max was in the office all afternoon. He drove me back from Key Biscayne after your…disagreement, and we worked all day."

"Who else was there?"

"Just the two of us."

"Uh-huh."

"You don't believe me."

"No. I think you're covering for him."

"Max would have no reason to kill the cop."

"Really? Who would he have reason to kill?" She didn't answer. "Let's play a little name association game," I said. "Marsha Diamond."

"What about her?"

"You tell me, Bobbie."

"She belonged to Compu-Mate. You know that."

"Ever make love with her?"

"No!"

"Never shared her bed, had that something special you had with Pam?"

"No! We never met. I've already told you." When a witness starts to open up, keep the questions coming, short and sweet. Process the information later. "Mary Rosedahl."

The long, black lashes fluttered. "She was so lovely. Bisexual since her teens. We were together off and on. I was shocked when she was killed."

"Priscilla Fox."

"She wanted to experiment, that's all. Very adventurous. A one-nighter. We laughed about it. She was so full of life. It's awful what happened."

"Alex Rodriguez."

"The flatfoot! Give me a break. Except for a vice cop when I was a kid, I never-"

"Where were you married and when?"

"Miami Beach, three years ago, August third."

"So why doesn't Dade County have a record of the marriage license?"

"I don't know. Max handled all that."

"What's your maiden name?"

"Why?"

"What is it?"

She stood and walked to the wall. She was staring at a poster of a Hawaiian kid doing a three-hundred-sixty-degree flip on a sail-board. Either she was fascinated with aerodynamics or she was thinking.

"St. Simeon," she said. "Roberta St. Simeon."

"Unusual name."

"I'm an unusual person."

"If I ran that name through the Metro computer, what little shocks would I get?"

She turned back to me. "How easily do you shock?"

I didn't answer. I just sat there studying her. For once, she wasn't trying to be provocative. No risque jokes, no limericks. Something was bothering her. And me. If I could only draw the two bothers together.

"Was there really a Simeon who was a saint?" I asked.

"I'm told there was. A monk who lived on top of a pillar, just praying and praying, denying all flesh."

That almost made me laugh. Life is more pleasurable if you develop a sense of irony.

"Saint Simeon," I said, the name tickling my mind.

"Saint Simeon," she repeated.

"There's a name for it, isn't there, an ascetic monk who lives atop a column or pillar."

"I believe there is."

"What is it?"

"Can't remember," she shot back, too quickly to have tried.

Something was there, creeping around the shadows of my mind. I wanted to open a book, but what book?

"Well," she said, "if the interrogation is over, perhaps I should leave."

I didn't try to stop her.

She gathered herself in the way women do before making an exit.

"You said you responded to me. Did you mean it?"

"You're a sultry enchantress and damn well know it."

"But you're still not interested."

"Lately, I've been trying to do my thinking north of the equator."

She smiled and looked at me straight on.

"'Then I shall fly for my I good, perhaps for thine, at any rate for thine if mine is thine.'"

It took me a moment to decipher. "That's very good. Original?"

"I wish."

"Who wrote it?"

"Tennyson. Ever heard of him?"

Bobbie Blinderman was telling me about Alfred Tennyson's emotional problems and his letter to Emily-somebody breaking off their engagement, flying for his own good, perhaps for thine, blah, blah, blah. But I wasn't listening. Not really listening. I was thinking, running it all through my head.

Woman is the lesser man,

And all thy passions, matched with mine,

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, And as water unto wine.

"Why belittle women that way? What does Bobbie Blinderman know of male passions, anyway?"

"Who is the hunter, Bobbie?"

She spoke slowly, her voice heavy. "You know that, Jake. You've read it so many times. Man is the hunter."

And woman is the game. All I knew were the words. But now I remembered more of hers. The less you know about me the better. Flippant at the time, meaningful now? Come into focus. Come on, think. Two hyenas sniffing around, Charlie had said. What was it she had asked? Would appearances put you off?

Saint Simeon. She was trying to tell me something.

"You're the Passion Prince, aren't you?"

"I liked the name, borrowed it."

"You never met Marsha Diamond, but you computer-talked with her the night she died."

"Yes, but I was so new at it, I was…too crude. It was the beast in me."

"From then on, you took the poet's words."

"Yes."

She moved closer to the sofa. Tears formed in the corners of her dark eyes. Her eyebrows were scrunched. She was silent.

On the sailboard was a stack of books and old newspapers. I fished around and pulled out the worn volume Prince had given me. The Poems of Tennyson. I thumbed through it, found what I wanted, and said, "They're called stylites, aren't they, the monks on the pillars?"

"Yes," she said.

"Saint Simeon isn't your name. You took it from a poem called Saint Simeon Stylites. "

She nodded. I read:

"' I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold

Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, and sob,

Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer,