1975 - Night of the Juggler Read Online Free Page B

hunting prints that had belonged to his father, the deep chairs of antelope hide, the small-scale maps whose battlefields he knew from personal experience, and the portable campaign desk on which was a tray of bottles, glasses, and bucket of ice cubes. And his books and charts and maps, of course.
    Luther Boyd had asked the producer, his landlord, to clear all the shelves of leather-bound collections of scripts and press clippings, and now a portion of Boyd’s personal library stood in their place: military histories, biographies, and the battle orders of classic conflicts from Hamilcar Barca to Grant and Patton.
    Still massaging his hard, angular jaw in a gesture of reflexive anxiety, Boyd stood at the windows and looked down at the pedestrian and automobile traffic on Fifth Avenue and the sidewalk running parallel to Central Park. He noted something then, absently, without interest, his reaction a simple professional reflex; in the pedestrian traffic moving along the eastern side of the park, one man stood as motionless as a rock in a stream, a big man, Luther Boyd could judge, even from this height, who was simply standing there, streams of pedestrians eddying around him, and his head, topped by what seemed to be a yellow cap, was tilted back as if he were staring up at the windows of Boyd’s apartment.
    Good soldiers, like good cops, trust their instincts. They try to understand an unnatural silence on a battlefield; they try, and frequently succeed, to define the cannon or tank beneath nets of camouflage; and with a combination of experience and instinctual perceptions, they sense the movements of troops, know well in advance the vectors of attack and the possible collapse of flanks.
    And if these martial nuances were correct, the reserves would be committed in time and those flanks would hold like solid walls of iron and will.
    And because Luther Boyd was an expert in military tactics and strategy, he was wondering idly, but without real interest (in truth, distracting himself from thinking of Barbara), why this big man was standing motionless in the rush hour when everyone was hurrying for trains and buses and home.
    Kate ran into the room, and Luther Boyd swung his daughter up in his arms and sat down with her in one of the deep suede chairs. She had changed into plaid slacks and a light-blue cashmere sweater whose color flattered her blue eyes and shining blond hair. Straight from her bath, she was as fragrant as a bar of fresh soap.
    “Now what’s all this about Bob Elliott?” he said, after she had given him a hug and a kiss.
    Kate told him about their betrayal with flashing eyes and ferocious zest, but when she finished, her mood changed, and she sighed and said, “I really felt a little bit sorry for him afterward, because he knew that I knew he was lying.”
    “I wouldn’t waste any sympathy on him,” Boyd said. “He broke his word to you and he lied to you because he didn’t have the guts to tell you the truth.”
    Kate looked into her father’s eyes, then looked away from him and with the tip of a finger drew a slow, small circle around the buttonhole in the lapel of his gabardine jacket.
    “Daddy, if Mommy’s never coming home, shouldn’t we talk about it?”
    He searched vainly for words to answer her question, and the silence between them became awkward and embarrassing. At last he said,
    “Very well, we’ll talk about it.”
    They heard Harry Lauder barking with excitement and anticipation at the front door of the living room.
    “I’d better take him out for a walk first,” she said. “He knows it’s time.”
    “All right,” Luther Boyd said. “Then we’ll have our talk. But remember the ground rules, Kate. Make sure Mr. Brennan is on the sidewalk where he can see you, and stay on this side of the avenue.”
    Kate untangled herself from his arms and lap and walked to the door, where she stopped with her back toward him, a suggestion of tension in her little shoulders. She looked