many ashtrays with dead cigarette butts in them, and a great many plastic glasses with the residue of booze in them, and a folding table covered with a red paper cloth upon which rested the tired remnants of a baked ham, a round of cheese, a crock of chopped liver, a tureen of orange caviar dip, a basket of crumbling crackers, several depleted bottles of gin, scotch, vodka, and bourbon, and a partridge in a pear tree. Or at least what appeared to be a partridge in a pear tree, but which was actually the tattered remains of a roast turkey on a wooden platter with a carving knife and fork alongside it. There were red paper napkins and green paper plates and white plastic knives and forks in evidence on every flat surface in the room. What at first appeared to be another red napkin lying on top of a large desk otherwise covered with plates and such--blink ON, blink OFF, went the Christmas tree lights--actually turned out to be a pair of red silk panties someone had inadvertently left behind. It must have been one hell of a party.
"Did you ever do it on a desktop?" Connie whispered.
"Never," Michael whispered back.
101
He wondered if she was propositioning him.
He also wondered if she was wearing red silk panties under her green silk dress. "What are we looking for?" she whispered. "I don't know," he said.
He did not, in truth, know what the hell they were looking for. He did not like this entire business of having been accused of murdering someone, did not like the sort of hospitality New York City extended to a visitor from the South, did not in fact like anything that had happened to him tonight with the exception of Connie Kee. He knew for certain --or, rather, _felt for certain--that if he went to the police, he would find himself in deeper shit than was already up to his knees. He resented this. He was a goddamn taxpayer, and the police should have been working _for him instead of _against him. Why should he have to be doing _their goddamn job? Well, a taxpayer in Sarasota, anyway.
He supposed he would have to learn how to do their job.
He hadn't wanted to learn how to avoid the punji sticks planted on a jungle trail, either, but he had learned. Had learned because if you stepped on one of those sharpened bamboo stakes it went clear through the sole of your boot and since Charlie had dipped the stakes in his own excrement-- Charlie.
Even in Vietnam, it had been Charlie. For the Vietcong. The V.C. Victor Charlie. And then just Charlie for short. Good old Charlie.
Who had taught him to dance the light fandango along those jungle paths, live and learn. Or rather, learn and live. The way he had to learn now. Here in this city of New York, downtown here in this rotten city, his problem was a dead man. Arthur Crandall. And this was the dead man's office, as good a place to start learning as any Michael could think of. "Cahill and Parrish," he whispered to Connie. "Who?"
"We're looking for anything that might tie them to Crandall."
"Who are they?" Connie asked, sitting on the
edge of the desk and crossing her long
103 legs. He explained who they were. She listened intently. She was so goddamn beautiful. He kept wondering if she was wearing red silk panties. Or any panties at all.
They began searching. The first thing they found in this office in holiday disarray, the first thing they found in this two-bit Sodom and Gomorrah show-biz office was a framed newspaper article on the wall alongside the blinking Christmas tree. The article was written in French. "Do you speak French?" he whispered. "Chinese," she whispered back. "And English, of course. Cantonese dialect. The Chinese. Do _you speak French?"
"A little. The Vietnamese spoke French. And my mother, too, every now and then." The article was from a newspaper called the _Nice _Matin. In translation, the headline read:
DIRECTOR SHOWS WAR FILM The article told about the showing of the film _War _and _Solitude at the International Film Festival in Cannes. The
"Did you ever do it on a desktop?" Connie whispered.
"Never," Michael whispered back.
101
He wondered if she was propositioning him.
He also wondered if she was wearing red silk panties under her green silk dress. "What are we looking for?" she whispered. "I don't know," he said.
He did not, in truth, know what the hell they were looking for. He did not like this entire business of having been accused of murdering someone, did not like the sort of hospitality New York City extended to a visitor from the South, did not in fact like anything that had happened to him tonight with the exception of Connie Kee. He knew for certain --or, rather, _felt for certain--that if he went to the police, he would find himself in deeper shit than was already up to his knees. He resented this. He was a goddamn taxpayer, and the police should have been working _for him instead of _against him. Why should he have to be doing _their goddamn job? Well, a taxpayer in Sarasota, anyway.
He supposed he would have to learn how to do their job.
He hadn't wanted to learn how to avoid the punji sticks planted on a jungle trail, either, but he had learned. Had learned because if you stepped on one of those sharpened bamboo stakes it went clear through the sole of your boot and since Charlie had dipped the stakes in his own excrement-- Charlie.
Even in Vietnam, it had been Charlie. For the Vietcong. The V.C. Victor Charlie. And then just Charlie for short. Good old Charlie.
Who had taught him to dance the light fandango along those jungle paths, live and learn. Or rather, learn and live. The way he had to learn now. Here in this city of New York, downtown here in this rotten city, his problem was a dead man. Arthur Crandall. And this was the dead man's office, as good a place to start learning as any Michael could think of. "Cahill and Parrish," he whispered to Connie. "Who?"
"We're looking for anything that might tie them to Crandall."
"Who are they?" Connie asked, sitting on the
edge of the desk and crossing her long
103 legs. He explained who they were. She listened intently. She was so goddamn beautiful. He kept wondering if she was wearing red silk panties. Or any panties at all.
They began searching. The first thing they found in this office in holiday disarray, the first thing they found in this two-bit Sodom and Gomorrah show-biz office was a framed newspaper article on the wall alongside the blinking Christmas tree. The article was written in French. "Do you speak French?" he whispered. "Chinese," she whispered back. "And English, of course. Cantonese dialect. The Chinese. Do _you speak French?"
"A little. The Vietnamese spoke French. And my mother, too, every now and then." The article was from a newspaper called the _Nice _Matin. In translation, the headline read:
DIRECTOR SHOWS WAR FILM The article told about the showing of the film _War _and _Solitude at the International Film Festival in Cannes. The
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