Clarence had a glimpse of a stubble of beard on his face. No, this man was too fallen apart, Clarence thought. The poison-pen letter-writer couldn’t spell, but there was some demonic organization in him, he could get an address right (the envelopes had been photostatted beneath each letter), his bitterness seemed to have a certain drive. What kind of job would he have, if any? A lot of kooky characters were on relief, or over sixty-five and just making it on Social Security. Was this one over sixty-five? And what about the dog Lisa? That was the important thing, as Mr. Reynolds had said.
Clarence impulsively hailed a taxi. He wasn’t in a mood to take the subway. Marylyn would still be in bed, probably reading the Sunday Times which he had bought late last night. At 8th Street, Clarence said, “Can you let me out here?”
He went into the drugstore at 8th and Sixth Avenue and telephoned his parents in Astoria.
“So how’s it going, Clare?” asked his father. “Are you okay?”
“Everything’s okay. I just wanted to say hello.”
Clarence spoke also with his mother, who made sure there was not a bullet through an arm or a leg, then she dashed off to turn something off on the stove. When was he coming out to see them? It had been so long since he’d been out.
It had been about three weeks. “I dunno. Soon, Mother.” He started to say he was on night shift again, but his mother would worry about that.
“Is your girlfriend taking all your time, Clary? Bring her out!”
The usual conversation, but Clarence felt better after he had hung up. His parents hadn’t yet met Marylyn. Clarence, unable to repress a desire to speak of her, had deliberately repressed his enthusiasm about her, but it hadn’t escaped his father, who was now asking when were they going to meet his betrothed and all that. His father liked to use archaic expressions.
At a delicatessen on Sixth Avenue, Clarence bought frozen strawberries and a can of cranberry sauce for the chicken, and also bread which Marylyn was always out of, mainly because Clarence ate a lot of bread. Clarence had the two keys to Marylyn’s house, one for the front door, one for her apartment door. Having let himself in, he knocked on her apartment door.
“Clare?—Come in.”
Marylyn was in bed with the papers, looking beautiful, though she hadn’t even combed her hair. “How was it?”
Clarence knelt by the bed, the delicatessen bag on the floor. “Interesting,” he mumbled. His face was buried in the warm sheets over her bosom. He inhaled deeply. “Very interesting. It’s important.”
“Why?” She mussed his hair with her fingers, pushing his head away. “Good God, I never thought I’d get mixed up with fuzz. Do you really take all this stuff seriously?”
He sat back on the floor, watched her as she got out of bed and crossed the room to the bathroom. Her words were a shock, even though he knew she was kidding. She was of a different world, and she didn’t understand a thing, Clarence thought, about his life. In a curious way, Marylyn didn’t even believe in law and order. “I do!” he said to the closed door. He crossed his feet and got up nimbly from the floor. “They’re such nice people, the Reynoldses.” He smiled, at himself, and took off his jacket and tie. In bed, he and Marylyn understood each other very well. Not even any words needed.
5
A t the moment when Clarence was slipping naked into bed with Marylyn on Macdougal Street, Kenneth Rowajinski on West End Avenue and 103rd Street was putting ball-point pen to paper to write a second ransom note. He was not sure he would send it. He wrote many letters that he didn’t send to people. Simply writing the letters gave him pleasure. After writing “ NEW YORK ” at the top of the page, he rested his elbow, pen aloft, and gazed into space, vaguely smiling.
He was a short man of fifty-one, chunky but in good health. He limped, however, on his right foot. Four years ago the drum of a
Clarence impulsively hailed a taxi. He wasn’t in a mood to take the subway. Marylyn would still be in bed, probably reading the Sunday Times which he had bought late last night. At 8th Street, Clarence said, “Can you let me out here?”
He went into the drugstore at 8th and Sixth Avenue and telephoned his parents in Astoria.
“So how’s it going, Clare?” asked his father. “Are you okay?”
“Everything’s okay. I just wanted to say hello.”
Clarence spoke also with his mother, who made sure there was not a bullet through an arm or a leg, then she dashed off to turn something off on the stove. When was he coming out to see them? It had been so long since he’d been out.
It had been about three weeks. “I dunno. Soon, Mother.” He started to say he was on night shift again, but his mother would worry about that.
“Is your girlfriend taking all your time, Clary? Bring her out!”
The usual conversation, but Clarence felt better after he had hung up. His parents hadn’t yet met Marylyn. Clarence, unable to repress a desire to speak of her, had deliberately repressed his enthusiasm about her, but it hadn’t escaped his father, who was now asking when were they going to meet his betrothed and all that. His father liked to use archaic expressions.
At a delicatessen on Sixth Avenue, Clarence bought frozen strawberries and a can of cranberry sauce for the chicken, and also bread which Marylyn was always out of, mainly because Clarence ate a lot of bread. Clarence had the two keys to Marylyn’s house, one for the front door, one for her apartment door. Having let himself in, he knocked on her apartment door.
“Clare?—Come in.”
Marylyn was in bed with the papers, looking beautiful, though she hadn’t even combed her hair. “How was it?”
Clarence knelt by the bed, the delicatessen bag on the floor. “Interesting,” he mumbled. His face was buried in the warm sheets over her bosom. He inhaled deeply. “Very interesting. It’s important.”
“Why?” She mussed his hair with her fingers, pushing his head away. “Good God, I never thought I’d get mixed up with fuzz. Do you really take all this stuff seriously?”
He sat back on the floor, watched her as she got out of bed and crossed the room to the bathroom. Her words were a shock, even though he knew she was kidding. She was of a different world, and she didn’t understand a thing, Clarence thought, about his life. In a curious way, Marylyn didn’t even believe in law and order. “I do!” he said to the closed door. He crossed his feet and got up nimbly from the floor. “They’re such nice people, the Reynoldses.” He smiled, at himself, and took off his jacket and tie. In bed, he and Marylyn understood each other very well. Not even any words needed.
5
A t the moment when Clarence was slipping naked into bed with Marylyn on Macdougal Street, Kenneth Rowajinski on West End Avenue and 103rd Street was putting ball-point pen to paper to write a second ransom note. He was not sure he would send it. He wrote many letters that he didn’t send to people. Simply writing the letters gave him pleasure. After writing “ NEW YORK ” at the top of the page, he rested his elbow, pen aloft, and gazed into space, vaguely smiling.
He was a short man of fifty-one, chunky but in good health. He limped, however, on his right foot. Four years ago the drum of a
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