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"How will you get it?"
"Under the Freedom of Information Act. It's on file in your sperm with your Social Security number. I can get a certified photocopy--"
"Of my sperm?"
"Of your deoxyribonucleic acid. The sperm cell is just a medium of transportation. It's the genes that count. I can get the photocopy of your DNA when you're ready with your application. Leave the driving to me. And indeed, I have more good news. One of the gentlemen who is following you isn't."
"I will resist the wisecrack."
"I don't see the wisecrack."
"Do you mean that he isn't a gentleman or that he isn't following me?"
"I still don't see it. Isn't following you. He is following one or more of the others who are following you."
"Why?"
"We will have to guess. That was blacked out on the Freedom of Information report. Perhaps to protect you from abduction, torture, or murder, or maybe merely to find out about you what the others find out. There are a thousand reasons. And the Orthodox Jew--excuse me, are you Jewish, Mr. Yossarian?"
"I am Assyrian, Mr. Gaffney."
"Yes. And the Orthodox Jewish gentleman parading in front of your building really is an Orthodox Jewish gentleman and does live in your neighborhood. But he is also an FBI man and he is sharp as a tack. So be discreet."
"What does he want from me?"
"Ask him if you wish. Maybe he's just walking, if he's not there on assignment. You know how those people are. It may not be you. You have a CIA front in your building masquerading as a CIA front and a Social Security Administration office there too, not to mention all those sex parlors, prostitutes, and other business establishments. Try to hold on to your Social Security number. It always pays to be discreet. Discretion is the better part of valor, Senor Gaffney tells his friends. Have no fear. He will keep you posted. Service is his middle name."
Yossarian felt the need to take a stand. "Mr. Gaffney," he said, "how soon can I see you? I'm afraid I insist."
There was a moment of chortling, a systematic bubbling suffused with overtones of self-satisfaction. "You already have seen me, Mr. Yossarian, and you didn't notice, did you?"
"Where?"
"At the bus terminal, when you went below with Mr. McBride. You looked right at me. I was wearing a fawn-colored single-breasted herringbone woolen jacket with a thin purple cross-pattern, brown trousers, a light-blue Swiss chambray shirt of finest Egyptian cotton, and a complementing tie of solid rust, with matching socks. I have a smooth tan complexion and am bald on top, with black hair trimmed very close at the sides and very dark brows and eyes. I have noble temples and fine cheekbones. You didn't recognize me, did you?"
"How could I, Mr. Gaffney? I'd never seen you before."
The quiet laughter returned. "Yes, you did, Mr. Yossarian, more than once. Outside the hotel restaurant after you stopped in there that day with Mr. and Mrs. Beach following the ACACAMMA meeting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In front of the Frank Campbell Funeral Home across the street. Do you remember the red-haired man with a walking stick and green rucksack on his back who was with the uniformed guard at the entrance?"
"You were the redheaded man with the rucksack?"
"I was the uniformed guard."
"You were in disguise?"
"I'm in disguise now."
"I'm not sure I get that one, Mr. Gaffney."
"Perhaps it's a joke, Mr. Yossarian. It's told very widely in my profession. Maybe my next sally will be better. And I really believe you ought to call your nurse. She's back on the day shift and free for dinner tonight. She can bring that friend."
"Her roommate?"
"No, not Miss Moorecock."
"Her name is Miss Moore." Yossarian reproved him coldly.
"You call her Miss Moorecock."
