Robert Stone - Dog Soldiers

“So we’re led to believe,” Elmer said. “Who are you in with?”

“These people. They’re supposed to be friends of Irvine Vibert.”

Elmer had a way of appearing to smile when people said things he found disagreeable.

“Irvine Vibert! The wheeler-dealer? Is it true?”

“I think so.”

“Did you think you were a second Irvine Vibert, you schmuck? Do I have to explain to you the situation you’re both in?”

He took a card from the comer of his desk blotter and handed it to Converse. “Benjamin Whiteson, Attorney at Law.” it said on the card, with an address on Ellis Street.

“See him. He’s a friend.”

Converse put the card in his pocket and leaned his head on the back of the chair.

“I’m cracking up,” he told Elmer. “I’m hallucinating. I just got off a plane.”

Elmer pursed his lips and glanced upward.

“It’s incredible,” Converse insisted. “I can’t believe I did it.”

Elmer waved his hand as though he were dispersing an unpleasant odor.

“A sense of unreality is not a legal defense.”

“I suppose not,” Converse said.

“There was a man around here called Antheil, a Fed who talks like a lawyer. He asked me if I knew my daughter was mixed up in a narcotics ring. I said I couldn’t believe such a thing — naturally as soon as he said it I knew it must be true. You know about my difficulties with the Feds?”

“Pretty much,” Converse said. Elmer had had political difficulties.

“Well, this Antheil knew all about that. He accused me of hiding her, he threatened me in various ways. Finally I think I convinced him I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Don’t they watch this place?”

“They watch my house, not here. And they haven’t been around the house much this week. Of course it’s possible that since they lost you tonight they’ll have a look over here.”

Converse stood up, trying to shake off his fatigue.

“Are you sure they know about me? Maybe they infiltrated the people who were going to pick up. They might just be fishing following me.”

Elmer made a sour face and shook his head.

“I don’t understand what they’re doing. Do you know a little bimbo called June? A nutty-looking little blonde?”

“I don’t know any Junes,” Converse said.

“Janey turned up with this June. Marge left her there. The only word I’ve had from Marge came through June and June’s mind is so fried it’s not easy to make out details. Apparently Marge still has your heroin and she’s traveling with the guy who brought it. There was some kind of rough stuff with somebody.”

“How’s Janey?”

“She’s unhappy and frightened — how else would she be? She’s still salvageable, but she won’t be much longer.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Converse said. “I just don’t.”

“Judgment was never your strong point. You and Marge are quite a team. You better talk to Ben Whiteson before grand inspiration strikes you.” Converse stood unsteadily in the middle of the room and began to laugh.

“I’ve been waiting my whole life to fuck up like this.”

“Well,” Elmer said, “you made the big time. Congratulations.”

“It’s all true,” Converse said. “Character is fate.” Elmer shrugged. He disliked words like “fate.” Converse was pacing again. “If I could just get back over to Nam, I’d probably be all right. You can hole up forever over there.”

“Hole up forever,” Elmer said. “Sounds very nice.”

“Better there than McNeil Island.”

Elmer brought two cups from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured coffee from his percolator.

“It’s up to you. But something very peculiar is going on. Whoever went after Marge in June’s version doesn’t sound like Feds. If there really is a tie-in with Irvine Vibert’s friends this could all be very complicated. And Antheil.” He sipped his coffee bemusedly. “Antheil has… a certain Bohemian flair, if you know what I mean. It’s a quality I find very disturbing in policemen.” For a moment he looked as though the coffee were making him sick. “I have a lot of experience with undercover types.”

“You were a spy,” Converse said. “That’s different.”

As he said it, Fran opened the door and came in with a basket of apples. She glared at him and he was not offered an apple. Elmer declined.

“Your father-in-law was not a spy,” Fran told Converse sternly. “And anyway they were on our side.” She gave Elmer a sympathetic look and went out.

Elmer sighed.

“Who says I was a spy?”

“Marge. She says your whole family were spies.”

“Marge is an idiot.”

“They sat in silence for a while. Converse stared at the worn rug.

“I ought to know what I do next,” he said. “But I don’t.”

Elmer took his empty coffee cup to the windowsill. His window commanded a view of the fire doors in the adjoining building.

“Stay away from your house. Sleep in the office tonight. Whiteson gets back about three o’clock, go to him immediately.” He looked at Converse for a moment and took out his checkbook. “You want your salary?”

Converse nodded.

Elmer wrote him a check for two hundred dollars.

In the outer office Frances was reading Douglas Dalton’s latest Nightbeat story; the story was entitled “Mad Hermit Rapes Coed Campers.” As Frances read, her lips moved.

“C’mon,” she said, thrusting the piece back at Dalton, “put some pizzazz in it.”

Dalton returned to his typewriter; Elmer watched his slow steps with resignation.

“He stinks,” Elmer whispered. “He can size pictures — that’s about it.”

Frances was looking at the check which Converse still held in his hand.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” she said pointedly. “How about Johnny-boy does some nice stories for us now he’s back? Some spicy specials.”

“He has too much on his mind,” Elmer said.

“Does he? He couldn’t even do a few headlines?”

Elmer smiled.

“It’s a thought. Is it out of the question? In the worst of times we have to eat.”

“In the worst of times especially,” Frances said.

“You’ve been missed,” Elmer told Converse. “We’ve lacked imagination since you left us for the active life. We rely on gross obscenity now. We’re so dirty we’ve been closed out in five states.”

Converse put the check in his pocket.

“C’mon, Johnny,” Frances said. “Gimme a headline.”

Elmer clapped his hands softly. “A freak animal story — for five hundred words.”

Converse shook his head.

“For Christ’s sake!” He walked to the window and back. “Birds…”

“Watch this!” Elmer told Frances. He leaned a hand on Converse’s shoulder like a track coach. “Birds what?”

Douglas Dalton came grimly forward with his revised version of “Mad Hermit Rapes Coed Campers.” Frances read it with impatience. Elmer kept his hand on Converse’s shoulder.

“C’mon, Douglas,” Frances sighed. “Pizzazz.”

“Yes,” Douglas Dalton said. He took the story back to his typewriter.

“Birds what?” Elmer asked softly.

“Birds nothing!”

Elmer removed his hand. “Birds Starve to Death!”

Converse sat down on a desktop.

“Starving birds,” he said. “All right!” He turned to Elmer in weary anger. “Skydiver Devoured By Starving Birds!”

Frances stared at him in astonishment.

“I’m going nuts,” Converse said.

Elmer was already sketching it on a layout sheet.

“Excellent. I love it. Only you can write it. Now gimme another beauty. Gimme a rapist.”

“Let’s pack it in, Elmer.”

“A rapist,” Elmer said. “Please.”