every day with target practice in the basement firing range, even on weekends and mornings when he woke up in strange beds. Perhaps especially on those mornings. He enjoyed the ritual, which made him feel disciplined, prepared for any assignment, and was surprised that so few of his fellow agents did the same.
At that hour on a Sunday the range was mostly deserted, but he spotted Pete Amberson, his roommate from training, in a stall near the entrance. Pete’s jacket and fedora were hanging from the wall behind him, and the vision of a confederate in uniform for a moment made Walls a believer in the world’s logic and reason. The spareness further settled him—the peeling paint, much pockmarked with bullet holes—and he took a deep breath of the stale basement air, which had the odor of an old gym where fireworkshave been set off. “Pete!” he said, raising his hand with an accidental enthusiasm he soon came to regret.
“Walls,” Pete observed. The muscles of his face flexed as though he were happy to see Walls, in a not exactly friendly way. He opened the chamber to dump the spent cartridges, kicked them into the coppery pile that spread out from under his stall, and replaced his gun in its holster. They shook hands. “You’re here early.”
“Yes.” Walls shrugged and hung his coat and hat on the hook next to Pete’s. “You, too.”
“Got to keep sharp.” Pete winked, and changed the subject. “Hope you haven’t bought any furniture.” The meaning of that facial tautness became clear to Walls: Pete had something on him, fodder for the variety of joshing one-upmanship of which he had been the foremost practitioner at Quantico.
“Some.” This was a lie. Walls lived in a furnished room, and he’d paid so little attention to its décor that he wasn’t sure if he could truthfully say what the color scheme was, or even whether he liked it. “Why?”
“I hear you got a new assignment.”
“Really?”
Hope bloomed briefly in Walls. He was currently the most junior agent on a surveillance operation, the object of which was a group of supposed communists whose rhetoric seemed, to him, undergraduate in the extreme. They printed pamphlets, spoke only in the most abstract terms of any kind of violence, and though his superiors apparently regarded them as a threat, he felt sure their convictions would dissolve long before they did anything that justified arrest. Privately, Walls believed Uncle Edward to be behind this assignment—Uncle Edward was the type of man who, depending on the political climate, alternated between high government posts and big business, and who never sat through a meal without being called away to the telephone. He knew everybody, and though he never expressed any specialfondness for Walls, it was in his nature to be gratified by the notion that he’d kept his baby sister’s only child out of the line of fire, far from anything interesting.
“That’s what I hear.”
“From who?”
“Saw Special Agent Hoffman this morning—he’s looking for you. That, and the last man on the job is a friend of mine.”
“What happened to him?”
The way Pete’s lips curled, Walls knew that the transfer wasn’t going to make him any more impressive than he currently was. “Got himself on an organized crime case up in New York. Big-time stuff.”
“What’s the job?”
“Word is you’re the Director’s new peeping tom on Marilyn.”
“Monroe?” The fact that the one name followed the other so automatically did not make its utterance in this locale any less outrageous.
“And I must say I think you owe it to all of us to end up on Marilyn.”
Ignoring the comment, Walls asked, “Why me?”
“Maybe he thought it takes a blond to get inside the head of another blonde.” Pete snickered. “Maybe he thought you’d look good in a bathing suit, soaking up the California sun.”
“California?”
Though he would have liked an answer to this question, Walls was relieved when
At that hour on a Sunday the range was mostly deserted, but he spotted Pete Amberson, his roommate from training, in a stall near the entrance. Pete’s jacket and fedora were hanging from the wall behind him, and the vision of a confederate in uniform for a moment made Walls a believer in the world’s logic and reason. The spareness further settled him—the peeling paint, much pockmarked with bullet holes—and he took a deep breath of the stale basement air, which had the odor of an old gym where fireworkshave been set off. “Pete!” he said, raising his hand with an accidental enthusiasm he soon came to regret.
“Walls,” Pete observed. The muscles of his face flexed as though he were happy to see Walls, in a not exactly friendly way. He opened the chamber to dump the spent cartridges, kicked them into the coppery pile that spread out from under his stall, and replaced his gun in its holster. They shook hands. “You’re here early.”
“Yes.” Walls shrugged and hung his coat and hat on the hook next to Pete’s. “You, too.”
“Got to keep sharp.” Pete winked, and changed the subject. “Hope you haven’t bought any furniture.” The meaning of that facial tautness became clear to Walls: Pete had something on him, fodder for the variety of joshing one-upmanship of which he had been the foremost practitioner at Quantico.
“Some.” This was a lie. Walls lived in a furnished room, and he’d paid so little attention to its décor that he wasn’t sure if he could truthfully say what the color scheme was, or even whether he liked it. “Why?”
“I hear you got a new assignment.”
“Really?”
Hope bloomed briefly in Walls. He was currently the most junior agent on a surveillance operation, the object of which was a group of supposed communists whose rhetoric seemed, to him, undergraduate in the extreme. They printed pamphlets, spoke only in the most abstract terms of any kind of violence, and though his superiors apparently regarded them as a threat, he felt sure their convictions would dissolve long before they did anything that justified arrest. Privately, Walls believed Uncle Edward to be behind this assignment—Uncle Edward was the type of man who, depending on the political climate, alternated between high government posts and big business, and who never sat through a meal without being called away to the telephone. He knew everybody, and though he never expressed any specialfondness for Walls, it was in his nature to be gratified by the notion that he’d kept his baby sister’s only child out of the line of fire, far from anything interesting.
“That’s what I hear.”
“From who?”
“Saw Special Agent Hoffman this morning—he’s looking for you. That, and the last man on the job is a friend of mine.”
“What happened to him?”
The way Pete’s lips curled, Walls knew that the transfer wasn’t going to make him any more impressive than he currently was. “Got himself on an organized crime case up in New York. Big-time stuff.”
“What’s the job?”
“Word is you’re the Director’s new peeping tom on Marilyn.”
“Monroe?” The fact that the one name followed the other so automatically did not make its utterance in this locale any less outrageous.
“And I must say I think you owe it to all of us to end up on Marilyn.”
Ignoring the comment, Walls asked, “Why me?”
“Maybe he thought it takes a blond to get inside the head of another blonde.” Pete snickered. “Maybe he thought you’d look good in a bathing suit, soaking up the California sun.”
“California?”
Though he would have liked an answer to this question, Walls was relieved when
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