Black House

"He refused to identify himself," the doctor says. "Someone you told you’d be visiting Ward D."

Beezer, with news of Black House. "How do I take the call?"

"Just punch the flashing button," the doctor says. "Line one. I’ll bring in Mrs. Marshall when I see you’re off the line."

Jack hits the button and says, "Jack Sawyer."

"Thank God," says Beezer St. Pierre’s honey-and-tobacco voice. "Hey man, you gotta get over to my place, the sooner the better. Everything got messed up."

"Did you find it?"

"Oh yeah, we found Black House, all right. It didn’t exactly welcome us. That place wants to stay hidden, and it lets you know. Some of the guys are hurting. Most of us will be okay, but Mouse, I don’t know. He got something terrible from a dog bite, if it was a dog, which I doubt. Doc did what he could, but Hell, the guy is out of his mind, and he won’t let us take him to the hospital."

"Beezer, why don’t you take him anyway, if that’s what he needs?"

"We don’t do things that way. Mouse hasn’t stepped inside a hospital since his old man croaked in one. He’s twice as scared of hospitals as of what’s happening to his leg. If we took him to La Riviere General, he’d probably drop dead in the E.R."

"And if he didn’t, he’d never forgive you."

"You got it. How soon can you be here?"

"I still have to see the woman I told you about. Maybe an hour — not much longer than that, anyhow."

"Didn’t you hear me? Mouse is dying on us. We got a whole lot of things to say to each other."

"I agree," Jack says. "Work with me on this, Beez." He hangs up, turns to the door near the consulting-room chair, and waits for his world to change.

What the hell was that all about? Wendell wonders. He has squandered two minutes’ worth of tape on a conversation between Jack Sawyer and the dumb SOB who spoiled the film that should have paid for a nice car and a fancy house on a bluff above the river, and all he got was worthless crap. Wendell deserves the nice car and the fancy house, has earned them thrice over, and his sense of deprivation makes him seethe with resentment. Golden Boys get everything handed to them on diamond-studded salvers, people fall all over themselves to give them stuff they don’t even need, but a legendary, selfless working stiff and gentleman of the press like Wendell Green? It costs Wendell Green twenty bucks to hide in a dark, crowded little closet just to do his job!

His ears tingle when he hears the door open. The red light burns, the faithful recorder passes the ready tape from spool to spool, and whatever happens now is going to change everything: Wendell’s gut, that infallible organ, his best friend, warms with the assurance that justice will soon be his.

Dr. Spiegleman’s voice filters through the closet door and registers on the spooling tape: "I’ll leave you two alone now."

Golden Boy: "Thank you, Doctor. I’m very grateful."

Dr. Spiegleman: "Thirty minutes, right? That means I’ll be back at, umm, ten past two."

Golden Boy: "Fine."

The soft closing of the door, the click of the latch. Then long seconds of silence. Why aren’t they talking to each other? But of course . . . the question answers itself. They’re waiting for fat-ass Spiegleman to move out of hearing range.

Oh, this is just delicious, that’s what this is! The whisper of Golden Boy’s footsteps moving toward that door all but confirms the sterling reporter’s intuition. O gut of Wendell Green, O Instrument Marvelous and Trustworthy, once more you come through with the journalistic goods! Wendell hears, the machine records, the inevitable next sound: the click of the lock.

Judy Marshall: "Don’t forget the door behind you."

Golden Boy: "How are you?"

Judy Marshall: "Much, much better, now that you’re here. The door, Jack."

Another set of footsteps, another unmistakable sliding into place of a metal bolt.

Soon-To-Be-Ruined Boy: "I’ve been thinking about you all day. I’ve been thinking about this."

The Harlot, the Whore, the Slut: "Is half an hour long enough?"

Him With Foot In Bear Trap: "If it isn’t, he’ll just have to bang on the doors."

Wendell barely restrains himself from crowing with delight. These two people are actually going to have sex together, they are going to rip off their clothes and have at it like animals. Man, talk about your pay-backs! When Wendell Green is done with him, Jack Sawyer’s reputation will be lower than the Fisherman’s.

Judy’s eyes look tired, her hair is limp, and her fingertips wear the startling white of fresh gauze, but besides registering the depth of her feeling, her face glows with the clear, hard-won beauty of the imaginative strength she called upon to earn what she has seen. To Jack, Judy Marshall looks like a queen falsely imprisoned. Instead of disguising her innate nobility of spirit, the hospital gown and the faded nightdress make it all the more apparent. Jack takes his eyes from her long enough to lock the second door, then takes a step toward her.

He sees that he cannot tell her anything she does not already know. Judy completes the movement he has begun; she moves before him and holds out her hands to be grasped.

"I’ve been thinking about you all day," he says, taking her hands. "I’ve been thinking about this."

Her response takes in everything she has come to see, everything they must do. "Is half an hour long enough?"

"If it isn’t, he’ll just have to bang on the doors."

They smile; she increases the pressure on his hands. "Then let him bang." With the smallest, slightest tug, she pulls him forward, and Jack’s heart pounds with the expectation of an embrace.