contest involving silence or stillness or maintaining a straight face. I once, presumably out of some heart-felt anger, maintained a silence for so long I forgot who I was. With speech went character, with character memory, with memory me. All I can recall from that time was the feeling of being something very very small, encased within some sort of roomy cocoon. I was erased entirely; that was before Binelli gave me the new papers. We stood off and Binelli lost.
—Finley, he said.—I need you to go back in there and talk to this guy.
—Which guy, I wondered. There were so many, all of such pleasing aspect.
—He’s in the back right corner. He runs Up All Puppets!
—What.
—Up All Puppets!
—Did. You. Say. I continued as if he hadn’t interrupted and then there was again silence, it being unclear whose turn it was to speak. The question having already been answered, as it were.
Again, a standoff. Again, my victory.
—Up All Puppets!
I tried to remain calm.—I will not.
—But you will.
—Puppets, I informed Binelli,—are my Most Hated Thing.
—Not so. He considered for a moment.—Not so at all. What about the Russians?
He had me there. I had no love for the Russians. Less than no love. A negative value of love. Despite my Russian papers and my tidy grasp of the Russian tongue.
—That being as it may, I told him,—Puppets are right up there.
—No, he said.—No, I think you hate that girl dressed in blue a little bit more than Puppets.
He was slick. I did, I did with every fiber of my being hate that girl dressed in blue more than Puppets, although no more certainly than the Russians. I hated also to concede but concede I did.
She was simply too tall, too gregarious. Too easy with her affections.
—Well then, he continued,—Puppets are—and only if there’s nothing I’m forgetting—third on your list of Most Hated Things. Let me, if I may, offer a parallel.
I let him.
—You, he told me,—are one of my Most Hated Things. I find you utterly and irrevocably despicable.
I nodded. This was no secret.
—However, he said,—you know as well that Murphy is, to my thinking, a notch or two ahead of you in despicability. Irredeemable despicability. And then, you are also aware, I find The Lamb perhaps more despicable than that. Making you, you Finley, third on my list of Most Hated Things. Which is why you, and neither Murphy nor The Lamb, are being Assigned the Third-Worst Assignment.
—Up All Puppets!? I said, quite unnecessarily.
—Indeed. Now, should you refuse, as I’m sure you will not, you will rise in despicability and therefore be Assigned perhaps the Second- or even First-Worst Assignment. Having risen in the ranks, so to speak. Would you like to know what the Second- and First-Worst Assignments entail?
His smile was such that I didn’t.
3
I went back into the bar and cast my eyes about the men. I tried not to swoon. There was a man in the back right corner, alone at a table. Alone, that is, but for a decanter of what one might reasonably assume to be beer, if one were the assuming type.
—What are you drinking, I said, sliding in beside him.
He looked me up and down. I took the opportunity to glance casually about the area for Puppets. I saw none but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. Who knows how these Puppet men operate. I maintained an aura of alertness. He was of such pleasing aspect.
—Look, I’m not really—
I put a finger to my lips.—No need to explain. I’m only here to work out some details.
I sniffed at the decanter. It was indeed beer. I signaled the barman for an extra glass. Beer tends to smooth out those initial awkwardnesses.
—First, I told him, as I waited for my glass to arrive,—I have to ask that you not suddenly pull out your Puppets. I was Assigned to this job, and I am prepared to carry it out with all appropriate aplomb and enthusiasm, but I have to admit to a certain distaste, I said in a polite way of putting it mildly,—for the fundamental tools of your profession.
He’d been hitting the pitcher hard, evidently, awaiting my arrival; the confusion on his face could not be masked. Or perhaps it wasn’t confusion. Perhaps there was a confidence scheme at work and he didn’t want it widely known that he was the man behind Up All Puppets! Perhaps there were enemies or competitors close at hand. An elderly Indian gentleman a bit farther back in the corner was looking upon us with what seemed an excess of interest. I glared for a moment and then turned back to the Puppet Man.
I nodded sagely at his blank stare.
—I understand, I assured him.—You maybe have a code name you’d prefer? Something we could use to make the conversation subtle yet smooth, insofar as we’d know to what each of us was referring, while keeping our neighbors (a dark glare again at the not yet chastened neighbor) in the dark?
He shrugged his acquiescence, but offered no alternative.
I thought long and hard.—How about ‘firewood?’ I said.
The Puppet Man was a cagey one; he neither argued nor assented. It occurred to me that Binelli might have offered up a bit more information before throwing me into the Assignment, but Binelli would only have said that it was my job to gather the pertinent information. My job to suck, as it were, the details from the tight-lipped party. Like snake-poison from a big toe. I used the necessary imaginative tools at my disposal. I leaned in.
The glass I’d requested was smacked down on the table by the thin-hipped barman at that very moment, averting any possibility of sucking for the time being. Informational or otherwise. I poured a generous helping of the beer and offered to refill the Puppet Man’s glass.
—Look, he said, holding a hand up.
I stopped pouring. I looked up. He shook his head impatiently and motioned for the pouring to continue.
I wondered if the Puppet Man was in some way impaired.
He took a long drink from his glass of beer and set it back on the table.—Look, he said again.—I just got out of something and I don’t really—
—Whoa! I told him, holding up my own hands.—I have to ask that you maintain some sort of professionalism here. You are, I admit, a man of very pleasing countenance, and under different circumstances I might allow temptation to overtake my duties. And I can certainly, I said,—understand your own attraction, but let me please assure you that it is based solely on illusion; I am not at all desirable. I am only confused and therefore appear slightly insane, which I understand is quite attractive to the average male. Not to imply that you are at all average, per se, but only that I understand your willingness to throw caution to the wind and attempt to entice me into drunken foreplay. My first priority however, I said,—is the Assignment, as I’m sure beneath your animal impulses your priority rests as well. Therefore, I will ask that we hold off the flirting, kissing, fondling, et cetera, until we’ve come to some sort of agreement regarding the Puppets.
He looked slightly mortified.
—I’ve embarrassed you, I said apologetically, without really apologizing. I’d meant every word and knew that as soon as he was out from under my sway he too would realize the wisdom of my lecture.—Please understand, this is not a direct rebuke of your affections, only a holding off until such a time as they would be more appropriate. Perhaps after another decanter or two of beer, when the business is completed to our mutual satisfaction. Agreed?
I