Don DeLillo - Running Dog

Lightborne sensed he was supposed to be touched by this. People with their enlightened attitudes. The best he could do was nod his head slowly, suggesting thoughtful consideration. Good time to change the subject.

"I'm forced to wonder, Mrs. Ludecke. Why a two-week wait before you hand over the container? Frankly I'd hoped to have it in my hands today or tomorrow."

"I'm considering another offer."

Lightborne grinned, a nervous reflex.

"Lovely," he said. "All this talk about being so eager to get rid of it. That's wonderful."

"I had to allow the other party some time. The other party asked for time. It was common courtesy."

"Common courtesy, that's wonderful. I'm always charmed by alliteration. The child in me."

She seemed amused by her own bold tactics. Caught in the midst of all these vortical energies, she'd found, at least for the moment, an approximation of calm, or perhaps it was objectivity, a view of herself uninfluenced by tragic emotion.

"It was funny about Heinz's cousin," she said. "Heinz said that people in the British camp asked his cousin over and over and over again: 'What was Hitler really like?'"

Selvy sat on the roof of his building, eating a peach. There was a warm breeze from the west, where the sun hung on a tremulous rim, all ruddle and blood. When the metal door began swinging open, twenty yards away, he moved the peach to his left hand. It was Lomax, in his polyester knit trousers and white belt and shoes, trailed by three kids who lived in the building.

"How do I get rid of them?"

They followed him to the ledge where Selvy sat.

"What you supposed to be doing here?" one kid said.

"This ours, white."

The smallest kid rubbed his sneaker against the side of Lomax's shoe, scuffing it slightly.

"They followed me up four flights," Lomax said.

"The limo's been stripped by now," Selvy told him. "Your driver's long gone."

"I came in a cab."

"What is it, unofficial visit?"

"How long have you lived here? Have you lived here all this time? Why don't you live where everybody else lives?"

All this time the kids had been crowding around Lomax, baiting him, ridiculing his clothes. Selvy noticed he was sweating, really irritated. The small one scuffed his other shoe. Selvy watched him clench his fists. He was very tense. He didn't know what to do.

"It getting dark, white."

"You're being where you don't live, man, and it getting dark."

"Pizz on you, white."

The small one scuffed his shoe again. One of the others ran his hand along the top of the ledge, coming away with ash and tar. He moved in now, feinting with the other hand, then reaching out to smudge Lomax's tartan slacks, a move half aggressive, half defensive, the kid drawing away quickly, his action comically stylized, head bobbing. Lomax pulled a Walther automatic out of the waistband holster under his jacket. He was shouting, waving the gun in their faces. They backed off slowly, eyes white in the dimness. The small one chewed gum. They didn't know whether to be impressed or scared. They seemed to believe Lomax. He was riled enough to start shooting. As they got close to the door they relaxed a little. A trace of swagger crept back into their style. They went through the door strutting a little, shaking their asses.

Lomax was still shouting, calling them names. Selvy watched him holster the gun, his hand trembling a bit. He quieted down finally and took out a handkerchief and spat into it a few times. Then he put his right foot up on the ledge and began cleaning the scuff marks off his shoe. Selvy finished eating and tossed the peach pit over his shoulder into the air shaft.

On the 8:13 heading back to Grand Central, Lightborne considered two aspects of the situation. First, whoever held the footage had to contend with an element of danger. Second, Christoph Ludecke tried to sell the thing outright-half payment up front-without allowing the buyers an advance screening. Aside from being naïve, this attempt indicated that the movie wasn't quite the commodity it was rumored to be. Ludecke wanted to get what he could and disappear. It also indicated there were huge sums involved.

A little later that evening Lightborne's phone rang. The man at the other end didn't identify himself by name.

"You're acquainted with Glen Selvy."

"Yes," Lightborne said.

"He's been acting as my representative."

"You collect."

"That's right," the man said. "And Glen told me recently you might have an unusual item to offer."

"Certain commitments have been made."

"But the matter hasn't actually been settled."

"Depends on interpretation," Lightborne said.

"I gather the widow is proving difficult. She and I have talked. My problem is that I'm not in a position to verify the item's value. I need someone to handle details. Of course if you're already acting on behalf of another collector, we've got nothing to discuss."

"It might be I could work something out," Lightborne said. "How do I reach you?"

"You don't."

"Why not let Selvy handle it?"

"I don't know where he is. He hasn't shown his face for days. Doesn't answer his phone."

"Well, then."

"She wants to hear from me."

"There's the matter of my own fee," Lightborne said. "I'm happy to mediate, to bring people together, to work out touchy details. But this is turning into an operation where the utmost delicacy is required. The risks involved are considerably more than I'm normally willing to expose myself to."

"You want adequate recompense."

As they bandied vague phrases, Lightborne realized why the voice at the other end sounded so neutral, so free of cadence, ornament or regional flavor. The man had been trying all along to disguise it. Lightborne was tempted to point out that he'd always had a pretty fair idea as to the identity of Selvy's principal. It was a small world, smut, and even those who spent time in the more affluent haunts were sooner or later known to all the rest, the marginal drudges, eking out their mean existence.

"History is so comforting," he told the man. "Isn't this why people collect? To own a fragment of the tangible past. Life is fleeting, and we seek consolation in durable things."

This was Lightborne's speech to new collectors. Whether or not it applied to such an object as a ribbon of film was a question that didn't engage his interest right now.

"Pretty sunset," Lomax said.

"Isn't it, yes."

"Why don't you live where everybody else lives?"

"Get to the point."

Lomax offered him a cigarette.

"You're being referred to as the subject."

"An adjustment's in progress then."

"They want to adjust, definitely."

"Frankie's Tropical Bar."

"Right," Lomax said. "Someone from out of town. Some jerk-off. You parked one in his vest, case you didn't know."

"The weapon was firing _him_."

"Right, that's right, a regular jerk-off."

"Why is it felt, Lomax, that I rank as a subject?"

"Call me by my first name."

"I don't know your first name."

"Arthur."

"What's behind the adjustment?" Selvy said.

"You first of all made an arrangement with Ludecke's widow. You and she are trying to market the Berlin film together."

"Joke."

"Her house was miked. You deactivated the damn thing. It was felt in some quarters this was highly incriminating."

"It never occurred to me, frankly, it was one of our devices. No reason I know of for us to be listening. If we're listening, Arthur, why don't I know about it? Find a bug, you ought to squash it."

"It wasn't appreciated, tampering with audio surveillance. The feeling in this outfit concerning devices of any kind is close to religious. You ought to know that."

"What else?" Selvy said.