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And that was going to be all.
"Were you in New York?" Yossarian was now much less peremptory.
"I was in Florida." His mannerly bearing seemed an immutable mask. "I have a brother in New York."
"Does he look like you?"
"We're twins."
"Is he a federal agent?"
"I don't have to answer that one."
"Are you?"
"I don't know who you are."
"I'm Yossarian. John Yossarian."
"Let me see your credentials."
"You've both been following me, haven't you?"
"Why would we follow you?"
"That's what I want to find out."
"I don't have to tell you. You've got no credentials."
"I don't have credentials," Yossarian, crestfallen, reported back to Gaffney.
"I've got credentials. Let me go try."
And in less than a minute, Jerry Gaffney and the man in the seersucker suit were chatting away in untroubled affinity like very old friends. Gaffney showed a billfold and gave him what looked to Yossarian like a business card, and when a policeman and four or five other people in plain clothes who might have been policemen also drew close briskly, Gaffney distributed a similar card to each, and then to everyone in the small crowd of bystanders who had paused to watch, and finally to the two young black women behind the food counter serving hot dogs, prepackaged sandwiches, soft pretzels with large grains of kosher salt, and soft drinks like Orange Julius. Gaffney returned eventually, immensely satisfied with himself. He spoke softly, but only Yossarian would know, for his demeanor appeared as serene as before.
"He isn't following you, John," he said, and could have been talking about the weather as far as anyone watching could tell. "He's following someone else who's following you. He wants to find out how much they find out about you."
"Who?" demanded Yossarian. "Which one?"
"He hasn't found out yet," answered Gaffney. "It might be me. That would be funny to somebody else, but I see you're not laughing. John, he thinks you might be CIA."
"That's libelous. I hope you told him I'm not."
"I don't know yet that you're not. But I won't tell him anything until he becomes a client. I only told him this much." Gaffney pushed another one of his business cards across the table. "You should have one too."
Yossarian scanned the card with knitted brow, for the words identified the donor as the proprietor of a Gaffney Real Estate Agency, with offices in the city and on the New York and Connecticut seashores and in the coastal municipalities of Santa Monica and San Diego in lower California.
"I'm not sure I get it," said Yossarian.
"It's a front," said Gaffney. "A come-on."
"Now I do." Yoss
arian grinned. "It's a screen for your detective agency. Right?"
"You've got it backwards. The agency is a front for my real estate business. There's more money in real estate."
"I'm not sure I can believe you."
