Robert Stone - Dog Soldiers

When he arrived at his house and started up the front steps, Mr. Roche came out on the sidewalk and called to him.

“The lock’s been changed,” he said roguishly. “You won’t get in with your key.”

Confronted with Mr. Roche’s happy smile, Converse considered how stimulating it must have been to smash his head against the pavement. In happier times, he might have found a Nightbeat headline in the reflection.

“I paid your rent, for Christ’s sake. What do you want from me?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Roche said. “I’ll let you in myself.”

He sprang up the steps ahead of Converse and led him toward the front door.

“What about a new key?”

“It’s being taken care of,” Mr. Roche crooned.

They went up to the second floor. Mr. Roche opened the apartment and stood at the door with such deference that Converse might have been the Cardinal Archbishop of Los Angeles. There was someone waiting inside.

“Here he is, captain,” Mr. Roche said. Laughing gaily, he closed the door behind Converse.

It was a tall broad-shouldered man, slightly balding.

“What the fuck!” Converse exclaimed. Quite involuntarily.

“Actually,” the man said, “I’m not a captain at all.” He pulled Converse toward him. Spun partly around, Converse saw that there were two other men in the room. When he had his balance he saw that they were the men with whom he had watched television on the previous evening. The discovery alarmed him so thoroughly that he tried to force his way back to the door. The tall man pinned him neatly and led him to the center of the room.

“Don’t try that again, creep.”

They sat together at the end of his redwood picnic table. They appeared somehow embarrassed and did not look at him.

The tall man released Converse and produced a badge. Converse, in spite of his alarm, took the trouble to examine it closely.

“Come on,” the agent said.

Converse followed him into Janey’s bedroom. Antheil closed the door and sat in an armchair under the devil drawing. He wore a tweed jacket over a dark blue turtle-necked jersey and he had a robust mod mustache. He looked rather like a sympathetic young dean at an eastern liberal arts college. He looked like a friend of Charmian’s.

“What’s the matter with you? What are you so scared of?”

“What have you got?” Converse said.

At that moment, it was not fear he was experiencing. The sight of Antheil brought Charmian back to him with particular clarity. Something of her honeyed aura clung to the man’s tweed.

Converse was not ready for anger. What he felt was awe.

The agent smiled at him.

“You know what I was just reading? I was just reading your play.”

They were agreeable to look at, Converse thought. Antheil and Charmian. Big and elegant and expensive. “I thought it was out of print.”

“Sure, but we have it. I liked a lot of it I didn’t like the main character though. I didn’t think he was much of a marine.”

“No,” Converse agreed.

“I mean it doesn’t have to be the halls of Montezuma. But the guy was a real jellyfish, wasn’t he?”

He seemed to be waiting for an answer.

“I mean I couldn’t sympathize with a character like that.”

“Not everyone did.”

“I guess you were supposed to like him because he was against the Marine Corps. But if he was against the Marine Corps why didn’t he do something about it? Like refuse an order. Or go over the hill. You’d respect him more if he did something like that.”

“That would be a different play,” Converse said. Antheil shook his head thoughtfully. He looked, not unkindly, into Converse’s eyes. “That character — is that what you’re like? Is that you in the play?”

“No,” Converse said.

“Maybe a little?”

Converse shrugged.

“My questions are crude, huh? I don’t read as much drama as I should.”

He touched Converse lightly on the arm.

“Hey, little June’s a cookie, right?”

“What?”

“I said,” he enunciated slowly, “little June is a cookie.”

“She’s all right.”

“What did she have to say?”

Converse thought about it.

“To me — nothing. I thought she was sort of crazy.”

“She’s got some very bad friends in this town. Did you know that?”

“On some level.”

Antheil chuckled.

“You’re one wise cocksucker, aren’t you?”

Converse tried to brace. There was nothing to brace on.

“You know what I think on some level? I think you smuggled a shitload of heroin into this country.” He did not try to answer. “I think you’re the kind of smart cocksucker who writes a tear-jerk play against the Marine Corps and then turns around and smuggles heroin.”

“I deny that,” Converse said. “No more literary conversation until I call my lawyer.”

“You’re a classy one,” Antheil said with a disgusted smile.

“Who’s your lawyer?”

“Benjamin Whiteson. Thirty-five Columbus Avenue.”

“Whiteson? Whiteson’s a Communist, you asshole. He can’t help you. What — seriously — do you think you’re going to do?”

“I haven’t made any plans.”

“I have a plan for you,” Antheil said. “I think I’ll just let

you run loose. I guarantee you’ll be picked off the street within twenty-four hours.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Did you think about who you were cutting in on, running scag? The bike clubs. The black dudes in Oak land. The syndicate. I think I’ll feed them your ass.”

“Tell me this,” Converse said, “who are those guys out there?”

“Do you know those men?”

Converse did not answer. Antheil was delighted; he laughed.

“That’s all right, baby, I know you know them. Jesus, they really put the fear of God into you, didn’t they? Well they’re tame rats, Jim. They’re nothing compared to what you’ve got coming on the street.”

“Who are they?”

“They’re my witnesses. They’re cooperating in the investigation.”

“I see,” Converse said.

“You know the customs they have around here for dealing with clowns who try to take a piece of the trade?”

“It doesn’t concern me.”

“They’ll shoot you full of STP and put a blowtorch to your balls.”

“I’ve heard the stories,” Converse said.

“See, that’s all they do is deal dope and fuck people over. They spend a lot of time thinking up new wrinkles. I can see to it they get you.”

Through the bedroom window, Converse could see Mr. Roche hosing down the lawn behind his bungalow. Mr. Roche appeared to be singing.

“What do you think of your wife and Hicks?”

“I feel left out.”

Antheil looked at him as though a part of his face were missing.

“I’d say you took a fucking.”

“Look,” Converse said. “We have nothing to talk about.”

“You must be stupid. You’re not left out where I’m concerned.”

“What does that get me?”

“Maybe it gets you put to sleep. Or maybe you get to live your crummy little life.”

Converse laughed.

“What’s the matter with you? You think I’m being funny.”

“No,” Converse said. “I know what you’re being. You’ve got my number.”

Antheil watched him in silence for a moment.

“You better believe it,” he said.

“Oh I do,” Converse told him. “I do.”

“You’re an educated man. You turned yourself into an animal for dirty payoff.”

“I don’t admit that,” Converse said.

“You turned yourself into an animal for a dirty payoff.

Where’s your daughter? Don’t you care about her?”

“Sure I care about her. She’s wherever Marge left her: I don’t know where.”