Night Train полностью

Many worlds, many minds. The interpre­tation of relative states. Popularly known as “parallel universes,” Detective.

Sometimes I have the look of a grave child trying not to cry. I have it now, I know. As with the child, stay­ing dry-eyed while enduring sympathy, it’s more like defiance than self-pity. When I don’t understand some­thing, it makes me feel defiant. I feel: I will not be excluded from this. But of course you are excluded, all the time. You just have to let it go.

So it wasn’t an academic connection. You met how?

... Socially.

And you moved in together when?

When she graduated. About eighteen months later.

How would you characterize your rela­tionship?

Trader pauses. I light a cigarette with the butt of its predecessor. As usual, and of set purpose, I am turning the interrogation room into a gas chamber. For-hire executioners, bludgeoners of prostitutes_ they seldom object to this (though you’d be surprised). A professor of philosophy, I reckoned, might have lower tolerance. That’s sometimes all you’re left with in here: The full ashtray. Buts and butts, we call it. You’re left with the full ashtray, and the rising levels in your lungs.

Could I take one of those?

Go ahead.

Thanks. I quit. When I moved in with Jen­nifer, actually. We both quit. But I seem to have started again. How would I character­ize our relationship? Happy. Happy.

But it was winding down.

No.

There were problems.

No.

Okay. So everything was great. Well leave it like that for a minute.

Excuse me?

You guys were building for the future.

Such was my understanding.

Get married. Kids.

Such was my understanding.

You two talked about it... I asked if you talked about it...Okay. Kids. You wanted kids? You yourself?

... Sure. I’m thirty-five. You begin to want to see a fresh face.

She want them?

She was a woman. Women want children.

He looks at me, my town flesh, my eyes. And he’s thinking: Yeah. All women except this woman.

You’re saying women want children in a different way? Jennifer wanted children in a different way?

Women want children physically. They want them with their bodies.

They do, huh? But you don’t.

No, I just think that if you’re going to live life...

To the full...

No, if you’re going to live it at all. Then the whole deal, please. Could I... ?

Go ahead.

I now had to purge myself of the last traces of affa­bility. Not a big job, some would say. Tobe might say it, for instance. A police works a suspicion into a convic­tion: That’s the external process. But it’s the internal process also. It is for me. It’s the only way I can do it. I have to work suspicion into conviction. Basically I have to get married to the idea that the guy did it. Here, I have to become Colonel Tom. I have to buy it. I have to want it. I have to know the guy did it. I know. I know.

Trader, I want you to take me through the events of March fourth. This is what I’m doing, Trader. I want to see if what you give me measures up to what we have.

To what you have?

Yes. Our physical evidence from the crime scene, Trader.

From the crime scene.

Trader, you and myself live in a bureau­cracy. We have some bullshit to get through here.

You’re going to read me my rights.

Yes, Trader. I’m going to read you your rights.

Am I under arrest?

This amuses you. No, you’re not under arrest. You want to be?

Am I a suspect?

We’ll see how you do. This sheet—

Wait. Detective Hoolihan, I can end this, can’t 1.1 don’t have to tell you anything. I can just call a lawyer, right?

You feel like you need a lawyer? You feel like you need a lawyer, hey, we can whistle one up. Then that’s it. This case binder goes to the assistant state’s attorney and I can’t do a damn thing for you. You feel like you need a lawyer? Or you want to sit here with me and straighten this whole thing out.

Again Trader bares his teeth. Again the look of difficulty, of impediment. But now he gives a sudden nod and says,

Begin. Begin.

This sheet is headed Explanation of Rights. Read and sign and initial each sec­tion. There. And there. Good. Okay. Sunday. March fourth.

Trader lights another cigarette. By now the small interrogation room is split-level with smoke. He leans forward and begins to speak, not dreamily or wistfully but matter-of-fact, his arms folded, his eyes dipped.

Sunday. It was Sunday. We did what we always do on Sunday. We slept late. I got up around ten-thirty and made breakfast. Scrambled eggs. We read the Times. You know how it is, Detective. Bathrobes. Her with the Arts, me with the Sports. We did an hour’s work. We went out just before two. We walked around. We had a beef sandwich at Maurie’s. We walked around. Around Rodham Park. It was a beautiful day. Cold and bright. We played tennis, indoors, at the Brogan. Jennifer won, as always. The score was 3-6, 6-7. We got back around five-thirty. She made lasagne. I packed a bag—

You’re damn right you packed a bag.

I don’t understand you. We always spent Sunday nights apart. It was Sunday. I packed a bag.

You’re damn right you packed a bag.