into and yet never emerge from alive.
Millman was supposedly having dinner downtown with a group of Japanese businessmen and therefore unreachable. I had no way of knowing if this was true. I suspected that Delius wanted to have Gabriel Hurt all to himself. As far as I was concerned, it was probably better that way. As when dealing with two-year-olds, I found that it was easier to handle the Delirium partners one at a time.
But when I pulled into the service drive on the west: side of the building, there was no sign of Bill Delius. Wretchedly certain that he was panicking in front of a distant door in some other part of the building, punched in the number of his cell phone. But before could press SEND, I spotted him in the shadows. He was sitting on the edge of a waist-high concrete planter. He was mopping at his brow with a handkerchief.
“Oh, no,” I groaned. Even from a distance I could see that he looked drunk. The couple of times I’d had dinner with them I’d noticed that Millman was a hard drinker of the old school, but I’d thought Delius didn’t drink alcohol at all. Obviously I’d been mistaken.
I got out of the car and crossed the concrete plaza toward him, wondering how on earth I was going to get him sobered up in time, when it occurred to me that instead of being drunk, he’d probably been mugged. The area south of the Loop around McCormack Place was the current hotbed of gentrification, but it was also still gang turf. That was the reason that conventioneers were funneled in and out of only a handful of entrances. It was also why the long lines of cars and unwieldy crowds sent convention veterans scrambling for alternate exits.
“Hey, Bill,” I said when I got close to him. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, Kate, it’s you,” he said. He sounded startled to find me there. As usual, he was dressed entirely in black. Indeed, every time I’d seen him, Bill Delius had been wearing exactly the same thing: black trousers, a black single-pocket T-shirt, and a black blazer. Even his shoes were invariably the same. When I’d asked him about it, he explained that whenever he found something that he liked, he stuck with it. As for his shoes, there was something of a story behind them. He’d initially bought the black canvas slip-ons because they were comfortable and cheap. But when he learned that Sears was planning to discontinue the style, he’d used the several thousand dollars he’d made as a graduate student—by selling his solution to Rubik’s Cube through a small ad in The New York Times —to buy every pair in his size that the retailer still had in stock. Shyly he’d confided that he had enough pairs left to last the rest of his life, with one pair set aside to be buried in.
As Bill Delius rose unsteadily to his feet he tried to stuff his handkerchief back into his pocket, but he kept on missing.
“Are you okay?” I inquired.
“Sure. Fine.”
“You don’t look so fine.”
“I’m okay, really. Something I ate at dinner didn’t agree with me, that’s all,” he complained. “I’m usually pretty strict about what I’ll eat, but tonight I was so excited, I’m afraid I threw caution to the wind.”
I was tempted to tell him that whatever he’d washed it down with probably hadn’t helped, but I held my tongue and helped him to his feet, taking him by the elbow and gently steering him in the direction of my car.
As we passed under the streetlight I couldn’t help but notice that his skin was not just pale, but a pasty shade of green—one that I’d had an opportunity to see quite a bit of in college, usually right before the one afflicted tossed their dinner. I slowed my pace, hoping that if he was going to throw up, he’d do it before he got into my car. We were almost to the door when he lunged for me. At first I thought it was an attempt at ardor, only clumsier and more blatant than the guys who’d hit on me while I played the pinball machine at Mother’s. But as soon as I
Millman was supposedly having dinner downtown with a group of Japanese businessmen and therefore unreachable. I had no way of knowing if this was true. I suspected that Delius wanted to have Gabriel Hurt all to himself. As far as I was concerned, it was probably better that way. As when dealing with two-year-olds, I found that it was easier to handle the Delirium partners one at a time.
But when I pulled into the service drive on the west: side of the building, there was no sign of Bill Delius. Wretchedly certain that he was panicking in front of a distant door in some other part of the building, punched in the number of his cell phone. But before could press SEND, I spotted him in the shadows. He was sitting on the edge of a waist-high concrete planter. He was mopping at his brow with a handkerchief.
“Oh, no,” I groaned. Even from a distance I could see that he looked drunk. The couple of times I’d had dinner with them I’d noticed that Millman was a hard drinker of the old school, but I’d thought Delius didn’t drink alcohol at all. Obviously I’d been mistaken.
I got out of the car and crossed the concrete plaza toward him, wondering how on earth I was going to get him sobered up in time, when it occurred to me that instead of being drunk, he’d probably been mugged. The area south of the Loop around McCormack Place was the current hotbed of gentrification, but it was also still gang turf. That was the reason that conventioneers were funneled in and out of only a handful of entrances. It was also why the long lines of cars and unwieldy crowds sent convention veterans scrambling for alternate exits.
“Hey, Bill,” I said when I got close to him. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, Kate, it’s you,” he said. He sounded startled to find me there. As usual, he was dressed entirely in black. Indeed, every time I’d seen him, Bill Delius had been wearing exactly the same thing: black trousers, a black single-pocket T-shirt, and a black blazer. Even his shoes were invariably the same. When I’d asked him about it, he explained that whenever he found something that he liked, he stuck with it. As for his shoes, there was something of a story behind them. He’d initially bought the black canvas slip-ons because they were comfortable and cheap. But when he learned that Sears was planning to discontinue the style, he’d used the several thousand dollars he’d made as a graduate student—by selling his solution to Rubik’s Cube through a small ad in The New York Times —to buy every pair in his size that the retailer still had in stock. Shyly he’d confided that he had enough pairs left to last the rest of his life, with one pair set aside to be buried in.
As Bill Delius rose unsteadily to his feet he tried to stuff his handkerchief back into his pocket, but he kept on missing.
“Are you okay?” I inquired.
“Sure. Fine.”
“You don’t look so fine.”
“I’m okay, really. Something I ate at dinner didn’t agree with me, that’s all,” he complained. “I’m usually pretty strict about what I’ll eat, but tonight I was so excited, I’m afraid I threw caution to the wind.”
I was tempted to tell him that whatever he’d washed it down with probably hadn’t helped, but I held my tongue and helped him to his feet, taking him by the elbow and gently steering him in the direction of my car.
As we passed under the streetlight I couldn’t help but notice that his skin was not just pale, but a pasty shade of green—one that I’d had an opportunity to see quite a bit of in college, usually right before the one afflicted tossed their dinner. I slowed my pace, hoping that if he was going to throw up, he’d do it before he got into my car. We were almost to the door when he lunged for me. At first I thought it was an attempt at ardor, only clumsier and more blatant than the guys who’d hit on me while I played the pinball machine at Mother’s. But as soon as I
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