Robert Stone - Dog Soldiers

“Terrific for the kid.”

Antheil stood up with an expression of indignation.

“Listen, Converse,” he said earnestly, “no Commie lawyer is going to save you. None of your lame maneuvers are going to save you. But I can — I can keep you alive. If I want to.”

“I see,” Converse said.

“I want to hear about your wife. What can you tell me about her?”

Converse thought about Marge and what there was to tell Antheil about her.

“She worked for a theater in the city. Before that she worked in the Anthropology Department at U.C. She studied acting in New York a long time ago.”

Antheil sat down again. He shook his head in controlled impatience.

“I know all that shit, man. I know about her whole funny family. I want you to tell me what you want to tell me.”

Therapy, Converse thought. He had once been to a session of encounter therapy; the other participants had informed him that he was cold and remote. Someone had applied to him the term “automation-like” and they had tried to force him under a mattress.

So the last seventy-two hours were only the California sensibility continued by other means. Lots of confrontation between liberated psyches, lots of free associating.

He tried, wanting to tell Antheil something about Marge and then discovering what it might be. Esalen style.

“She’s half Irish and half Jewish.” he said. That usually went over — it had social content and an element of popular humor. Marge was driven to fury whenever he mentioned it in company.

“I’m trying to treat you like a human being,” Antheil said, “but you’re a fucking animal. Wait till you’re up to your neck in sand and the Bay’s coming in on your face — then get clever.”

Converse hastened to apologize.

“I mean,” Antheil said, “I want to know how to deal with her. Is she the kind of bitch who’d burn her own husband and split with a boyfriend and love every minute of it. Or is she a victim of circumstances? You know what she’s like.”

Something of the concerned public servant had crept into his manner. Converse felt that he was being offered a choice of responses. If he wanted her back, Antheil would offer to preserve her from the blowtorch. If he wanted revenge, there would be some of that.

“I think,” Converse said, “that she’s pretty moral basically.”

Antheil looked thoughtful for a moment, then his whole some features expanded in a grin.

“Yeah?”

“She’s been under a psychiatrist’s care.”

Antheil put a hand over his face and laughed heartily.

“Oh Jesus,” he cried. His good humor was nearly infectious. “What a couple of yo-yos you are. You must have been out of your minds, the two of you. A psychiatrist’s care!” It took him a moment to regain his composure. “Well listen — if you show me it’s worth it to me, I can take care of both of you. But you better do what you’re told.”

“If I’m in trouble, I’d like to square it.”

“You’re in plenty of trouble, my friend, and so’s your crazy old lady. If you act in good faith you might get out of this with your skin on. If you bullshit me, I’ll see you die.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to help us get in touch with her.”

“I wish I could,” Converse said. “But as I explained to your witnesses out there, I don’t know where she is.”

“So I gather,” Antheil said sympathetically, “but we think we do.”

“Then why not get in touch with her yourselves?”

“The people she’s with are as bad as it gets. When we go in there, there won’t be much conversation. If you could get to her — persuade her to help us out — things might go a lot better for both of you.”

“Who are the people she’s with? I thought it was Ray Hicks.”

“Do you know Those Who Are?”

“No,” Converse said.

“They’re very nasty people. They’re friends of Hicks’.”

“I don’t want to be facetious,” Converse said, “but what is it they are?”

“Everything,” Antheil said. “Dealers, faggots, extremists. Scum of the earth.”

“What do they mean, Those Who Are?”

“I don’t know,” Antheil said, “and I don’t give a shit.

You want to help us out or you want to take your chances on the street?”

“I’ll talk to my lawyer.”

“No, you won’t, friend. You won’t talk to anyone — I won’t take the chance. If you want to square it, we’ll keep you where we can save you from yourself. And you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

“Suppose I walk out? Right now.”

“I told you what’ll happen to you.”

“Suppose I walk out anyway.”

“You can’t,” Antheil said. He seemed genuinely angry for the first time during the interview. Converse elected to preserve what remained of the fiction of volition.

“Where do you want me to go?”

“Out of town. Not too far.”

“This can’t be legal.”

“You let me worry about that. I’m pretty good in court.”

“O.K.,” Converse said.

Antheil relaxed visibly.

“You’ve just done something smart for a change. Maybe you’re getting smarter.”

“I hope so,” Converse said. “I don’t want you to panic,” Antheil said playfully. “I’m going to ask Mr. Danskin and Mr. Smith to come in now.”

He opened the door that led to the living room.

“Mr. Danskin,” he called. “Mr. Smith.”

Mr. Danskin and Mr. Smith entered with the air of men performing a mildly disagreeable obligation. Antheil turned to Converse.

“I think you all know each other.”

“It’s great to see a real loser really lose,” the bearded man told Converse. He was Mr. Danskin.

“I just told him he was getting smarter,” Antheil said.

Mr. Danskin shrugged.

“Who said he wasn’t smart?”

“You’re going on the road, fellas,” the agent said. “You know all about it.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Danskin said.

Antheil clapped his hands.

“O.K. So do it.”

“How long will we be away for?” Converse asked. “Should I bring some stuff?” He had hesitated to ask, fearing that the question might produce silence or even levity.

A brief silence did in fact ensue.

“Sure,” Antheil said. “Bring whatever you want.”

Mr. Smith came into the other bedroom with him to watch him pack. Mr. Smith was the younger, blond one. He picked out some shirts and a sweater. Everything was still in his suitcase; he put the clothes in a cardboard shirt box. When they went back to Janey’s room, Antheil was ad miring the drawing on the wall.

“That’s your counterculture right there,” he said.

No one disagreed with him.

“Converse,” he declared, “I’ve enjoyed talking to you. You just confirmed a whole lot of ideas I’ve had about the way things are going. I’m really glad to have met you.”

“You’re not coming?”

Antheil shook his head.

“You got nothing to worry about. You’ll be in good hands.” A thought seemed to strike him on the way out.

“You know I have a kid,” he told Danskin, “he’s twelve now. He lives with my lately wife. Last summer I sent him to survival school. Toughen him up for the big shit storm.”

“What do they do there?” Mr. Smith asked.

“What do they do there? They survive.”

Everyone smiled politely.

Mr. Danskin was looking at Converse.

“You never went to survival school.”

“No,” Converse admitted. “I don’t think they had them.”

HICKS DROVE ON SPEED. His fatigue hung the desert grass with hallucinatory blossoms, filled ravines with luminous coral and phantoms. The land was flat and the roads dead straight; at night, headlights swung for hours in space, steady as a landfall — and then rushed past in streaks of color, explosions of engine roar and hot wind. Every passing truck left in its screaming wake the specter of a desert head-on — mammoth tires spinning in the air, dead truck drivers burning in ditches until dawn.