She shrugged, washing her hands of the matter, and went on trimming and dying her hair.
It was morning when she kissed Oliver good-bye, said to Charles: "See you at the station. Don't say good-bye," and walked from the apartment, a dark-haired boy with a slight limp. Charles watched her down the street. A cop turned to look after her and then went on his way.
Half an hour later Charles shook hands with Oliver and went out.
Oliver didn't go to work that day. He sat all day at the table, drawing endless slow sketches of Lee Falcaro's head.
Time the Great Kidder, he thought. He opens the door that shows you in the next room tables of goodies, colorful and tasty, men and women around the tables pleasantly surprised to see you, beckoning to you to join the feast. We have roast beef if you're serious, we have caviar if you're experimental, we have baked alaska if you're frivolous—join the feast; try a little bit of everything. So you start toward the door.
Time, the Great Kidder, pulls the rug from under your feet and slams the door while the guests at the feast laugh their heads off at your painful but superficial injuries.
Oliver slowly drew Lee's head for the fifteenth time and wished he dared to turn on the audio for the news. Perhaps he thought, the next voice you hear will be the cops at the door.
XXI
Charles walked down the street and ran immediately into a challenge from a police sergeant.