Death Benefits Read Online Free PDF Page A

study it, but Stillman said, “That’s the good part of being in business for yourself. You get to start and stop when you feel like it.”
    “What’s the bad part?”
    “Your boss is an asshole, and he knows that you feel nothing for him but contempt. Of course, I wouldn’t enjoy those compartments they put you in. It’s not that I can’t sit still or something.”
    “I noticed.”
    Stillman glanced at him. “Yeah, I guess you would have. But those little cubbyhole things . . . ” He shook his head sympathetically. “The problem with them is that they’re insulting. You’re locked up, but there’s no door to close, so people can look in on you.” He paused. “Ever been in prison?”
    Walker’s head turned toward Stillman, but Stillman’s expression had not changed. This was just part of the breezy conversation. “No. Have you?”
    “It’s like that, sort of. It’s about who has the options. Prisons are set up so there’s no question in the prisoner’s mind that he’s not going anyplace, but so he knows he can be watched—not that he is, but that he can be.”
    Walker had not missed the fact that Stillman had not answered his question. He said, “The cubicles aren’t quite that bad. The wall cuts the noise and helps you keep your mind on what you’re doing. On a good day I look down, then look up again and it’s time for lunch. I come back, same thing. When it’s time to go home, I print a hard copy of what I’ve done, and the amount I’ve done surprises me.”
    Stillman didn’t seem convinced. “How long have you been at it?”
    “Almost two years; a year and a half in my cubicle.” It was almost reassuring that the questions were so transparent and simple. If Stillman were investigating Walker, he would already know all of this.
    “Oh, yeah,” said Stillman. “That’s right. You were in the training class with Kennedy and Cardarelli and Snyder and Wang and those people.”
    Walker nodded, then stared ahead as they walked farther into Chinatown, past shops that were as big inside as department stores had been when he was a child in Ohio, but filled with a jumble of cast-resin imitations of carved smiling Buddhas, T-shirts that said GREETINGS FROM ALCATRAZ , genuine antiques, and cases of jewelry that looked as though it might be spectacularly expensive. Stillman took him past restaurants on both sides of the street with oversized double bronze doors, but showed no interest in them. Walker decided that it was time to face the difficult part. He said, as casually as he could, “What are you doing at McClaren’s?”
    Stillman showed no surprise. “Once in a while they call me in when something’s bothering them. I’m doing some investigating.”
    Walker felt his heart begin to pump harder. The job at McClaren’s that he had liked shrunk and withered in his imagination. Enough, he thought. “Are you here to investigate me?”
    “Hell no,” said Stillman. “I’m here to eat lunch.” He walked on more quickly, then turned a corner.
    Walker followed him a few steps, then stopped abruptly.
    Stillman turned in surprise, cocked his head, and waited.
    Walker said, “I want to know whether I’m some kind of suspect.”
    Stillman took two steps toward him, and Walker remembered that he didn’t know this man at all. From the beginning, Walker had noticed an air of barely suppressed violence about him, a permanent tension. Walker felt instinctively that if Stillman wanted to attack him physically, his best chance would not be to remain immobile and hope to fend him off. Stillman’s face was only two feet from his own now, and he looked enormous. Walker got ready, his eyes on Stillman’s and his arms tightening to strike first if he saw a sudden movement.
    “Mr. Walker. John,” Stillman amended. “I hereby swear, what I’m investigating is not you. If you’ve done something, it might be me that catches you at it, but I give you my solemn oath that I don’t know about it now,