down.”
Now that the invitation had been extended, Ethan could afford to inject a little authenticity into this charade by demurring. “Thanks, but I just came in from the rain—”
“Can’t hurt this furniture,” Reynerd assured him.
Leaving the door open behind himself, Ethan went inside.
The living room and dining area comprised one large space. The kitchen was open to this front room, but separated from it by a bar with two stools.
Reynerd proceeded into the kitchen, to a counter under a wall phone, while Ethan perched on the edge of an armchair in the living room.
The apartment was sparsely furnished. One sofa, one armchair, a coffee table, and a television set. The dining area contained a small table and two chairs.
On the television, the MGM lion roared. The sound was low, the roar soft.
On the walls were several framed photographs: large sixteen-by-twenty-inch, black-and-white art prints. Birds were the subject of every photo.
Reynerd returned with a notepad and a pencil. “This do?”
“Perfect,” Ethan said, accepting the items.
Reynerd had a dispenser of Scotch tape, as well. “To fix the note on George’s door.” He put the tape on the coffee table.
“Thanks,” Ethan said. “I like the photographs.”
“Birds are all about being free,” Reynerd said.
“I guess they are, aren’t they? The freedom of flight. You take the photos?”
“No. I just collect.”
In one of the prints, a flock of pigeons erupted in a swirl of feathered frenzy from a cobblestone plaza in front of a backdrop of old European buildings. In another, geese flew in formation across a somber sky.
Indicating the black-and-white movie on the TV, Reynerd said, “I was just getting some snacks for the show. You mind…?”
“Huh? Oh, sure, I’m sorry, forget about me. I’ll jot this down and be gone.”
In one of the pictures, the birds had flown directly at the photographer. The shot presented a close-up montage of overlapping wings, crying beaks, and beady black eyes.
“Potato chips are gonna kill me one day,” Reynerd said as he returned to the kitchen.
“With me it’s ice cream. More of it in my arteries than blood.”
Ethan printed DEAR GEORGE in block letters, then paused as if in thought, and looked around the room.
From the kitchen, Reynerd continued: “They say you can’t ever eat just one potato chip, but I can’t ever eat just one
bag
.”
Two crows perched on an iron fence. A strop of sunlight laid a sharp edge on their beaks.
White carpet as pristine as winter snow lay wall to wall. The furniture had been upholstered in a black fabric. From a distance, the Formica surface of the dinette table appeared to be black.
Everything in the apartment was black-and-white.
Ethan printed UNCLE HARRY IS DYING and then paused again, as if a simple message taxed his powers of composition.
The movie music, though soft, had a melodramatic flair. A crime picture from the thirties or forties.
Reynerd continued to rummage in kitchen cabinets.
Here, two doves appeared to clash in midflight. There, an owl stared wide-eyed, as if shocked by what it saw.
Outside, wind had returned to the day. A dice-rattle of rain drew Ethan’s attention to the window.
From the kitchen came the distinctive rustle of a foil potato-chip bag.
PLEASE CALL ME, Ethan printed.
Returning to the living room, Reynerd said, “If you’ve got to eat chips, these are the worst because they’re higher in oil.”
Ethan looked up and saw a bag of Hawaiian-style chips. Reynerd had inserted his right hand into the open bag.
The way that the bag gloved the apple man’s hand struck Ethan as
wrong
. The guy might have been reaching in for some chips, of course; but an oddness of attitude, a tenseness in him, suggested otherwise.
Stopping beside the sofa, not six feet away, Reynerd said, “You work for the Face, don’t you?”
At a disadvantage in the armchair, Ethan pretended confusion. “For who?”
When the hand came out of
Now that the invitation had been extended, Ethan could afford to inject a little authenticity into this charade by demurring. “Thanks, but I just came in from the rain—”
“Can’t hurt this furniture,” Reynerd assured him.
Leaving the door open behind himself, Ethan went inside.
The living room and dining area comprised one large space. The kitchen was open to this front room, but separated from it by a bar with two stools.
Reynerd proceeded into the kitchen, to a counter under a wall phone, while Ethan perched on the edge of an armchair in the living room.
The apartment was sparsely furnished. One sofa, one armchair, a coffee table, and a television set. The dining area contained a small table and two chairs.
On the television, the MGM lion roared. The sound was low, the roar soft.
On the walls were several framed photographs: large sixteen-by-twenty-inch, black-and-white art prints. Birds were the subject of every photo.
Reynerd returned with a notepad and a pencil. “This do?”
“Perfect,” Ethan said, accepting the items.
Reynerd had a dispenser of Scotch tape, as well. “To fix the note on George’s door.” He put the tape on the coffee table.
“Thanks,” Ethan said. “I like the photographs.”
“Birds are all about being free,” Reynerd said.
“I guess they are, aren’t they? The freedom of flight. You take the photos?”
“No. I just collect.”
In one of the prints, a flock of pigeons erupted in a swirl of feathered frenzy from a cobblestone plaza in front of a backdrop of old European buildings. In another, geese flew in formation across a somber sky.
Indicating the black-and-white movie on the TV, Reynerd said, “I was just getting some snacks for the show. You mind…?”
“Huh? Oh, sure, I’m sorry, forget about me. I’ll jot this down and be gone.”
In one of the pictures, the birds had flown directly at the photographer. The shot presented a close-up montage of overlapping wings, crying beaks, and beady black eyes.
“Potato chips are gonna kill me one day,” Reynerd said as he returned to the kitchen.
“With me it’s ice cream. More of it in my arteries than blood.”
Ethan printed DEAR GEORGE in block letters, then paused as if in thought, and looked around the room.
From the kitchen, Reynerd continued: “They say you can’t ever eat just one potato chip, but I can’t ever eat just one
bag
.”
Two crows perched on an iron fence. A strop of sunlight laid a sharp edge on their beaks.
White carpet as pristine as winter snow lay wall to wall. The furniture had been upholstered in a black fabric. From a distance, the Formica surface of the dinette table appeared to be black.
Everything in the apartment was black-and-white.
Ethan printed UNCLE HARRY IS DYING and then paused again, as if a simple message taxed his powers of composition.
The movie music, though soft, had a melodramatic flair. A crime picture from the thirties or forties.
Reynerd continued to rummage in kitchen cabinets.
Here, two doves appeared to clash in midflight. There, an owl stared wide-eyed, as if shocked by what it saw.
Outside, wind had returned to the day. A dice-rattle of rain drew Ethan’s attention to the window.
From the kitchen came the distinctive rustle of a foil potato-chip bag.
PLEASE CALL ME, Ethan printed.
Returning to the living room, Reynerd said, “If you’ve got to eat chips, these are the worst because they’re higher in oil.”
Ethan looked up and saw a bag of Hawaiian-style chips. Reynerd had inserted his right hand into the open bag.
The way that the bag gloved the apple man’s hand struck Ethan as
wrong
. The guy might have been reaching in for some chips, of course; but an oddness of attitude, a tenseness in him, suggested otherwise.
Stopping beside the sofa, not six feet away, Reynerd said, “You work for the Face, don’t you?”
At a disadvantage in the armchair, Ethan pretended confusion. “For who?”
When the hand came out of
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