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'I don't know ... I don't know about Iowa.'
'Well, I don't know much about the thesis business,' said Mulcahy, 'but I don't think there's much money in it.'
'Arnold,' Mrs Mulcahy said; she was fastening an elaborate brooch. 'We really will be late for the performance.'
'Yes, yes,' Mulcahy said. He got up and looked at his tuxedo jacket before putting it on; he didn't seem to know which way it went. 'Ballet, you know,' he said to Trumper. 'I love a good ballet.'
Mrs Mulcahy touched Trumper's arm affectionately. 'We never go out in Washington,' she confided. 'Only when Arnold's in New York.'
'That's nice,' Trumper said.
'Do you know the ballet?' Mulcahy asked him.
'No, sir.'
'All those flitty people up on their toes,' Mrs Mulcahy chided.
Mulcahy grumbled as he fought himself into his tuxedo jacket; clearly, he must have been a ballet nut to put himself through this. Bogus had remembered him looking like an ambassador, but when he saw Mulcahy in evening dress, he knew that the man really didn't fit the role. Clothes didn't hang well on him; in fact, they appeared as if they'd been flung on him, wet, and when they dried, they chose to go their own peculiar and wrinkled way.
'What are you going to do now, boy?' Mulcahy asked.
'I don't know, sir.'
'Well, dear,' Mrs Mulcahy told Bogus, 'you should start with a new suit.' She went over and plucked at it as if it might still be in danger of shedd
ing.
'Well, we have to go,' Mulcahy said, 'and you've got to get out of those towels.'
Bogus gathered up his clothes and moved delicately toward the bathroom; his head had something heavy and aching inside it, and his eyes felt so dried out that they felt fried; it hurt to blink.
When he came out, one of the federal men who'd brought him there was standing around with the Mulcahys. 'Wilson,' Mulcahy said to the man, 'I want you to take Mr Trumper wherever he wants to go - within the confines of Manhattan Island.'
'Yes, sir,' Wilson said. He looked like a hired killer.
'Where will you go, dear?' Mrs Mulcahy asked.
'I don't know, ma'am,' Trumper said. Mulcahy riffled through the manila folder again. Trumper caught a glimpse of a photo of himself and one of Biggie.
'Look, boy,' Mulcahy said, 'why don't you go see this Ralph Packer?' He pulled out a paper-clipped wad, with Ralph's hairy photo on top.
'He's in Iowa, sir,' Trumper said. He couldn't imagine Ralph's history requiring as much authentication as Arnold Mulcahy seemed to hold in his hand.
'The hell he's in Iowa,' said Arnold Mulcahy. 'He's right here in New York, and doing rather well for himself, too, I might add.' He handed Bogus a stack of newspaper clippings. 'The missing persons people looked into your friend Packer quite extensively,' Mulcahy said. 'He was the only one who had an idea where you'd gone.'
Bogus tried to visualize what missing persons people looked like. He saw them as invisible, materializing in the form of lampshades and subtle bathroom fixtures which asked you questions while you slept.
The clippings were reviews of Ralph's first movie, the National Student Film Festival winner, The Group Thing, whose sound track had been done by Bogus. The film had been shown in the art houses around New York; Ralph now had a studio in Greenwich Village and the distribution for two more of his films had already been contracted. One of the reviews of The Group Thing even mentioned how good the sound track was. 'Bogus Trumper's infinite sound devices,' it said, 'are confident, ambitious techniques, extremely well crafted for such a low-budget film.' Trumper was impressed.
'If you want my advice,' said Mulcahy, 'that's a better bet than that thesis business any day of the week.'
'Yes, sir,' Trumper said obediently, but he couldn't quite imagine Ralph actually getting money for what he did.
Mulcahy gave the hired killer named Wilson Packer's studio address, but the man, whose right eyebrow had just been shaved and stitched back together, seemed troubled about something.
'For heaven's sake, what's the matter with you, Wilson?' Mulcahy asked.
'That driver,' Wilson mumbled.
