"Well," I ask then, hopefully, "maybe he did, huh?"
"His girlfriend doesn't think so," Kimball says tonelessly.
Without even beginning to understand, I imagine, what a speck Paul Owen was in the overall enormity of things.
"But..." I stop. "Has anyone seen him in London?"
Kimball looks at his book, flips over a page and then, looking back at me, says, "Actually, yes."
"Hmmm," I say.
"Well, I've had a hard time getting an accurate verification," he admits. "A... Stephen Hughes says he saw him at a restaurant there, but I checked it out and what happened is, he mistook a Hubert Ainsworth for Paul, so..."
"Oh," I say.
"Do you remember where you were on the night of Paul's appearance?" He checks his book. "Which was on the twenty-fourth of June?"
"Gosh... I guess..." I think about it. "I was probably returning videotapes." I open my desk drawer, take out my datebook and looking through December announce, "I had a date with a girl named Veronica..." I'm completely lying, totally making this up.
"Wait," he says, confused, looking at his book. "That's.. not what I've got."
My thigh muscles tense. "What?"
"That's not the information I've received," he says.
"Well..." I'm suddenly confused and scared, the Nuprin bitter in my-stomach. "I... Wait... What information have you received?"
"Let's see..." He flips through his pad, finds something. "That you were with - "
"Wait." I laugh. "I could be wrong..." My spine feels damp.
"Well..." He stops. "When was the last time you were with Paul Owen?" he asks.
"We had" - oh my god, Bateman, think up something - "gone to a new musical that just opened, called... Oh Africa, Brave Africa." I gulp. "It was... a laugh riot... and that's about it. I think we had dinner at Orso's... no, Petaluma. No, Orso's."
I stop. "The... last time Iphysically saw him was... at an automated teller. I can't remember which... just one that was near, um, Nell's."
"But the night he disappeared?" Kimball asks.
"I'm not really sure," I say.
"I think maybe you've got your dates mixed up," he says, glancing at his book.
"But how?" I ask. "Where do you place Paul that night?"
"According to his datebook, and this was verified by his secretary, he had dinner with... Marcus Halberstam," he says.
"And?" I ask.
"I've questioned him."
"Marcus?"
"Yes. And he denies it," Kimball says. "Though at first he couldn't be sure."
"But Marcus denied it?"
"Yes."
"Well, does Marcus have an alibi?" I have a heightened receptivity to his answers now.
"Yes."
Pause.
"He does?" I ask. "You're sure?"
"I checked it out; " he says with an odd smile. "It's clean."
Pause.
"Now where were you?" He laughs.
I laugh too, though I'm not sure why. "Where was Marcus?" I'm almost giggling.
Kimball keeps smiling as he looks me over. "He wasn't with Paul Owen," he says enigmatically.
"So who was he with?" I'm laughing still, but I'm also very dizzy.
Kimball opens his book and for the first time gives me a slightly hostile look. "He was at Atlantis with Craig McDermott, Frederick Dibble, Harry Newman, George Butner and" - Kimball pauses, then looks up - "you."
In this office right now I am thinking about how long it would take a corpse to disintegrate right in this office. In this office these are the things I fantasize about while dreaming: Eating ribs at Red, Hot and Blue in Washington, D.C. If I should switch shampoos. What really is the best dry beer? Is Bill Robinson an overrated designer? What's wrong with IBM? Ultimate luxury. Is the term "playing hardball" an adverb? The fragile peace of Assisi. Electric light. The epitome of luxury. Of ultimate luxury. The bastard's wearing the same damn Armani linen suit I've got on. How easy it would be to scare the living wits out of this f**king guy. Kimball is utterly unaware of how truly vacant I am. There is no evidence of animate life in this office, yet still he takes notes. By the time you finish reading this sentence, a Boeing jetliner will take off or land somewhere in the world. I would like a Pilsner Urquell.
