Libra - Don Delillo [157]
“I wish I could leave you some ray of light.”
“I appreciate.”
“I only drive the man around. In fact I’ll tell you the most important thing I do for Carmine. Every morning I put him in his vest. I tie him in nice.”
“What vest?”
“His vest. His body armor. He’s running a fucking country.”
They shook hands at the top of the stairs. Then Tony embraced Jack, who felt the emotion of the moment.
“There’s something I want to do. I want to send you a twistboard. I have this twistboard I want you to try. Test model. Tony. We used to swim.”
Jack called George Senator at the apartment.
He called his sister Eva.
He called Rabbi Hillel Silverman.
He called Lynette Batistone, Randi Ryder, to tell her she couldn’t have the night off after all. Double DeLite was sick to her stomach in Grand Prairie.
Jack opened the door to the back room and the dogs shot out madcap and scrambling. There is a thing about the trust of a dog that makes up for a lot of heartache we take in this life. He plucked Sheba from the tumble of fur and went down to the car. He drove one block to the bank. He drove to the Sheraton and went into the coffee shop to tell the girl at the register a joke he knew would knock her to the floor. He drove to some stores looking for a certain food supplement for dieters. He heard police sirens and thought about following, just for a little adrenaline, but felt uninterested all of a sudden, down in the dumps.
This kind of gloom made him feel anonymous. Who was he? Why should anyone care about him?
He drove around a while, then stopped at a bakery and bought a cheesecake: He took it to the Police and Courts Building and rode the elevator to three. He stuck his head in a few offices and took the cake to the press room. Four or five clerks and detectives came in. Jack took a Preludin with a mouthful of cold coffee that was sitting in a paper cup. Somebody noticed the stub where Jack’s index finger used to be. A little accident in the nature of an old-time dispute. He told two jokes that went over well. Then he went down the hall to Homicide and looked in on Russell Shively, who was at his desk reading Field and Stream, a lanky type with a sunburnt face who always made Jack feel here is my corny idea of a Texas lawman.
“Russell, how long we known each other?”
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“Have I ever mentioned suicide to you?”
“I don’t believe so, Jack.”
“Russell, if I ever mention suicide or the phrase kill myself or do away with myself, I am telling you right now it is not an empty threat to get attention. If you ever pick up the phone and hear a voice that says I’m killing myself and you think it’s my voice, Jack Ruby, then I’m telling you right now I’m not bluffing.”
These remarks came out of nowhere, of course, so Russell Shively just looked carefully into Jack’s eyes and nodded, with no idea what to say.
Jack put his snap-brim fedora back on his head and walked out of the room. He went down to the car and drove off toward the Carousel. He thought of some calls he had to make. Bottles and jars rolled across the floor of the car. He thought of the fight that led to the stub finger. A dozen years ago he had a fight of a total animal nature with a guitar player at the Silver Spur, which Jack was running at the time. The guitarist bit off part of his left index finger. It was a single, sustained and determined head-wagging bite in the course of a stretch of wrestling and it left the top part of the finger hanging, beyond repair. This was harmful to Jack’s public image because he wanted to join the Masons, the Freemasons, whatever they’re called, for the business contacts and the fellowship. But the Masons would not accept a man who was missing part of his anatomy. This was an ancient bylaw that they kept in the books.
He called his attorney.
He called the Morning