Don DeLillo - Running Dog

Sharpness: the sight of blood edging out of a cut in your thumb.

He climbed the back stairs to the kitchen and opened a can of beer, taking it with him up one more flight to the bedroom. He moved quietly past the cradle and looked at Tran Le curled in bed. Her face was touched pearl gray by a night light nearby. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, a Saigon bar girl at fourteen, leaning against a parked jeep eating an Almond Joy when he first set eyes on her eight years ago. He took off his shirt. When he sat on the edge of the bed, she turned toward him.

"Sleep," he said.

"Where Van is, Earl?"

"Out of town. With Cao."

"Business."

"They be back maybe tomorrow, next day. You sleep."

"Sleep," she said.

"Maybe Van come back with gift for his sister. This because Van know she such a good little wife. Earl tell Van. She is de sweetest little wife in de whole wide world."

Mudger's rudimentary speech often degenerated into stock Negro dialect, catching him unaware. All those recruits he'd trained and pained. The less power you have, the more dominance you maintain in secondary areas. Speech rhythms, foot speed, hair texture. He finished his beer sitting on the edge of the bed. He needed only a couple of hours sleep. Then he'd watch the sun come up.

The woman was young with a healthy reddish face, oval in shape, and large brown eyes. Her hair, center-parted, billowed evenly to either side. She wore an ordinary shift and sandals.

Selvy watched her walk to the outer office. The room was medium sized with a few vinyl chairs, a coffee table and a lamp constructed out of a football helmet. In a corner was a folding bed, doubled up, on casters.

"Stony, is this all?"

"What you see."

"They said two minimum."

"Man's been waiting."

"I'm kind of beat, frankly."

"Tell him a story, Nadine, Man's entitled."

"Being I'm new, I won't make waves. But ordinarily there'd be a tussle over this. Two's the minimum, Stony, and you know it."

"Do him a quickie, hon, and we'll all go home."

She sat across from Selvy. Her knees had a tender sheen. He liked shiny knees. He also liked her voice, a modified drawl. It took her a second or two to gear up to the introductory routine.

"Goes like this: you're allowed to pick one story out of the following three. More, you pay extra. Each story runs ten minutes, depending. Longer of course for activities. Okay. 'Flaming Panties.' 'The Valley of the Jolly Green Giant, Ho Ho Ho.' And the 'Story of Naomi and Lateef.' The second one's mostly gay, just so we get our preferences right."

"Wouldn't I want a man to tell it?"

"Look, who knows?"

"You're new here."

"My second full week and I'm ready to bow out. Quit while they still love you. How much did you give Stony?"

"Fifteen down."

"Just checking," she said. "You have to do that with horseplayers. Okay, pick one."

"I'll try 'Naomi and Lateef.'"

"You're only the second person to pick that. Most everybody picks 'Flaming Panties.' It's really sick, too. The mind that comes up with stuff like that."

"They're not your stories."

"I don't make them up. I just recite them."

"I thought they were your stories."

"If I made up 'Flaming Panties,' I don't know, I think I'd run a sword through my body. It is _the_ sickest."

Selvy heard the man in the outer office talking to someone. He seemed agitated, although the words weren't clearly audible through the closed door.

"If you get stimulated by the story, pay attention, you can give me an extra ten if you want, or an extra twenty, depending. We leave it up to customer preference. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said.

"That's just Stony making life hard for the kid who brings his sandwich."

Selvy nodded.

"The 'Story of Naomi and Lateef,'" she said, standing momentarily to unzip the shift down the back, then stepping out of it and sitting down again. She looked at him impatiently.

"What?" he said, "If you keep your clothes on, it means you're a cop."

"I see. I didn't realize."

"Nude storytelling, it says on the door."

"Everybody, that means."

"You're catching on," she said.

"There are some people I'm trying to avoid, more or less."

"We all get naked. If you don't, you're a cop. That's what they told me. I'm also supposed to say we recommend the twenty-dollar activity, which is the one we need the bed for. That goes in at the part we came to before."

"I've got a better idea."

"Of course if you're ashamed. We get all sorts. Maybe we can work out a compromise. I don't think a person ought to be forced to get undressed in front of a stranger. It's just everybody's so casual about their bodies."

"There are some people I'm trying to avoid. What say you and I go out and get something to eat. Come on, put on your dress, we'll go. Is there a back way?"

"Whoa, big fella."

"I'll take the twenty-dollar activity. Just not here, okay? We'll grab a bite, come on."

"Come, go; eat, sleep; dress, undress."

"Nadine. Is that your name?"

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"Never mind."

"You'll never reach twenty if you hang around here much longer. I'm your last chance."

"At least you're smiling. You'd better be smiling."

"Come on, we'll go to Little Rock."

"What a thing to say."

"Get your clothes on."

"My sister lives in Little Rock," she said.

Dressed, she led the way through a series of storerooms. They emerged in a larger room occupied by a woman wearing black boots, a long black military shirt and an iron cross hanging from her neck. The shirt included a red armband with a black swastika set inside a circular field of white. The woman sat smoking, her feet propped on the top rung of a small ladder.

"Passing through."

"You're the new one."

"Nadine Rademacher. Hi. How's business."

"Sucks," the woman said.

"Enjoy your break."

"Who's Johnny Lonesome?"

"Just a hanger-on," Nadine said. "Can't get rid of the kid."

In the corridor they passed the same man Selvy had seen earlier, standing in a different doorway this time.

"Photograph live nudes."

"Angelo, why don't you go home?" Nadine said.

"Busload of Japanese coming down from the Hilton."

At the top of the stairway Selvy asked Nadine to wait a moment. He followed the same route he'd taken after entering. Turning the corner into an empty hallway he palmed his.38 and held it flat against his thigh. Went past the window, the room full of novelties. Opened the black metal door. No one there. Stony's racing form on the desk. He walked through into the studio. Empty. He holstered the gun and went out to find Nadine.

The street was even more crowded than it had been. Apparently there'd been action. Squad cars, an ambulance, a TV crew. People made faces for the camera. Selvy scanned the crowd, then led Nadine along the front of the building and down a cross street to the nearest restaurant. It was a dark cellar, a steak place, and the waiter wore spats. Only two other tables were occupied. An extramarital affair at one. Judge Crater at the other.

"My drama teacher talked me off L.A.," Nadine said. "He kept saying New York. New York actors. Character actors. People with faces."

"He seemed to think faces were important, did he?"

"He kept saying faces. People with faces. He said I wouldn't learn anything in a place where there's just one basic face."

The waiter glided by.

"Kitchen's closing if you want to order."

The old man nearby, with long white stringy hair, sipped his complimentary cordial.

"So you're an actress," Selvy said.

"Aspiring."

"That place you work at."

"It was all a storage area. Is that what you mean? Why is it set up so everything's so hard to get to? They kept materials there. Books, rubber and leather, film equipment, editing equipment, everything. Then somebody in the organization decided to open it up to street trade, even though it's hidden away on the second and third floor. It's the accountants, Stony said. A tax matter. You're not a cop. We established that. Am I right?"