come directly to his apartment from Edna Mowry’s place and had spent the early morning hours drinking Scotch and reading Blake’s poetry. Halfway through the bottle, still not drunk but so happy, very happy, he went to bed and fell asleep reciting lines from The Four Zoas. When he awoke five hours later, he felt new and fresh and pure, as if he had been reborn.
He was pouring his first cup of coffee when the telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“Dwight?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Billy.”
“Of course.”
Dwight was his middle name—Franklin Dwight Bollinger—and had been the name of his maternal grandfather, who had died when Frank was less than a year old. Until he met and came to know Billy, until he trusted Billy, his grandmother had been the only one who ever used his middle name. Shortly after his fourth birthday, his father abandoned the family, and his mother discovered that a four-year-old interfered with the hectic social life of a divorcee. Except for a few scattered and agonizing months with his mother—who managed to provide occasional bursts of affection only when her conscience began to bother her—he had spent his childhood with his grandmother. She not only wanted him, she cherished him. She treated him as if he were the focus not just of her own life but of the very rotation of the earth.
“Franklin is such an ordinary name,” his grandmother used to say. “But Dwight... well, now, that’s special. It was your grandfather’s name, and he was a wonderful man, not at all like other people, one of a kind. You’re going to grow up to be just like him, set apart, set above, more important than others. Let everyone call you Frank. To me you’ll always be Dwight.” His grandmother had died ten years ago. For nine and a half years no one had called him Dwight ; then, six months ago, he’d met Billy. Billy understood what it was like to be one of the new breed, to have been born superior to most men. Billy was superior too, and had a right to call him Dwight. He liked hearing the name again after all this time. It was a key to his psyche, a pleasure button that lifted his spirits each time it was pushed, a reminder that he was destined for a dizzyingly high station in life.
“I tried calling you several times last night,” Billy said.
“I unplugged the phone so I could drink some Scotch and sleep in peace.”
“Have you seen the papers this morning?”
“I just got up.”
“You haven’t heard anything about Harris?”
“Who?”
“Graham Harris. The psychic.”
“Oh. No. Nothing. What’s to hear?”
“Get the papers, Dwight. And then we’d better have lunch. You are off work today, aren’t you?”
“I’m always off Thursdays and Fridays. But what’s wrong?”
“The Daily News will tell you what’s wrong. Be sure to get a copy. We’ll have lunch at The Leopard at eleven-thirty.”
Frowning, Bollinger said, “Look—”
“Eleven-thirty, Dwight.”
Billy hung up.
The day was dreary and cold. Thick dark clouds scudded southward ; they were so low they seemed to skim the tops of the highest buildings.
Three blocks from the restaurant, Bollinger left his taxi and bought the Daily News at a kiosk. In his bulky coat and sweaters and gloves and scarves and wool toboggan cap, the vendor looked like a mummy.
The lower half of the front page held a publicity photograph of Edna Mowry provided by the Rhinestone Palace. She was smiling, quite lovely. The upper half of the page featured bold black headlines:
BUTCHER KILLS NUMBER 10 PSYCHIC PREDICTS MURDER
At the corner he turned to the second page and tried to read the story while waiting for the traffic light to change. The wind stung his eyes and made them water. It rattled the paper in his hands and made it impossible for him to read.
He crossed the street and stepped into the sheltered entranceway of an office building. His teeth still chattering from the cold, but free of the wind, he read about Graham Harris
He was pouring his first cup of coffee when the telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“Dwight?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Billy.”
“Of course.”
Dwight was his middle name—Franklin Dwight Bollinger—and had been the name of his maternal grandfather, who had died when Frank was less than a year old. Until he met and came to know Billy, until he trusted Billy, his grandmother had been the only one who ever used his middle name. Shortly after his fourth birthday, his father abandoned the family, and his mother discovered that a four-year-old interfered with the hectic social life of a divorcee. Except for a few scattered and agonizing months with his mother—who managed to provide occasional bursts of affection only when her conscience began to bother her—he had spent his childhood with his grandmother. She not only wanted him, she cherished him. She treated him as if he were the focus not just of her own life but of the very rotation of the earth.
“Franklin is such an ordinary name,” his grandmother used to say. “But Dwight... well, now, that’s special. It was your grandfather’s name, and he was a wonderful man, not at all like other people, one of a kind. You’re going to grow up to be just like him, set apart, set above, more important than others. Let everyone call you Frank. To me you’ll always be Dwight.” His grandmother had died ten years ago. For nine and a half years no one had called him Dwight ; then, six months ago, he’d met Billy. Billy understood what it was like to be one of the new breed, to have been born superior to most men. Billy was superior too, and had a right to call him Dwight. He liked hearing the name again after all this time. It was a key to his psyche, a pleasure button that lifted his spirits each time it was pushed, a reminder that he was destined for a dizzyingly high station in life.
“I tried calling you several times last night,” Billy said.
“I unplugged the phone so I could drink some Scotch and sleep in peace.”
“Have you seen the papers this morning?”
“I just got up.”
“You haven’t heard anything about Harris?”
“Who?”
“Graham Harris. The psychic.”
“Oh. No. Nothing. What’s to hear?”
“Get the papers, Dwight. And then we’d better have lunch. You are off work today, aren’t you?”
“I’m always off Thursdays and Fridays. But what’s wrong?”
“The Daily News will tell you what’s wrong. Be sure to get a copy. We’ll have lunch at The Leopard at eleven-thirty.”
Frowning, Bollinger said, “Look—”
“Eleven-thirty, Dwight.”
Billy hung up.
The day was dreary and cold. Thick dark clouds scudded southward ; they were so low they seemed to skim the tops of the highest buildings.
Three blocks from the restaurant, Bollinger left his taxi and bought the Daily News at a kiosk. In his bulky coat and sweaters and gloves and scarves and wool toboggan cap, the vendor looked like a mummy.
The lower half of the front page held a publicity photograph of Edna Mowry provided by the Rhinestone Palace. She was smiling, quite lovely. The upper half of the page featured bold black headlines:
BUTCHER KILLS NUMBER 10 PSYCHIC PREDICTS MURDER
At the corner he turned to the second page and tried to read the story while waiting for the traffic light to change. The wind stung his eyes and made them water. It rattled the paper in his hands and made it impossible for him to read.
He crossed the street and stepped into the sheltered entranceway of an office building. His teeth still chattering from the cold, but free of the wind, he read about Graham Harris
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