9

When they arrived at the Coombses' apartment, there was no sign of Chad Lemming.

"He's in the bathroom," Beth said. "Taking a bath." The sound of running water could be heard. "He'll be out in a few minutes."

The apartment was a single huge room with a grand piano at one end, two tiny bedrooms, and a kitchen no larger than a pea. The bathroom, in which Lemming was contained, was across the hall; it was a community bathroom, shared with the family downstairs. The walls of the apartment were spotted with prints, mostly by Theotocopuli and Gauguin. The floor, except at the extreme edges, was covered by a gray-green mat of woven fiber. The curtains were burlap.

"Are you an artist?" Mary Anne asked Beth.

"No. But I used to be."

"Why'd you stop?"

Glancing at Coombs, Beth strolled into the kitchen and started fixing drinks. "I got more interested in music," she answered. "What do you want to drink?"

"Bourbon and water," Nitz said, prowling around. "If you have some."

"How about you?" she asked Mary Anne.

"Anything's okay."

Four bourbons and water were brought out; each of them took his awkwardly. Beth had tossed off her coat; now her figure emerged, mature and expanded. She wore a T-shirt and slacks. Seeing her, Mary Anne reflected on her own small bust. She wondered how old Beth was.

"How old are you?" she asked.

Beth's blue eyes widened with dismay. "Me? Twenty-nine."

Satisfied, Mary Anne dropped the subject. "Is this your piano?" She wandered over to the grand piano and plunked a few random notes. It was the first time she had ever touched a grand piano; the great blackness of it awed her. "How much do they cost?"

"Well," Beth said, a little amused, "you can pay up to eight thousand dollars for a Bosendorfer."

Mary Anne wondered what a Bosendorfer was, but she said nothing. Nodding, she approached one of the wall prints and scrutinized it. Suddenly from the hall came a swirl of motion; Chad Lemming, having completed his bath, was returning.

Lemming, a slender young fellow, dashed through the living room in a flapping cotton robe and vanished into the bedroom. "I'll be directly out," he fluttered. "I won't be long." He sounded, to Mary Anne, like a fairy. She resumed her examination of the print.

"Listen, Mary," Nitz said, close beside her. Beth and Danny Coombs were following Lemming into the bedroom, telling him at length what to sing. "Stop sticking nails in yourself. It's not worth it."

At first she couldn't imagine what he meant.

"Carleton Tweany," he said, "is a conceited posturer. You've been at his house; you've seen his jars of hair oil and his silk shirts. And his cravats. Those cravats."

Very thinly Mary Anne said: "You're jealous of him because he's big and you're a tiny-man."

"I'm no tiny-man, and I'm telling you the truth. He's stupid; he's snobbish; he's a fake."

Mary Anne floundered. "You don't understand him."

"Why? Because I haven't slept with him? I've done everything else; I've been up close to his soul."

"How?"

"By accompanying his 'Many Brave Hearts,' that's how." Wavering, Mary Anne said: "He's a great singer. No, you don't think so." She shook her head. "Let's drop it."

"Mary Anne," Nitz said, "you're a hell of a sweet person. You realize that?"

"Thank you."

"Take your pal, that punk who chauffeurs you around. Dave something."

"Dave Gordon."

"Re-create him along useful lines. He's basically sound, just too young."

"He's dumb."

"You're way ahead of your pals ... that's one of your troubles. You're too old for them. And you're so darn young it's pitiful."

She glared at him. "Keep your opinions to yourself."

"Nobody can tell you anything." He rumpled her hair, and she jerked away. "You're too smart for Tweany. And you're too good for all of us. I wonder who'll finally snare you ... not me, I guess. Not very likely. You'll wind up with some donkey, some hulking pillar of bourgeois respectability you can admire and have faith in. Why can't you have faith in yourself?"

"Lay off, Paul. Please."

"Are you even listening?"

"I can hear you; don't shout."

"You're listening with your ears only. You don't even see me standing here, do you?" Befuddled, Nitz rubbed his forehead.

"Forget it, Mary. I feel tired and sick and I don't make sense." Beth rushed over to them, bright-eyed and excited, breasts wagging. "Chad is going to sing! Everybody shut up and listen!"

...

The young man had now emerged. His hair was crew-cut; he wore horn-rimmed glasses; a bow tie dangled under his protruding Adam's apple. Beaming at the people, he picked up his guitar and began his monologue and song.

"Well, folks," he said cheerily, "I guess you read in the papers a while back about the President going to balance the budget. Well, here's a little song about it I figured you might enjoy." And, with a few strums at his guitar, he was off.

Listening absently, Mary Anne roamed about the room, examining prints and furnishings. The song, in a bright metallic way, glittered out over everything, spilling into everyone's ears. A few phrases reached her, but the main drift of the lyrics was lost. She did not particularly care; she was uninterested in Congress and taxes. She had never seen anybody like Chad Lemming and the impression of him dulled against the closedness of her mind ... she had her own problems.

The next ballad came almost at once. Now he was bleating about old-age pensions. That was followed by a spirited ditty about the FBI, then one about genetics, and finally an involved, rollicking jingle concerning the H-bomb.

"... And if Mao Tse-tung makes trouble we will blow the world to rubble ... "

Irritably, she wondered who cared about Mao Tse-tung. Who was he; wasn't he head of Communist China?

"... I'll be lying in the ruin while disarmament is brewin'..."

Closing her ears against the racket, she wandered entirely out of the living room, into one of the gloomy bedrooms. Sitting on the edge of the bed-Beth's bed, from the looks of it-she prepared to endure the remainder of Lemming's routine. The title of the song, announced with much elaboration and fanfare, still dinned in her ears.

"What This Country Needs Is a Good Five-Cent H-bomb."

It failed to make sense. It had no meaning. Her mind reverted, instead, to prior thoughts. To the strong, dark presence of Carleton Tweany; and, drifting behind it, memories of the incident at the music shop, the large old man in his tweed suit. First striding about with his silver cane ... then the pressure of his fingers as he took hold of her arm.

Gradually she became aware that the singing had died. Guiltily, she climbed to her feet and found her way back into the living room. Beth had disappeared into the kitchen for more drinks; Danny Coombs was off sulking in the corner, leaving Nitz and Lemming together.

"Who writes your stuff?" Nitz was asking.

"I do," Lemming said shyly. Now that he wasn't immersed in his act, he seemed to be a tame college freshman in a sports coat and slacks. Setting down his guitar, he removed his glasses and polished them on his sleeve. "I tried to do gag writing down in L.A., but I didn't click. They said I wasn't commercial. Apparently my material was too pointed."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"That old? You don't look that old."

Lemming laughed. "I graduated from Cal back in '48, in chemistry. For a while I worked up at the Project-" He explained: "The radiation lab. I could still work there, I guess. They never took away my clearance. But I prefer to keep moving around ... I guess I never grew up."