Don DeLillo - Great Jones Street

"I've got problems right now that don't have anything to do with you or Hanes or the universe."

"I want to end this phase of my career with a technical and merchandising feat that goes beyond the legendary. You and I, friend, are the only two people in positions of trust. Once the product is returned, we'll go into deep consultation. Where there's money to be made and legends to be created, I don't leave anything to chance and it strikes me as boding well for the future of our partnership that you've been wooed by other agencies of the underground without releasing the product. But accept a word of caution. This operation is fraught with danger. Bohack is not a man to be trifled with. He's an edgy gent with all kinds of deliveries. Some reasonable. Some not so."

"Who the hell is Bohack?"

"Pffff."

"What?" I said.

"He laughed," Menefee said. "That's the way he laughs. Pffff. Pffff-pffff. It took me months before I caught on. For months I thought he was blowing loose threads off my shirt."

In his toxic glee Menefee repeatedly bumped his chin on the edge of the table. Finally he told me that Bohack was the name of the man who commanded one of Happy Valley's two camps. As both men rose I heard the pneumatic drill jabbing into stone. Then Dr. Pepper took a pair of glasses from the inside pocket of his suit coat. With a disposable tissue he rubbed the lenses, held them to the light and then carefully fitted the glasses over his ears and nose. They were dark glasses with heavy black frames. A touch of comic paranoia, I thought. One disguise covering another. The touring clown doubly self-effaced.

Opel and I made love once in the anechoic chamber in the mountains. I thought of this as I lay in bed, unable to sleep. What were we like then, in that time and space, unburdened of the weight of outer sound? We were like angels harboring each other in the notion of desireless-ness, dazed in our acquiescence to this drift through subatomic matter. The love of minds should last beyond lives. Maybe it does, each mind a dice-toss of neutron stars, invisible except to theory, pulling at cold space to find its lover. Opel never returned to the chamber because the wedge-shaped baffles made her think of bats hanging in a cave.

I took the number of steps necessary to get from the bed to the door. No one was there. I picked up a magazine and tried to read a column of print, getting to the second line before I had to stop because of the pressure behind my eyes. Molten water dripped from the pipe connected to the radiator, bleaching the wood floor. It was almost daylight, snow on the way, the phone squatting on the stacked phone books, the firemen breathing in the firehouse. I went to the door again. A young black woman stood in the hall, legs well apart, hands on hips. She was arrayed in burnishings and pleated streaks, and there was a trim glitter about her, a commercial grace, evident in the seamless way she shifted weight to orchestrate a sort of stylish body violence. I stood there in old shorts and dirty toenails. Azarian came up the stairs then. We went inside, where he took a chair and I got into bed. The woman remained in the open doorway. For the first time in three days I felt it was possible to sleep.

"The group broke up," Azarian said. "As a group we no longer exist. We officially broke up."

"Who's the nice lady?"

"Security," he said. "Her name's Epiphany Powell. Maybe you've heard of her. She used to sing, she used to model, she used to act. Now she's doing security. The group broke up. We no longer exist as a group. Of course there wasn't any real hope once you left. Still and all it's frightening. Nobody was really prepared for it. But it happened. We no longer exist in the old sense."

"As of when?"

"I heard it on the radio coming in from the airport. When I left L.A., things were still in flux. Nothing was decided to the point where we could come out and say we've reached a decision. But I guess we broke up because I heard it on the radio. It sounded pretty official. Who has final word in these matters?"

"The radio," I said.

"A lot of it was my doing," he said. "I got heavily involved in black music. Not performing or producing. Just listening. That old showcase stuff with everybody in shiny clothes and pomaded hair. Brushed drums, piano, sax breaks. 'Baby don't you know that I love you so.' I'm into that sound, Bucky, and I can't get out. After all these years I realize that's the only sound I really love. So I neglected the band and now we no longer exist as a group. The little dance routines they do. Hands flashing out, feet gliding, bodies whirling so smoothly. Romantic soul music done by immortal groups. The Infatuations. The Tailfins. The Splendifics. 'It's a hurtin' pain you give me, babe, but I'm fightin' for my love.' It's all love and sorrow, Bucky, and it just about destroys me emotionally. The crude dumb emotion, it's so incredibly beautiful. Sorrowful ballads with occasional falsetto passages. And even when I'm just listening to records I can see them moving on stage, doing the little whirls and gliding steps, flashing out their hands. Shiny bright hair. Custom tuxedos. Fantastic teeth and fingernails. And the cheap emotion behind the lyrics just wrecks me. The Motelles. The Vanities. The Willows. The Renditions. The Flairs. Nate Pearce and the Hydromatics. 'Baby can't you see how you're upsettin' me, shoo-eee, shoo-eee.' Everything is there, Bucky. There's nothing else I want or need."

"Where's Globke? Have any idea?"

"We haven't been in touch at all. Globke? Not at all."

"Where's Hanes?" I said.

"I never talk to Hanes. Globke's office boy? I never talk to him."

"I'm almost ready to make a move. But I need a certain item."

"Bucky, the people I front for are a business-oriented group. They know how to handle the item in question. They're not a bunch of knife-wielding dope fiends. They don't stockpile explosives. They're a force in the community. They're known on the street and they're known in the smoke-filled rooms and the corner offices."

"But are they known in the ladies' lounge? Are they known in the organ lofts and the prehistoric caves?"

"You said you're ready to make a move. Move into what?"

"The claustrophobia of vast spaces. Noise, echoes, noise. Not knowing which is which. People flaming out in the four-dollar seats."

"Are you afraid?"

"It's the only thing to do," I said. "Absolutely necessary to make the move. I'm betraying an idea I only half understand. But it's necessary. I'm betraying this room and these objects. But it has to be done. In that sense I'm afraid. I feel immense and heavy. I feel as though I'm being towed out of a hangar."

"There's nothing more frightening than the immensity and weight of blackness," Azarian said. "It's just so incredibly heavy. Getting into it is like sinking into tons of funky cement in order to arrive at some historical point where you can see who you are and who they are and how you've been historicized by the journey. Blackness has a hard firm smell all its own. It's like walking into a room in one of the Arab nations and all these guys in burnooses and sandals are standing around in the dimness and they're all smoking hashish and saying things you don't understand and everything smells of hash and unfamiliar feet and the tremendous intense weight of strange centuries. Centuries we never experienced. I don't know how I can make you feel the weight and heaviness. The smell that's both metallic and organic. The slowness of everything. The indifference of the black experience to the person who's trying to seek it out. It's the weightiest of all trips. I guarantee you. It's intense beyond belief. It's harder than the hardest drugs."

"The product isn't here. I don't know where it is. Happy Valley doesn't know where it is either. There's no business to be done."