"Was he at the Mines?"

"I told you. Selvy. Best I've ever run."

Lomax signaled for the check.

"How will they find him now?"

"I'm a bitch if I know," Mudger said.

"Unless he drops into Mercy Hospital for an appendectomy, how the hell will they find him?"

Lomax paid the check and went, to the men's room. On the way out, Mudger stopped at the bar. The chimp was eating mixed fruit out of a plastic bowl.

"How much you want for the animal?"

"Not for sale," one of the men said.

"Name your price, go on."

The man turned on his stool.

"Not for sale. No sale."

"You shouldn't dress the animal up. It's degrading to the animal, having to wear clothes."

"What are you?"

"You think it's cute, coming into a bar with an animal. It's a joke, dressing the animal up and coming into a bar."

"What are you, a Christian Scientist?"

"It's a joke," Mudger said.

"A Jehovah Witness. They don't give blood."

The other man turned toward Mudger.

"He's asking. What are you?"

"Tell him to piss up a rope," Mudger said.

"He's asking politely."

"Tell him to piss up a rope."

Mudger put his middle finger to his thumb as if to flick an insect off his sleeve. Instead he delivered a quick blow to the second man's ear. The man reacted as if shot. Then he turned back to the bar, head down, right hand covering his ear.

"Tell him to piss up a rope," Mudger said.

Lomax was standing alongside, watching. The man turned to his companion, speaking over the chimp's head.

"Piss up a rope, Stanley."

Sitting in the passenger seat as Lomax drove, Mudger looked out the side window. His gloom hadn't lifted. He thought of his own animals, the ones he'd managed to take out of Vietnam. He'd had to leave them behind on Guam, every one, under enforced isolation. In the end, practical considerations and endless technicalities forced him to abandon the animals to the whims of local authorities. There were things you couldn't do once the shooting stopped.

He thought of Saigon women in their silk blouses and sateen pants. Beds draped with mosquito nets. The relentless drenching heat.

He thought of people sharing hammocks in open-fronted huts outside Tha Binh. VC gongs sounding through the night. Parachute flares from a C-47 lighting up part of the sky. The roiling din of Medivac choppers landing nearby.

He thought of GIs heading down jungle trails with transistor radios, tossing gum wrappers into the bush. Occasional rounds from an M-6o machine gun. The sandbagged checkpoints. The fresh weapons being broken out of crates. The _punji_ sticks smeared with human feces.

Richie Armbrister flashed a look at his laser-beam digital watch. The elevator gate opened with a crash and he followed Lightborne into the gallery. They went directly to the living quarters in the rear, where Lightborne began boiling water for tea.

"So, delay number two. What's going on, Lightborne? I paid money."

"And it's in a safe place. And the lady will get it as soon as she hands over the film can."

"With the film inside it."

"I remain confident, Richie."

"I have things. I have a number of projects."

"I understand," Lightborne said.

"Do you know how long I've been away?"

"Go back to Dallas, Richie."

"I've never been away this long."

"I'll handle it from this end."

The wrist watch, or chronometer, was the sole outward sign of Richie's wealth, excluding his DC-9. He wore heavyweight khaki trousers, scuffed cordovans and a crew-neck sweater with a reindeer design, the wool unraveling at both cuffs.

He appeared younger than twenty-two, looking a little like a teenager with a nervous disability. High forehead, prominent cheekbones, large teeth. He seemed intense, overcommitted to something, his voice keening out of a lean bony face-a face Lightborne could never look at without wondering whether he was dealing with a genius or a half-wit.

Not that Richie's accomplishments were to be questioned. He'd built an empire almost singlehandedly. He'd perfected the technology of smut, opening up channels of distribution and devising ingenious marketing schemes. At the same time he'd managed to remain legally immune, hidden in a maze of paper.

"I leave Odell behind."

"Who?" Lightborne said.

"I leave Odell here. Odell is my technical man for all film projects. You and Odell stay in constant touch, Lightborne. That way I know what's going on."

"I'm all in favor."

"Odell is my cousin."

"I understand, Richie."

"He's one of the few people around me that I would use the word knowledgeable."

"I know how much value you attach to that word."

"What with the people I'm usually surrounded with."

"Plus he's a relative."

"They're imbeciles. They dribble. They have to be told over and over."

"Believe me, Richie, I understand, I'm in sympathy, I empathize completely."

Lightborne poured steaming water over the tea bags. If Richie wanted to live in the barricaded warehouse where his materials were stored, that was fine with Lightborne. He himself, in Richie's position, might have chosen a quiet street in Highland Park.

If Richie elected to surround himself with people he'd known all his life-the bodyguards, the advisers, the relatives, the hangers-on, and the husbands, wives, girlfriends and boyfriends of all of these-Lightborne wasn't inclined to raise trivial objections, although in the same position he would have set up a board of administrators. Men and women skilled in diverse corporate fields. Perhaps an academic presence as well.

"I don't know about staying, Lightborne. Do I have time for a cup of tea?"

"It's your plane, Richie. The plane doesn't leave until you're ready."

"I'm ready. I'm anxious to scram."

"Drink your tea. I have a gift."

"There's an element in this business," Richie said. "They're taking more and more. They're very grabby. And something's been going on. My bodyguard thinks he's been seeing the same face, wherever we go, for the past three days. Not that his expertise is worth two dollars on the open market. But I'm better off home. Where I know where I am."

"You tell Odell I'm standing by."

"I'll be waiting for word. I'll be expecting. This is the big thing today. First-run movies. People want to tone up their fantasies. Feature-length is the right direction. I'll be waiting, Lightborne. I'll be looking forward."

"Finish your tea, Richie."

Earlier in the day, after searching in hardware stores, millinery shops, Fourteenth Street rummage dumps, Lightborne had finally found what he was looking for. He found it in a grocery store on Thompson Street, not far from his building. With Thanksgiving not too far off, the place was well stocked with specialty items. The Danish butter cookies, Lightborne noticed, came in circular metal containers, precisely the kind of thing he was looking for. He chose the super economy size.

"A little something I bought for your trip, to munch on the plane going back."

"What is it, candy?"

"Cookies," Lightborne said.

After displaying the shiny can, he wrapped it tightly in plain brown paper, very tightly, so that anyone watching Richie emerge from the building would have no trouble noting the circular shape. He used gummed tape, masking tape, glue and string to keep the wrapping intact.

"Cookies. Festive cookies. To make the trip go faster."

How much more pleasant it was to talk with Miss Robbins, who arrived about half an hour after Richie left. Not that he disliked Richie. Richie had human qualities. More than once he'd given Lightborne a token of his continuing friendship. String ties. A set of coasters depicting scenes of the Alamo. It was only fitting that Lightborne eventually reciprocate.