kept the nails on his fingers longer than they should be. He was an illusion, but the illusion worked.
"You wanted me," Paine said from the doorway, to Barker's back.
"I don't want you," Barker said from behind his chair. "I sent for you."
A thin plume of ochre smoke rose from Barker's Dunhill cigarette, and finally Paine went all the way in.
He walked past the dark green plants, perfectly kept by Margie; the bookcases with leather volumes that had never been touched, the cases jutting out far into the room to make it seem claustrophobic on the visitor's side though in fact the place was huge. Music played softly through hidden speakers —Rachmaninoff, a piano sparring with a full orchestra, strangely muted by the lowness of the volume. A chair was left in the pathway, deliberately, so that the visitor had to step around it, coming close to Barker's high-backed lounge chair and desk but not touching it.
Paine negotiated these obstacles and stood finally on the other side of the desk, in the light from the window. "What do you want?" Paine said, standing.
"Sit," Barker said.
Paine sat down in the low chair, and Barker loomed judiciously in front of him.
"How many cases do you have at the moment?" Barker said.
"Just this Grumbach business."
"Just what is it you do around here?" Barker inquired mildly. His hand was cocked at an angle, holding his thin cigarette so that the smoke went up at just the right angle away from his face, as if he was posing.
"What is it you wanted?" Paine answered.
"Didn't you hear my question?" Barker said. "I asked: Just what is it you do around here?"
"I work for you," Paine replied evenly. "I work in your freak show."
Barker leaned back into the softness of the chair and put his cigarette into his mouth. He drew on it slowly, said nothing.
"How old are you?" he asked finally.
Paine sighed. "Thirty-six."
"How long would you have been on the police force if you weren't here now?"
Despite rising anger, Paine began to count years in his head.
Barker answered for him: "Fourteen years. Six more and you would have been up for retirement. Here's another question. What would you be doing if you were not working for me?"
Paine was silent.
"Come on now," Barker said, waving his cigarette in front of him. "Give me an answer."
"I'd be cleaning your toilets."
A moment went by, and then Barker began to laugh. The cultivated titter he usually affected was overcome by great bursts of throaty noise. It was the kind of laughter a rude man in an audience makes when a juggler drops one of his tenpins. Barker leaned forward, his hand on his chest; he was wheezing with laughter. He put his delicate hands on the desk before him to steady himself. Eventually, his face relaxed.
"Thank you," he said, leaning back, "for saying what I'd hoped you would."
Paine started to get up.
"Sit down, Paine," Barker said.
Despite his anger, Paine released the hand rests and sat back down.
"I don't like you at all," Barker said. "In many ways, you're the biggest loser I've ever taken on. A failed police career, failing marriage, in and out of alcohol treatment centers and psychological counseling." Barker held up a manicured finger, searching for the phrase he wanted. "And yet here you are, working for me, because no one else will have you. Isn't that marvelous?"
Paine said, "I don't like it much, either."
Barker smiled, threatening to break into his laugh again. "Paine, I couldn't care less if you like me or not. To me you're just another of my—"
"Cripples?" There was something hot inside Paine that wanted to boil out. But that was what Barker wanted. With effort Paine let the moment of heat pass.
"Perhaps one day you'll clean my toilets," Barker said, swiveling his chair toward the invisible speakers that were now bringing the Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concerto to a muted halt, "but now you do other things for me. While you were playing with Jimmy Carnaseca I took a telephone call of yours, from a
"You wanted me," Paine said from the doorway, to Barker's back.
"I don't want you," Barker said from behind his chair. "I sent for you."
A thin plume of ochre smoke rose from Barker's Dunhill cigarette, and finally Paine went all the way in.
He walked past the dark green plants, perfectly kept by Margie; the bookcases with leather volumes that had never been touched, the cases jutting out far into the room to make it seem claustrophobic on the visitor's side though in fact the place was huge. Music played softly through hidden speakers —Rachmaninoff, a piano sparring with a full orchestra, strangely muted by the lowness of the volume. A chair was left in the pathway, deliberately, so that the visitor had to step around it, coming close to Barker's high-backed lounge chair and desk but not touching it.
Paine negotiated these obstacles and stood finally on the other side of the desk, in the light from the window. "What do you want?" Paine said, standing.
"Sit," Barker said.
Paine sat down in the low chair, and Barker loomed judiciously in front of him.
"How many cases do you have at the moment?" Barker said.
"Just this Grumbach business."
"Just what is it you do around here?" Barker inquired mildly. His hand was cocked at an angle, holding his thin cigarette so that the smoke went up at just the right angle away from his face, as if he was posing.
"What is it you wanted?" Paine answered.
"Didn't you hear my question?" Barker said. "I asked: Just what is it you do around here?"
"I work for you," Paine replied evenly. "I work in your freak show."
Barker leaned back into the softness of the chair and put his cigarette into his mouth. He drew on it slowly, said nothing.
"How old are you?" he asked finally.
Paine sighed. "Thirty-six."
"How long would you have been on the police force if you weren't here now?"
Despite rising anger, Paine began to count years in his head.
Barker answered for him: "Fourteen years. Six more and you would have been up for retirement. Here's another question. What would you be doing if you were not working for me?"
Paine was silent.
"Come on now," Barker said, waving his cigarette in front of him. "Give me an answer."
"I'd be cleaning your toilets."
A moment went by, and then Barker began to laugh. The cultivated titter he usually affected was overcome by great bursts of throaty noise. It was the kind of laughter a rude man in an audience makes when a juggler drops one of his tenpins. Barker leaned forward, his hand on his chest; he was wheezing with laughter. He put his delicate hands on the desk before him to steady himself. Eventually, his face relaxed.
"Thank you," he said, leaning back, "for saying what I'd hoped you would."
Paine started to get up.
"Sit down, Paine," Barker said.
Despite his anger, Paine released the hand rests and sat back down.
"I don't like you at all," Barker said. "In many ways, you're the biggest loser I've ever taken on. A failed police career, failing marriage, in and out of alcohol treatment centers and psychological counseling." Barker held up a manicured finger, searching for the phrase he wanted. "And yet here you are, working for me, because no one else will have you. Isn't that marvelous?"
Paine said, "I don't like it much, either."
Barker smiled, threatening to break into his laugh again. "Paine, I couldn't care less if you like me or not. To me you're just another of my—"
"Cripples?" There was something hot inside Paine that wanted to boil out. But that was what Barker wanted. With effort Paine let the moment of heat pass.
"Perhaps one day you'll clean my toilets," Barker said, swiveling his chair toward the invisible speakers that were now bringing the Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concerto to a muted halt, "but now you do other things for me. While you were playing with Jimmy Carnaseca I took a telephone call of yours, from a
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