Don DeLillo - Running Dog

1) A gut-hook skinning knife.

2) A fillet knife with a rosewood handle.

3) An Arkansas toothpick with a buffalo-horn handle.

4) A bowie weighing fifty-one ounces, with a ten-inch blade, scalloped butt cap and brass collar.

5) A throwing knife, minus handle.

6) A hunter with a cholla cactus handle.

7) A hunter with a dropped-point blade and a stag handle.

8) A boot knife with an ivory handle.

9) A stiletto.

10) A palm dagger.

11) An English-style bowie in a strictly decorative buckskin sheath.

12) A survival model with a hollow steel handle to accommodate codeine pills and water-purifying tablets.

13) A combat knife with a mahogany handle.

14) A combat knife with a brass guard and a five-inch blade.

15) A combat knife, walnut handle, set in a leather sheath.

16) A combat knife with a double-edged point and a seven-inch blade.

17) A combat knife with a double-edged point and an eight-inch blade.

The coffee table was new, inset with a plexiglass terrarium full of dwarf trees and shrubs. Grace Delaney talked into the phone, girlishly twirling the cord with her free hand. Eventually she went into her swivel routine, ending up facing the window. She hadn't yet poured skin cream on her hands, so Moll stayed put, studying the bonsai, marveling at the other woman's ability to produce convincingly intimate laughter.

Grace turned toward her, placing the phone in its cradle.

"We were saying."

"You miss a sense of solid footing."

"Moll, a single unnamed source."

"We go with that all the time. That's why Percival handed me the story. We're totally irresponsible. He knows it gets picked up elsewhere once we run it."

"We ain't running it, swee' pea. It's essentially a blind item, the way you've written the thing. It's couched in the most excruciatingly vague terms."

"I use names," Moll said. "I name Mudger. I name Radial Matrix."

"It's convoluted and tricky and elusive beyond anyone's ability to salvage. It's a ten-thousand-word blind item. Clunk. It goes down like pig iron."

"What do you want changed?"

"I told you, it's unsalvageable. We can't build this elaborate dream structure using a single unnamed source who's already told you he denies everything in advance. The Senator's intent on moving you off his collection. That's about the only basis this story seems to have."

"He doesn't know I'm _on_ to his collection."

"Knucklehead, of course he knows."

"Grace, goddamn."

"Want some coffee?"

"No."

Delaney opened a desk drawer and gestured questioningly.

"Okay," Moll said. "What is it?"

"Vodka."

"Okay."

She took the silver flask and drank.

"He knows, Moll. Of course he knows. He's got resources. He's got people all over the place. He's a fucking senator, isn't he?"

"I don't like these plants."

"Don't be stupid. They're beautiful."

"Too carefully sculptured. They don't look real."

"Go do your sex piece," Delaney said. "That was the original idea, wasn't it?"

"It's what led me precisely to the thing I ended up doing."

"Time's awastin', Moll."

"We've gone with riskier things."

Delaney reached for the hand lotion. Her secretary came in, a middle-aged woman named Bess Harris. Moll gave her the flask as she went by, and she put it on the desk. Grace picked it up and drank.

"Want to hear my theory?" she said. "This is my world view. What the whole thing's about, ultimately. Lloyd Percival and Earl Mudger and you and me and Bess and all of us. The bottom line."

"Go ahead," Moll said.

"All men are criminals. All women are Mafia wives."

"Stupid. Very stupid."

"I was married to the same man for eleven years. I did his bidding. Not fully realizing. His _silent_ bidding. Somehow, mysteriously, unspokenly. It's built into the air between us. It's carried on radio waves from galaxy to galaxy."

Bess Harris drank from the flask.

"Not for a minute," Moll said. "I don't believe word one.

"I'm a Mafia wife."

"Grace, shut up."

Delaney took the flask from her secretary and drank.

"The ultimate genius of men. Do you care to know what it is? Men _want_. Women just hang around. Women think they're steaming along on a tremendous career, toot toot. Nothing. Nowhere, I'm telling you. Men _want_. Bam, crash, pow. The impact, good Christ. Men want so badly. It makes us feel a little spacey, a little dizzy. What are _we_ next to this great want, this universal bloodsucking need of theirs? Bess, get the hell out of here. What are you doing here?"

"It doesn't reach me," Moll said.

"I have been backed into so many bloody corners, it's reached the point where I just react automatically. I am so tired. I am so up against it. Barn. I am so old. You wouldn't believe."

"You're not reaching me."

"They're crazy. That's their secondary genius. They're totally, rampagingly insane. Examine it. Really think. They're nuts."

"Who are you talking to?" Moll said.

"And we're their wives. We live with them."

"Because you're not talking to me."

"Examine it. Your own life. Dig really deep. It's there. One way or another, it's their game you play. Just so you know that. Just so you don't believe otherwise. Because forget it, you're not your daddy's little girl anymore."

"I know, Grace. The radio waves. The galaxies."

"Think it out. Dig down."

"Give me the flask, Grace."

"I am so old and tired."

"You won't go with the piece," Moll said. "Tell me so I can get out of here."

"I was against your idea about Percival's collection for the reasons I pointed out to you. Whatever they were. Lack of design, of political implications. This is a different issue, granted, this piece here, because there is design, there _are_ implications, there _is_ a web of sorts, a series of interconnections. But I can't and won't run it."

"Because you're old and tired," Moll said.

"Because it's too shaky. Too iffy. Not enough footing. I do miss that. A sense of solid footing."

"Thank you."

"Are we still friends?" Grace said.

Moll took a cab to the magazine's West Side office, where her own cubicle was located. She went to work reediting a piece written by a professor of Eastern European studies. He asserted that Russian parapsychologists, at the prodding of the KGB, were close to perfecting a system of assassination by mental telepathy. Moll, actually, didn't doubt it. She started playing with titles as the phone rang.

"Your old lemonade-drinking buddy."

"Who?"

"Earl Mudger."

"What do you want?"

"I'm heading your way."

"That so?"

"To do a little business. And I wonder if maybe you and I can get together and finish our talk."

"Weren't we finished?"

"Tell you what, I didn't think we'd hardly begun."

"Call me," she said.

"I'm thinking next Tuesday's probably when I'll be there. That sound about right?"

"Call me."

What you couldn't get from the printed page, the news clipping or court transcript, was the force of someone's immediate presence, the effect it had, someone's voice, mannerisms, the physical element, the eyes and body. Grace Delaney, for instance. Her eyes, her inflections, the way she'd moved in her chair as she was speaking. These told Moll there was a hidden reason why she didn't want to run the piece on Radial Matrix. Glen Selvy in long johns, his crooked mouth and frozen gray eyes. Mudger's blue eyes. Earl Mudger's voice talking about Lomax and Senator Percival, the fact that the former is the latter's chief source of select information, in a blacksmith's apron, his high shoulders, the twist in the bridge of his nose. Mudger's voice on the subject of his zoo in Vietnam. Mudger's eyes glancing at the old lady setting lemonade on their table, white wicker, the Shetland ponies grazing. Eyes, bodies, voices. The personal force. It's never the voice that tells the lies. Beware of personality. Dynamic temperament, beware.