Behind the mask, the red lips spread wider, now showing teeth. ‘I could have guessed that. It’s your birth date.’
As Yellow called the combination to the man in his closet, Rothstein made certain unpleasant deductions. Mr Blue and Mr Red had come for money, and Mr Yellow might take his share, but he didn’t believe money was the primary objective of the man who kept calling him genius. As if to underline this, Mr Blue reappeared, accompanied by another puff of cool outside air. He had four empty duffel bags, two slung over each shoulder.
‘Look,’ Rothstein said to Mr Yellow, catching the man’s eyes and holding them. ‘Don’t. There’s nothing in that safe worth taking except for the money. The rest is just a bunch of random scribbling, but it’s important to me.’
From the study Mr Red cried: ‘Holy hopping Jesus, Morrie! We hit the jackpot! Eee-doggies, there’s a ton of cash! Still in the bank envelopes! Dozens of them!’
At least sixty, Rothstein could have said, maybe as many as eighty. With four hundred dollars in each one. From Arnold Abel, my accountant in New York. Jeannie cashes the expense checks and brings back the cash envelopes and I put them in the safe. Only I have few expenses, because Arnold also pays the major bills from New York. I tip Jeanne once in awhile, and the postman at Christmas, but otherwise, I rarely spend the cash. For years this has gone on, and why? Arnold never asks what I use the money for. Maybe he thinks I have an arrangement with a call girl or two. Maybe he thinks I play the ponies at Rockingham.
But here is the funny thing, he could have said to Mr Yellow (also known as Morrie). I have never asked myself. Any more than I’ve asked myself why I keep filling notebook after notebook. Some things just are.
He could have said these things, but kept silent. Not because Mr Yellow wouldn’t understand, but because that knowing red-lipped smile said he just might.
And wouldn’t care.
‘What else is in there?’ Mr Yellow called. His eyes were still locked on Rothstein’s. ‘Boxes? Manuscript boxes? The size I told you?’
‘Not boxes, notebooks,’ Mr Red reported back. ‘Fuckin safe’s filled with em.’
Mr Yellow smiled, still looking into Rothstein’s eyes. ‘Handwritten? That how you do it, genius?’
‘Please,’ Rothstein said. ‘Just leave them. That material isn’t meant to be seen. None of it’s ready.’
‘And never will be, that’s what I think. Why, you’re just a great big hoarder.’ The twinkle in those eyes – what Rothstein thought of as an Irish twinkle – was gone now. ‘And hey, it isn’t as if you need to publish anything else, right? Not like there’s any financial imperative. You’ve got royalties from The Runner. And The Runner Sees Action. And The Runner Slows Down. The famous Jimmy Gold trilogy. Never out of print. Taught in college classes all over this great nation of ours. Thanks to a cabal of lit teachers who think you and Saul Bellow hung the moon, you’ve got a captive audience of book-buying undergrads. You’re all set, right? Why take a chance on publishing something that might put a dent in your solid gold reputation? You can hide out here and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.’ Mr Yellow shook his head. ‘My friend, you give a whole new meaning to anal retentive.’
Mr Blue was still lingering in the doorway. ‘What do you want me to do, Morrie?’
‘Get in there with Curtis. Pack everything up. If there isn’t room for all the notebooks in the duffels, look around. Even a cabin rat like him must have at least one suitcase. Don’t waste time counting the money, either. I want to get out of here ASAP.’
‘Okay.’ Mr Blue – Freddy – left.
‘Don’t do this,’ Rothstein said, and was appalled at the tremble in his voice. Sometimes he forgot how old he was, but not tonight.
The one whose name was Morrie leaned toward him, greenish-gray eyes peering through the holes in the yellow mask. ‘I want to know something. If you’re honest, maybe we’ll leave the notebooks. Will you be honest with me, genius?’
‘I’ll try,’ Rothstein said. ‘And I never called myself that, you know. It was Time magazine that called me a genius.’
‘But I bet you never wrote a letter of protest.’
Rothstein said nothing. Sonofabitch, he was thinking. Smartass sonofabitch. You won’t leave anything, will you? It doesn’t matter what I say.
‘Here’s what I want to know – why in God’s name couldn’t you leave Jimmy Gold alone? Why did you have to push his face down in the dirt like you did?’