Jonathan Lethem - Gun, with Occasional Music

“For God’s sake,” he said through his hands. “Don’t dig it all up again.” He sounded as if he were being confronted with the carcass, literally.

“Relax,” I said. “I’m not such a stickler for animal rights. You can buy me off with the answers to a couple of questions.”

I meant it. Not that I thought he’d suffered enough—I wouldn’t presume to weigh suffering against sins. But from here on I was in this game for my own satisfaction, and as far as Testafer was concerned, I was satisfied.

I gave him a minute to dry himself up.

“Celeste didn’t go out of town eight years ago,” I said. “She came here to stay with you. You were the family doctor. You delivered Barry, and she trusted you. Phoneblum was getting abusive and she needed out.”

He nodded confirmation.

“Phoneblum didn’t introduce Maynard to Celeste—you did. You were training him into your practice, and they met and the sparks flew, despite your warnings.”

“That’s pretty much right,” he said.

“Celeste and the sheep were pals from when they lived up here together, during Celeste’s hideaway. Dulcie knew all about Phoneblum, and you thought I’d squeezed it out of her. You didn’t believe it when she said she’d kept her little black lips zippered, and you were angry at both of us, and you took it out on her.”

He only nodded.

“She did all right by you, Grover. She didn’t squeal. Maybe you would have preferred it if she never let me in the door, but she didn’t volunteer anything important.”

He was quiet. He’d sobbed once and he wasn’t going to sob again. He was going to put up a good front and answer my questions. Except I was done. That was the last piece of the puzzle. I didn’t need any more information out of Testafer, and I didn’t need to sit there looking at his fat red face while he sorted out his misery. I needed to move on, to finish the job—and I needed make, badly. I was out of my seat and about to leave, when I suddenly had an idea. The idea went like this: Testafer was a doctor and Testafer was a rich man and Testafer was a man who liked to snort something better than Office make, or had, six years ago.

“You don’t have any old make sitting around, do you?” I asked. “Something just a little less crude than the standard issue? Something without so much Forgettol in it?”

He smiled.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said.

I SAT IN MY CAR WITH THE DOOR OPEN, PUT MY HANDS ON the wheel, and watched them tremble. It wasn’t stopping. I needed addictol and I needed it soon.

I drove to the makery. The lights were on, and some tainted analog of hope stirred dimly in my heart. It didn’t seem too far-fetched that the maker might have a few old ingredients sitting around that he could cobble together into some semblance of my blend. If not, I’d be happy enough to take some addictol straight, nothing on the side, thanks, see you later. When I went in, the hope faded like it was bleached. A guy was feeding his card into a vending machine on the far wall. There was no counter, no wall of little white bottles, no friendly old maker. Nothing. The machines covered the walls like urinals in a train station bathroom, and I didn’t have to watch him get a packet to know what they were for.

I went out, feeling sick. The complimentary packet of make was burning a hole in my pocket, but it wasn’t a commodity. I could obviously help myself to as much as I liked, anytime I liked. I had a funny idea about only snorting a little, but I knew that was a joke. If I got started, I wouldn’t stop for a while.

I drove up into the hills towards Phoneblum’s old place. Night was falling over the trees and rooftops, and I tried to let it ease me out of my funk, but it was no go. My gut was clenched with need. I pulled the car over to the side of the road and tossed the packet of make into the woods so I wouldn’t be tempted. If I wanted it later, the stuff was available, but I had work to do now. And I had more than my own memory to worry about. It was obvious I was going to have to do a lot of other people’s remembering for them.

At first I didn’t recognize Phoneblum’s place. The big fake house was gone, leaving the stairwell naked on the crest of the hill. I parked anyway, feeling pretty sure I had business at this address no matter what it looked like on top. It wasn’t the kind of property that changed hands too often.

The difference no doubt mirrored the transfer of power that had obviously taken place while I was away, from Phoneblum to the kangaroo. Phoneblum was the big fake house projected on the top of the hill, all bluff and ornament, concerned with cloaking his evil in style. And the kangaroo—when I realized I was comparing a kangaroo to a stairwell I had a laugh at myself, and let it go.

I wanted to draw a bead on the kangaroo, but I wasn’t ready to tangle with him, not yet. So I turned off the engine and the lights and watched the moon come up. My hands were in motion again, the thumbs twitching, but I was getting used to it.

I always get bored on a stakeout, and this time it was no different. I thought about Maynard and Celeste and the hotel room, and I thought about Walter Surface, and I thought about the kangaroo. I thought about Catherine Teleprompter, wondered where she was and how she looked now. I thought about a lot of things. Eventually I thought about make, and I thought about it a lot, and I thought about a lot of it. Big piles. I’d laughed at plenty of junkies in my day, all the while making damn sure I had a straw for my nose when I needed it, and now I went back and apologized to each and every one of them. My system was trying to run without the fuel that had made it go for years, and it was hell. I could feel my bloodstream panhandling my fat reserves for whatever last traces of the vital addictol they had stored away, and I could feel my fat cells turning out their pockets and saying sorry pal, there’s nothing left.

I don’t know how long I sat there like that. I certainly didn’t keep my eyes on the stairwell door very long. My hands slipped off the wheel and into my lap, and I fell asleep. My dreams were murky, incomprehensible, like babyhead talk. I didn’t wake up until the sun was out again, but it wasn’t the sun that woke me up. It was the voice of the kangaroo, unmistakable, and jarringly close to my window.

I started to reach for the gun in my pocket when I realized he wasn’t talking to me.

“Get in the car,” he was saying. I poked my head up enough to see he was saying it to Barry Phoneblum and a couple of strong-arm louts from central casting. The kangaroo unlocked the passenger seat in the car in front of mine, and the babyhead clambered in. The louts got in the back, and one of them pulled out a gun and checked its load. I put my hand on Barry’s gun in my pocket and laid low.

“I told you he wouldn’t come here,” said Barry.

The kangaroo went around and got in behind the wheel. His window was up, and when he said something, I didn’t catch it.

“He’s probably got better things to do,” Barry went on.

I wished like hell I did.

The kangaroo started the car, and they drove away. It was obvious they were looking for me. I cursed myself for falling asleep in Joey’s front yard, then offered up a quick improvisational prayer to the patron saint of dumb luck and trembling junkies. I was stupid for coming here at all. When I’d waltzed in on Phoneblum, I’d had the double insurance of his concern for his various “loved ones” and his peculiar sense of class and sportsmanship. With the kangaroo I had neither. I was lucky to still be alive.

When I was sure the coast was clear, I straightened up and took a quick inventory. Both legs were asleep from being wedged under the dashboard, there was a taste like puke in my mouth, and when I unclenched my hand from around the gun in my pocket, it started shaking again. Otherwise, I was intact. I drove down the hill and found a pay phone and called Surface, collect.