Jonathan Lethem: Gun, with Occasional Music

I picked up my phone, punched the number for the delicatessen on the corner, and ordered an egg salad sandwich for delivery. Then I called the index and asked the computer for a few listings. Not surprisingly, Orton Angwine wasn’t there. I tried Pansy Greenleaf, the woman Celeste was staying with, even gave the computer the Cranberry Street address, but no cigar. Just for fun I checked under my own name, and, sure enough, I was listed. It was a comfort.

I went through the mail. It was piled up from almost a week back, bills and junk mail mostly, a postcard from a guy in Vegas who owed me money, and a freebie pen from one of the aerospace companies. I slipped it out of its envelope, and it drifted loose in front of my face; anti-grav, the first I’d seen. It seems like the biggest innovations always announce themselves in the tackiest ways. You expect some kind of paradigm shift, and then a pen or a comb or a snorting straw arrives in the mail with a salesman’s phone number printed on it. It’s never a very good pen, either. You use it for a week, and it runs dry.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” I said. I slipped the pen into my pocket and started rustling in the drawer for money to pay for the sandwich. But it wasn’t the sandwich man.

The first guy was about my age, with crooked teeth and a ten-dollar haircut. He was standard-issue Office stuff, the kind that all look and think alike, except for the different flavor cough drops they suck. Then they stand too close to you, so you can smell the flavors and be impressed with their originality. I’d waltzed with these guys a million times in the past, and I could look forward to waltzing with them a million times in the future. They were the type I probably would have turned out to be if I’d stayed working for the Office.

The second guy was a different story. He was thick, disheveled, and badly shaven, and he wore a shoulder stripe and a couple of medals. I’d drawn the brass. He pushed into the room and slammed the door and said “Metcalf?” and when he looked me in the eye, I have to admit I flinched.

“Looking at him,” I said.

“Where were you an hour ago?”

“You boys aren’t here to wax floors, are you? I had a doctor’s appointment.”

The big one sat down in the chair across from my desk, where only that morning Angwine had been sitting. The other guy looked at the dusty chair in front of the water stain in the corner and elected to stand by the door. “Pass me your license and your card,” said the brass.

He looked over my credentials, and I stared at the ceiling. When he put them back on the desk between us, I let them lie there as a show of nerve.

“Where’s Inquisitor Carbondale?” I said.

“He’s been switched to Marin County,” said the big one. “My name is Morgenlander. This is Inquisitor Kornfeld.” The quiet one nodded at the mention of his name.

“Nice to know you boys are on the beat.”

“Wish I could say the same, dickface.” Morgenlander smiled. “There’s been some question of you working the Stanhunt case. We wanted to bring speculation to an end.”

“No problem, Inquisitor The answer is yes.” I got my cigarettes out of the desk drawer.

“The answer is no,” said Morgenlander. “It’s a conflict of interest. You’re my suspect, dickface.”

“I’ve already met your suspect, Morgenlander. The guy’s on his last legs. Nice work.”

“Angwine’s got a problem. His future’s all used up. I’d hate to see that happen to a dickface like you.”

I turned to Kornfeld, who still hadn’t cracked a smile. “Do I have a dick on my face? Tell me honestly.”

“You better cancel the fancy punctuation, dickface,” said Morgenlander blithely. “Your license is a piss mark in the snow, as far as I’m concerned.” He adjusted his tie, as if his head were expanding and he needed to make some room for it. “Now tell Inquisitor Kornfeld about your trip to the doctor;”

“I’m seeing a specialist,” I said. “To see if I can have the dick on my face removed.” I lit a cigarette and took a drag. Morgenlander leaned across the desk and slapped it out of my mouth. It rolled under the chair in the corner and smoldered in the dust.

“You’re wasting my time, dickface. Answer my questions.” He got his magnet out of his pocket and aimed it carelessly at my card.

I spat in the corner; The place was getting disgusting.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Who put you onto the Stanhunt case?”

“I was in it from before it was a case,” I said. “I worked for Stanhunt, back before he developed a hole in the back of his head.”

“You’re working for Angwine.”

“I’d like to be. I lost track of him.”

“Bullshit,” said Morgenlander. “He sent you to the doctor. He’s still trying to collect.”

I was going to be dizzy when the merry-go-round let off. “That’s saying Angwine is a blackmailer.” I hoped the question would slip by in the excitement.

“Don’t play dim, dickface. What did he want you to say to the doctor?”

I decided to play along. “He didn’t mention any specifics. I was just feeling Dr. Testafer out.”

There was a knock on the door. Inquisitor Kornfeld stepped away from it, and I called out, “Come in.” An evolved Irish setter from the deli downstairs came into the room carrying a white paper bag with a grease stain at the bottom. He looked nervously around at the inquisitors, then stepped past them to hand me the bag.

I told the setter thanks and gave him five bucks more than the check required. He gulped his appreciation, then backed through the open door arid out into the waiting room, looking like he wanted to drop to all fours and run away howling. Kornfeld closed the door and leaned back against the wall.

Nobody said anything while I opened the bag and took out the egg salad sandwich. It was one of those funny moments when a bit of normal human activity embarrasses everybody out of their bluster and hostility, and roles are momentarily laid aside. I chewed down a triangular wedge of sandwich and rubbed at my face with a paper napkin before Morgenlander finally started in again, and this time he left out the dickface stuff. We’d somehow graduated beyond that by virtue of the delivery puppy and the sandwich.

“It’s a tough case,” he said. “The boys at the top handed me Angwine on a platter, and there’s a lot of pressure to let it go like that.”

Morgenlander’s tone verged on shoptalk, and maybe it was my imagination, but Kornfeld, without saying anything, seemed distinctly uncomfortable. “Angwine’s a sewer rat,” Morgenlander continued. “I don’t mind if he goes to the freezer, but there’s more to it than that.”

I nodded, to keep him talking.

“I’m not saying he’s innocent. He did the killing. I’m just saying there’s more to it. I’ve got to warn you off, Metcalf. Do yourself a favor. If you get in my way, I’ll have to take you down. That’s just the way it is.” He put his magnet in his pocket and nodded to Kornfeld.

I swallowed hard and tried to smile. There was a lot I wanted to ask, but Kornfeld seemed to like it better when I kept my mouth shut. There were healthier ways of advancing an investigation than trying to grill an inquisitor. I nudged the second triangle of sandwich with my thumb, and a shiny cube of egg white fell out onto the wax paper.

“I’ve got nothing but respect for a private eye, really,” said Morgenlander. He smiled at me, and his tongue looked like you could strike a match against it “You just have to know when to lay off,” he explained. “This is when to lay off.” He pushed himself wearily to his feet and shook out the sleeves of his coat.

Kornfeld hadn’t spoken a syllable during their visit. Now he took his hat off and said, “Good day” in a squeaky voice, then opened the door for Morgenlander. The big guy turned once in the doorway and gave me another view of his twisted smile. I held up my hand, palm out. They shut my door, and I listened as they shuffled through the outer office, past the rabbits, and back to the elevator, leaving me alone with my egg salad sandwich and a mouthful of questions.