Part 19 (2/2)

The crimes one could commit in these suits, he pondered. Also lesser trips, short of actual crimes, which you never did; always wanted to but never did.

”Miss,” he said to the girl in the tight blue sweater, ”you certainly have nice legs. But I suppose you recognize that or you wouldn't be wearing a microskirt like that.”

The girl gasped. ”Eh,” she said. ”Oh, now I know who you are.”

”You do?” he said, surprised.

”Pete Wickam,” the girl said.

”What?” he said.

”Aren't you Pete Wickam? You always are sitting across from me-aren't you, Pete?”

”Am I the guy,” he said, ”who's always sitting there and studying your legs and scheming a lot about you know what?”

She nodded.

”Do I have a chance?” he said.

”Well, it depends.”

”Can I take you out to dinner some night?”

”I guess so.”

”Can I have your phone number? So I can call you?”

The girl murmured, ”You give me yours.”

”I'll give it to you,” he said, ”if you'll sit with me right now, here, and have whatever you're having with me while I'm having my sandwich and coffee.”

”No, I've got a girl friend over there-she's waiting.”

”I could sit with you anyhow, both of you.”

”We're going to discuss something private.”

”Okay,” he said.

”Well, then I'll see you, Pete.” She moved off down the line with her tray and flatware and napkin.

He obtained his coffee and sandwich and found an empty table and sat by himself, dropping little bits of sandwich into the coffee and staring down at it.

They're f.u.c.king going to pull me off Arctor, he decided. I'll be in Synanon or New-Path or some place like that withdrawing and they'll station someone else to watch him and evaluate him. Some a.s.shole who doesn't know jack s.h.i.+t about Arctor-they'll have to start all over from the beginning.

At least they can let me evaluate Barris's evidence, he thought. Not put me on temsuspens until after we go over that stuff, whatever it is.

If I did bang her and she got pregnant, he ruminated, the babies-no faces. Just blurs. He s.h.i.+vered.

I know I've got to be taken off. But why necessarily right away? If I could do a few more things ... process Barris's info, partic.i.p.ate in the decision. Or even just sit there and see what he's got. Find out for my own satisfaction finally what Arctor is up to. Is he anything? Is he not? They owe it to me to allow me to stay on long enough to find that out.

If I could just listen and watch, not say anything.

He sat there on and on, and later he noticed the girl in the tight blue sweater and her girl friend, who had short black hair, get up from their table and start to leave. The girl friend, who wasn't too foxy, hesitated and then approached Fred where he sat hunched over his coffee and sandwich fragments.

”Pete?” the short-haired girl said.

He glanced up.

”Um, Pete,” she said nervously. ”I just have a sec. Um, Ellen wanted to tell you this, but she chickened out. Pete, she would have gone out with you a long time ago, like maybe a month ago, like back in March even. If-”

”If what?” he said.

”Well, she wanted me to tell you that for some time she's wanted to clue you into the fact that you'd do a whole lot better if you used like, say, Scope.”

”I wish I had known,” he said, without enthusiasm.

”Okay, Pete,” the girl said, relieved now and departing. ”Catch you later.” She hurried off, grinning.

Poor f.u.c.king Pete, he thought to himself. Was that for real? Or just a mind-blowing put-down of Pete by a pair of malice-head types who cooked it up seeing him-me-sitting here alone. Just a nasty little dig to- Aw, the h.e.l.l with it, he thought.

Or it could be true, he decided as he wiped his mouth, crumpled up his napkin, and got heavily to his feet. I wonder if St. Paul had bad breath. He wandered from the cafeteria, his hands again shoved down in his pockets. Scramble suit pockets first and then inside that real suit pockets. Maybe that's why Paul was always in jail the latter part of his life. They threw him in for that.

Mindf.u.c.king trips like this always get laid on you at a time like this, he thought as he left the cafeteria. She dumped that on me on top of all the other b.u.mmers today-the big one out of the composite wisdom of the ages of psychological-testing pontification. That and then this. s.h.i.+t, he thought. He felt even worse now than he had before; he could hardly walk, hardly think; his mind buzzed with confusion. Confusion and despair. Anyhow, he thought, Scope isn't any good; Lavoris is better. Except when you spit it out it looks like you're spitting blood. Maybe Micrin, he thought. That might be best.

If there was a drugstore in this building, he thought, I could get a bottle and use it before I go upstairs to face Hank. That way-maybe I'd feel more confident. Maybe I'd have a better chance.

I could use, he reflected, anything that'd help, anything at all. Any hint, like from that girl, any suggestion. He felt dismal and afraid. s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, he thought, he thought, what am I going to do? what am I going to do?

If I'm off everything, he thought, then I'll never see any of them again, any of my friends, the people I watched and knew. I'll be out of it; I'll be maybe retired the rest of my life-anyhow, I've seen the last of Arctor and Luckman and Jerry Fabin and Charles Freck and most of all Donna Hawthorne. I'll never see any of my friends again, for the rest of eternity. It's over.

Donna. He remembered a song his great-uncle used to sing years ago, in German. ”Ich seh', wie ein Engel im rosigen Duft/Sich trostend zur Seite mir stellet,” ”Ich seh', wie ein Engel im rosigen Duft/Sich trostend zur Seite mir stellet,” which his great-uncle had explained to him meant ”I see, dressed like an angel, standing by my side to give me comfort,” the woman he loved, the woman who saved him (in the song). In the song, not in real life. His great-uncle was dead, and it was a long time ago he'd heard those words. His great-uncle, German-born, singing in the house, or reading aloud. which his great-uncle had explained to him meant ”I see, dressed like an angel, standing by my side to give me comfort,” the woman he loved, the woman who saved him (in the song). In the song, not in real life. His great-uncle was dead, and it was a long time ago he'd heard those words. His great-uncle, German-born, singing in the house, or reading aloud.

Gott! Welch Dunkel hier! O grauenvolle Stille!

Od' ist es um mich her. Nichts lebet auszer mir ... ...G.o.d, how dark it is here, and totally silent.

Nothing but me lives in this vacuum ...

Even if his brain's not burned out, he realized, by the time I'm back on duty somebody else will have been a.s.signed to them. Or they'll be dead or in the bucket or in federal clinics or just scattered, scattered, scattered. Burned out and destroyed, like me, unable to figure out what the f.u.c.k is happening. It has reached an end in any case, anyhow, for me. I've without knowing it already said good-by.

All I could ever do sometime, he thought, is play the holo-tapes back, to remember.

”I ought to go to the safe apartment ...” He glanced around and became silent. I ought to go to the safe apartment and rip them off now, he thought. While I can. Later they might be erased, and later I would not have access. f.u.c.k the department, he thought; they can bill me against the back salary. By every ethical consideration those tapes of that house and the people in it belong to me.

And now those tapes, they're all I've got left out of all this; that's all I can hope to carry away.

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