Jonathan Lethem - Gun, with Occasional Music

“You must really be a glutton for punishment,” he said.

“A gourmet, actually,” I said. “If it isn’t perfect, I send it back.”

He didn’t laugh. “What did Pansy tell you?” he asked.

“Nothing I couldn’t have learned from a brick wall. We tried to play tic-tac-toe, but she kept forgetting if she was X’s or O’s.”

Barry didn’t like that. I guess he still had some kind of proprietary interest in Pansy. His jaw tightened and his face got red where the skin wasn’t stretched white with tension. “Fuck you, Metcalf.” His voice shook. “I could blow you away right now if I didn’t mind cleaning up the mess. You wouldn’t be missed.”

“Fuck you, Phoneblum. You pull that trigger now, and the recoil’s gonna break your nose.”

He moved the gun from in front of his face. “Don’t call me Phoneblum,” he said.

“Maybe you don’t buy him ties on Father’s Day,” I said. “And maybe he never took you to see the World Series. But that doesn’t change it.”

“I’d forgotten your interest in genealogy,” he said, recovering somewhat. But there was a conflict in him between the tough-guy lingo and the babyhead talk, a conflict he couldn’t resolve. “It represents a pathetic inability to see beyond superficial relationships.”

“I know what you mean. I’m having a real problem seeing beyond the relationship between the kangaroo’s hand and the strings attached to your arms and legs.” While I talked, I inched my feet forward on the carpet and slid my knees under the edge of the big glass coffee table. “I expected more of you, Barry. You were a pain in the ass, but at least you had style.”

“You’re making stupid guesses,” he said. “I take the kangaroo’s dough so I can care for my mother. That’s the beginning and the end of it.”

“Your mother’s dead,” I said. “I walked in her blood.”

It was meant to make him flinch, and it worked. I jerked the coffee table up with my knees and toppled it over on him. The telephone and the razor blade slid to the floor in a cloud of make, and the table fell without breaking to create a glass wall which trapped Barry huddling in his chair. The gun was still in his hand, but he couldn’t point it at me against the weight of the tabletop.

I put my shoe against the glass where his face was. “Throw me the gun, Barry. This’ll make a big mess if it breaks.”

He started squirming in his cage, but he didn’t let go of the gun. I pushed with my foot on the glass until the chair tipped over and Barry tumbled out onto the carpet. The gun fell into a corner. The glass slid back down to rest, propped between the chair and the carpet, intact.

I went over and took Barry by the collar and shook him a little, until my anger subsided and his shirt started ripping, then I put him down. I would have hated for him to get the impression I didn’t like the way he was dressed.

When I looked up, I saw Pansy watching us from halfway down the stairs, her hands folded neatly on the railing. She didn’t look overly concerned. I had no idea what she thought was happening, or whether she still possessed the equipment necessary to speculate. I didn’t particularly want to think about that. I was ready to go. The possible imminence of the kangaroo was not the only reason.

Barry was all balled up on the carpet, looking like nothing so much as an aborted fetus. I stepped over him and picked up the gun. It played me the music again. The violins didn’t know the action was over. I put it in my pocket, smoothed down my jacket, and stepped out into the foyer. Pansy didn’t say anything.

“You ought to buy your little boy a coloring book or a stamp album or something,” I said. “He’s got way too much time on his hands. He’s liable to take up masturbation.”

As I went out the door, I heard Pansy utter “masturbation” into her little microphone, but I was gone before I could hear the answer.

I RAN INTO A CHECKPOINT IN THE HILLS ON MY WAY TO Testafer’s place. They were idling in a narrow spot on the road, and I didn’t see them until it was too late. An inquisitor waved me over, walked up, and leaned into my window.

“Card,” he said.

I gave it to him.

“This looks pretty clean,” he said.

“It’s new,” I said. I looked him in the eye and hoped he didn’t see my hands shaking on the wheel. They were shaking for a few reasons. The gun in my pocket was one of them. The make not in my bloodstream was another;

He motioned another guy to come over to my car. “Take a look,” he said. “Rip Van Winkle.” He flipped him my card. It was funny: I hadn’t felt much attachment to it before, but I experienced a sudden fondness for it seeing it in the hands of two boys from the Office.

“Beautiful,” said Number Two. “Wish I saw more like this.”

I restrained my urge to comment.

“You got papers for the car?” said Number One.

“Rental,” I said. The receipt was in the glove compartment and I got it out.

He glanced at it and handed it back.

“Where you headed?” he said.

I shrugged. “Taking a look at the old neighborhood.”

“Got plans?”

I thought about it. I wondered how hard they’d laugh if I told them I was a private inquisitor on a case six years old. “I’m still getting my bearings,” I said.

It made him smile. He turned to Number Two. “Hear that? He’s getting his bearings.”

Number Two smiled and stepped up to my car. “What did you do, Metcalf?”

“Nothing, really,” I said. “Stepped on some toes. It’s ancient history.”

“Who sent you up?”

I thought fast. In all likelihood these were Kornfeld’s boys. “Morgenlander,” I said.

They traded a look.

“That’s a tough break,” said Number Two, and there was honest sympathy in his voice. He handed me back my card. I’d said the right thing.

“Damn shame,” said Number One. “They should have sprung the last of his guys years ago.”

I put my card in my back pocket and kept my mouth shut. I was suddenly okay in their book, which didn’t mean good things for Morgenlander. It gave me a sinking feeling, one I wouldn’t have expected to feel. I shouldn’t have been surprised; Morgenlander’s days were obviously numbered even six years ago. But I guess some stupid optimistic part of me had been hoping he’d squeak through.

“Okay,” said Number Two. “Just don’t use up all your money driving around in a rental car and reminiscing. You’re a young guy. Get a job.”

I thanked them and said so long. They went back to their roadblock, and I rolled up my window and drove away.

I thought about Kornfeld, and decided I didn’t mind if a rematch occurred. I had a lot less to lose this time. I owed the guy a punch in the stomach if nothing else, and if his underbelly turned out to be six years softer, all the better.

Yes, Kornfeld had earned a spot in my mental appointment book, but Dr. Testafer came first. I wanted Grover’s help, voluntary or not, with a couple of missing pieces. I found his street and parked in the clearing at the end of the driveway. Standing in the clearing brought back memories. I’d snorted make here three days or six years ago, depending on how you counted, and it made my nose itch to think of it. I tried to put make out of my mind as I walked up to Testafer’s house, but it was tough. The issue was like a jack-in-the-box with an overanxious spring; it jumped out at the slightest prompting.

The house looked pretty much the same—the main house, that is. The little house on the left didn’t look occupied. I guess Testafer had sworn off sheep after Dulcie. I rang the bell, and after a minute Testafer came to the door.