Bill said nothing.

"This is the soul's own business, Bill. I think it's something you need to do. Get out of your room, away from your preoccupations. And I make these promises. There will be no advance announcement of your presence. No interviews after your appearance. Still cameras only. The conference will be kept to fifty or sixty people, all inclusive. I want a ripple effect. Word will spread, follow-up stories will appear, curiosity will build. I want our work to have a future. Your French still passable?"

Bill began searching for a cigarette. There was a silence, a period of thoughtful review. The bright badge at Bill's lapel read Visitor Access Only.

Charlie said softly, "We used to argue on street corners at three in the morning."

"It's true, Charlie."

"There were times you made me furious. All those infamous ideas of yours. I felt so sensible and petty. You were almost always wrong but there was no chance I could ever win an argument in any way that really counted."

"I think I'm supposed to be out of here soon."

"Don't you find yourself remembering? Things come flooding back with a force that's overwhelming. Christ, Bill, I'm happy to see you."

"I remember everything. Almost constantly."

"What do you hear from Sara?"

"Are we doing my former wives in chronological order?"

"What do you hear from her?"

"She's okay. She likes to stay in some kind of touch. It means a lot to her that we still talk once in a while."

"Of course I barely knew her. You had some kind of quarantine in effect."

"She was young, that's all."

"Too young. Not ready for the hopeless task of wifing a writer like you."

"They're all like me."

"Not that I was any readier. I was never sure what I was supposed to be guilty of."

"You were guilty of being my editor. A writer has complaints."

"Well, this is surely true."

"You were guilty of being in the vicinity. No matter what you said or did, I had a way of using it to my bleak advantage."

"For many happy years I've listened to writers and their brilliant kvetching. The most successful writers make the biggest com-plainers. This is so interesting to me. I wonder if the qualities that produce a top writer also account for the ingenuity and size of his complaints. Does writing come out of bitterness and rage or does it produce bitterness and rage?"

"Or both," Bill said.

"Everyone complains about the loneliness. The solitude is killing. The nights are sleepless. The days are taut with worry and pain. Bemoan, bemoan. The novelists are doing interviews. The interviewers are writing novels. The money is never enough. The acclaim is falling short. Come on, Bill, what else?"

"It must be hard for you, dealing with these wretches day after day."

"No, it's easy. I take them to a major eatery. I say, Pooh pooh pooh pooh. I say, Drinky drinky drinky. I tell them their books are doing splendidly in the chains. I tell them readers are flocking to the malls. I say, Coochy coochy coo. I recommend the roast monkfish with savoy cabbage. I tell them the reprint bidders are howling in the commodity pits. There is miniseries interest, there is audiocassette interest, the White House wants a copy for the den. I say, The publicity people are setting up tours. The Italians love the book completely. The Germans are groping for new levels of rapture. Oh my oh my oh my."

"And yourself, Charlie."

"I'm adjusting to the new style."

"How long have you been here?"

"Two years."

"Who owns this company?"

"You don't want to know."

"Give me the whole big story in one quick burst."

"It's all about limousines."

Bill leaned down to lace his shoes.

"All right. Who else is dead that I should know about?"

"Do we really want to do this?"

"Probably not."

"We're next," Charlie said.

"I'm next, you bastard."

"I want the new book, Bill."

"I'm still working."

"Whatever relationship you maintain with the old dusty lovable skinflint house."

"I'm in the final pages."

"Whatever crumbling remnants of a contract, there are ways around it."

"I'm polishing. That's what I'm doing."

"I want this book, you bastard."

They stirred in their chairs. Charlie flexed his right knee, grimacing. They got to their feet at the same time and stretched, working their shoulder muscles. Bill looked out the east window into a sky mural of bridge spans and ship cranes, factory smoke over Queens.

"You're not the hermit, the woodsman-writer, you're not the crank with a native vision. You're the hunted man. You don't write political novels or books steeped in history but you still feel the clamor at your back. This is the conflict, Bill."

"I think I got rooked on these shoes."

"You'll call me about London at home tonight. Here's my number. Or tomorrow at the absolute latest, right here, by noon if possible. I'm taking a night flight. It's something I think you need to do. Remember. One less writer in the hands of killers."

The guard was waiting in the reception area. Bill asked him where the men's room was. The guard had a key and stood by the drying machine as Bill went through his pockets looking for the tin with his mixed medications. He took precut segments of three brands of amphetamine tablets out of the tin. The colors were a blue, a white and a pink. He placed them on his tongue but when he realized the tap would not deliver water unless he kept his hand on the valve he took the pill fragments out of his mouth so he could ask the guard to turn on the cold water for him. The guard was willing to do this. Bill put the pieces back on his tongue, cupped his hands under the spout and brought the water to his mouth and drank, throwing back his head when he swallowed. The guard looked at him as if to ask whether everything had gone as planned. Bill nodded and they went out to the elevator and rode to the lobby together.

Bill stood near the entranceway, about fifty feet from the oval desk and directly in front of the register that listed the building's occupants. He could see Scott waiting just outside, standing at the far end of a shop window that jutted at an angle from the recessed entranceway, forming a border extending to the sidewalk. He carried a small package, books probably, and had his back to the shop window. Bill stepped away from the glass doors and smoked a cigarette. He stood in thought, his arms folded and his head cocked slightly left. His gaze seemed to end at the tip of the cigarette dangling from his right hand. When he peered out again, Scott was nearer the entranceway but had turned to look in the shop window. Bill walked across the front of the lobby past two sets of revolving doors. He exited by the last single door, peeling the visitor's badge from his lapel and moving out onto the sidewalk, where he joined the surge of the noontime crowd.