Don Delillo - Players

"Correct," McKechnie said.

"About that call I wanted you to make. It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have asked. Everything's taken care of.”

"Don't tell me about it.”

"It's all okay. Nothing to tell. Finito.”

"Because I can't give it my undivided attention, Lyle, you know?”

"It's a religious matter, Frank. Uttering certain words, the names of certain people. It's a deeply personal thing.”

"Whatever you're talking about, I agree.”

"It touches a nerve in the darkest places.”

Already Kinnear seemed very distant in time and space. Lyle's two visits to the gray frame house were spots of fog now, half myth, the living room and yard, die basement arsenal. It was as though he'd overheard descriptions of these areas, never having been there, physically, himself, scratching his ribs, a little dry in the throat. He searched his memory for details of place, a sense of texture and dimension. There wasn't much more than soft-footed Kinnear, his perfect little features and grained hair. Friendly crinkles when he smiled. His voice, mature and professional: two credits, noncompul-sory. It was reducing itself, the whole series of events, his own participation, to this one element, J.'s voice, the carrier waves relaying it from some remote location.

He called again that night. When the phone rang Lyle knew at once it was J. and felt deeply relieved, as if he'd feared being abandoned to Marina and Burks, to the blunter categories of reality. Kinnear, speaking without inflection, wasting not a breath, reminded Lyle that he'd given him a phone number to use only at his, Kinnear's, specific instruction. This was to be taken as such instruction and he asked Lyle to make the call from a public phone booth, using whatever precautions seemed advisable. Before hanging up, he added that the three-digit number on the telegram Lyle had received was the area code, digits reversed.

Lyle changed clothes, not knowing quite why. He took a cab, then walked several blocks to Grand Central. He got four dollars' worth of silver and stepped into a booth.

"I think we're operational.”

"Which means?”

"A two- or three-day holiday, if you can manage.”

"Starting when?" Lyle said.

"Day after tomorrow.”

"No problem.”

"Figure thirty-five hundred dollars.”

"What form?”

"There's no limit to the amount of cash you can take across the border.”

"I talked to Burks again. Burks isn't all that interested anymore. It makes sense, J. They had an informer and they lost him. They have no reason to be sending dogs.”

"It's my ass," Kinnear said.

"Marina, I don't think Marina's capable of finding you. She's got all she can do to get somebody to put together a thing that'll make a noise when they light it.”

"Lyle, it's my ass.”

"True.”

"She's capable. Marina's capable. The secret police know my name. They know my background. They'd very much like to chat is my impression.”

"I seriously question.”

"Are we operational or not?”

"But it's your ass.”

"Exactly.”

"So how do we do it?”

"Figure thirty-five hundred buys me documents, travel, necessities of life for a while.”

"You're not staying.”

"Only as long as it takes to buy some paper. The requisite name and numbers. Ever travel by freighter?”

"Then what?”

"For a scuffler like me?”

"You'll be back, I guarantee it.”

"Could be, Lyle.”

"Burks talked about New Orleans.”

"See, told you, they know.”

"Not very much, J.”

"They spent time on me, those people. They know who and how to scratch, they really do. Goddamn, they mentioned New Orleans, did they? That was how many years ago. Lifetimes is more like it.”

"Burks said something interesting.”

"What did he say?”

"He said Oswald.”

"Did he now?”

"He said Cuba, stolen papers, I don't know." "They're good," Kinnear said. "They spend time." "Was Burks saying you knew Oswald before Dallas?" "Lyle, chrissake, everybody knew Oswald before Dallas." They both laughed. Lyle turned toward the row of facing booths. Only one was occupied, this by a black woman, middle-aged, in a polka-dot dress.

"Maybe we can talk about it some more." "Concerning the money, Lyle, I don't know if I'll be able to pay you back." "No problem.”

"Is it a problem? Because if it is, Lyle." "Forget.”

"I shaved it down to the absolute bone. That's the sheer minimum I'll need to get clear of here. Not a dime extra.”

They made arrangements. Lyle stepped out of the booth and headed down Lexington. It was late. A car turned toward him as he moved off the curb. The driver braked, a man in his thirties, sitting forward a bit, head tilted toward Lyle, inquisitively, one hand between his thighs, bunching up fabric and everything beneath it. Clearly a presentation was being made. Lyle, who was standing directly under a streetlight, averted his eyes, looking out over the top of the car as if at some compelling sight in a third-story window across the street, until finally the man drove off.

Pammy stepped onto the deck. Ethan was still trying to clear his throat, standing at the rail with a mug of coffee. It was bright and warm, already past noon. Jack was at the other end, stacking firewood. Nasal cavities, sinus membranes. She went inside, poured a cup of coffee and returned to the deck, sitting on the rail, head back, her face on a nearly inclined plane.

"But don't you love it?" Jack said. "Every morning it goes on. The exact same thing. As though nobody else was around. Gagging, hawking, the retcher, Mr. Retch. You think he'd do something.”

"Get quick relief. Breathe easily, freely.”

"Anything, for God, I mean it's, this thing I listen to every morning, every morning, nonstop.”

"I like to hawk," Ethan said. "It's one of the last great hallmarks of a sensuous human presence on the planet. I like to expel phlegm.”

"It's like the subway, two in the morning, you get the pukers.”

"No, no.”

"You get the dry heavers.”

"Hawking is to puking as haiku is to roller derby.”

"How can you be talking in the morning?" Pammy said. "Making these things, similarities, analogies, right after getting up, ratios, regardless of how stupid. I can barely open my mouth to drink.”

"I like to feel the mucus come unstuck.”

She went inside and toasted some bread. Later she walked all the way to Deer Isle village, followed for a quarter of a mile by two large dogs, and bought some postcards and groceries. She was accompanied part of the way back by a girl on a bike, who answered each of Pammy's questions with one or two words before veering onto a bumpy path that led to a pleasant old house. Pammy realized she was smiling at the house, as she'd smiled earlier at the girl and before that at the dogs. She resolved to stop using this cheerful idiot squint.

"Where's Ethan?”

"Stonington, shopping.”

"I just shopped.”

"He wanted fish things.”

"I didn't see him drive past. I guess I was in the market.”

"What do you want to do?”

"The meadow?" she said.

"There's nothing to do.”

They walked along the beach. Jack was barefoot, treading lightly among the rocks, enduring a certain amount of furtive pain, hunched slightly, hands out away from his sides. He was a bit shorter than Pam, the strength in his shoulders and legs easy to discern in the tank top and denim shorts he wore. She followed him around a large projecting rock, trying to judge the slickness of particular stones as she progressed by tentative leaps from one to another, the tide washing by. They walked another hundred yards to a set of wooden stairs that led up to a broad field, the grass waist-high in places. There was a sign: PRIVATE. It was a pastured square, woods on three sides, the bay to the west. Pammy lay back, undoing her shirt. At this hour sunlight reached nearly every part of the meadow.