X bridged his hands over his eyes—the light over the bed seemed to be blinding him—and said that Loretta’s insight into things was always a joy.
Clay glanced over at him. “Listen, ya bastard,” he said. “She knows a goddam sight more psychology than you do.”
“Do you think you can bring yourself to take your stinking feet off my bed?” X asked.
Clay left his feet where they were for a few don’t-tell-me-where-to-put-my-feet seconds, then swung them around to the floor and sat up. “I’m goin’ downstairs anyway. They got the radio on in Walker’s room.” He didn’t get up from the bed, though. “Hey. I was just tellin’ that new son of a bitch, Bernstein, downstairs. Remember that time I and you drove into Valognes, and we got shelled for about two goddam hours, and that goddam cat I shot that jumped up on the hood of the jeep when we were layin’ in that hole? Remember?”
“Yes—don’t start that business with that cat again, Clay, God damn it. I don’t want to hear about it.”
“No, all I mean is I wrote Loretta about it. She and the whole psychology class discussed it. In class and all. The goddam professor and everybody.”
“That’s fine. I don’t want to hear about it, Clay.”
“No, you know the reason I took a pot shot at it, Loretta says? She says I was temporarily insane. No kidding. From the shelling and all.”
X threaded his fingers, once, through his dirty hair, then shielded his eyes against the light again. “You weren’t insane. You were simply doing your duty. You killed that pussycat in as manly a way as anybody could’ve under the circumstances.”
Clay looked at him suspiciously. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”