In the morning, he woke up with one thought in mind. He called his lawyer, Simon Oliver. "It,s about the Nideck estate," he said. "It,s about all the personal property up there and, most especially, the personal effects and papers of Felix Nideck. I want to make an offer on all of it."
Simon started to advise patience, taking things one step at a time. Reuben had never gone into his capital before. Why, Grandfather Spangler (Grace,s father) had only been dead now five years, and what would he have thought of this rash expenditure? Reuben interrupted. He wanted everything that had belonged to Felix Nideck, unless Marchent had made arrangements otherwise, and then he hung up the phone.
Not like me to talk like that, is it, he thought. But he hadn,t been rude, really, just eager to advance the plot.
That afternoon, after his article had gone to press at the Observer, he was dozing, half awake, looking out the window at the fog rolling in over San Francisco Bay, when Oliver called to say that the Nideck estate lawyers were very receptive. Marchent Nideck had discussed her frustration at not knowing what to do with all that Felix Nideck had left behind. Did Mr. Golding want to make an offer on the entire contents of the house and all its related buildings?
"Absolutely," said Reuben. "Everything, furniture, books, papers, whatever."
He closed his eyes. He cried for a long time. The nurse looked in once, but obviously not wanting to intrude, left him alone. "Marchent," he whispered. "Beautiful Marchent."
He told the nurse he had an intolerable craving for some beef broth. Could you get in the car and find some, you know, just some really good fresh beef broth?
"Well, I,ll make it," she said. "Just let me go to the store and get what I need."
"Superb!" he said.
He was dressed before her car left the curb.
Slipping out the front door before Phil was the wiser, he was off walking, pounding down Russian Hill towards the bay, loving the feel of the wind, loving the spring in his legs.
In fact, his legs felt stronger than they ever had, it seemed to him. He might have expected a little stiffness after so many days and nights in bed. But he was really sprinting along.
It was dark when he found himself in North Beach. He was moving along past the restaurants and bars, eyeing people, feeling strangely separate from them, that is, able to look at them as if they couldn,t see him. Of course they did see him, but he didn,t feel as if he was being seen, and that was something entirely new in his brain.
All his life, he,d been conscious of how people saw him. He,d been far too visible for his own comfort. And now it didn,t matter. It was as if he was invisible. He felt so free.
He went into a dimly lighted bar, took one of the stools near the end, and ordered a Diet Coke. Didn,t matter to him what the bartender thought, for the first time in his life.
He drank it down and the caffeine sizzled in his brain.
He fell to watching the passersby through the glass doors.
A man came in, large boned, with a thick knotted forehead, and sat down a couple of stools away. He wore a dark worn leather jacket and he had two thick silver rings on his right hand.
There was something decidedly ugly about this guy, about the way he hunched forward over the bar, and the way he told the bartender he wanted a beer. The guy seemed to reek of some malevolent power.
Suddenly he whipped around. "You like what you see?" he demanded of Reuben.
Reuben regarded him calmly. He felt not the slightest urgency to respond. He continued to look at him.
Suddenly, in a fury, the man got up and moved out of the bar.
Reuben calmly watched. He knew intellectually that the man had become angry, and that the situation was one which men in general sought to avoid: making a big guy angry in a bar. But none of this much mattered. He was considering all the little details of what he,d seen. The man was guilty of something, very guilty. The man was uncomfortable just being alive.
Reuben left the bar.
All the lights had come on. Daylight was absolutely gone. The traffic had thickened, and there were more people on the streets. An atmosphere of gaiety surrounded him. There were cheerful faces everywhere that he turned.
But then he heard voices, voices from far off.
For one second, he couldn,t move. A woman somewhere was fighting with a man. The woman was angry but frightened. And the man threatened the woman and the woman began to scream.
Reuben was paralyzed. His muscles were tense, hard. He stood there caught by the sounds he was hearing, but utterly unable to place them. Slowly he realized that someone had approached him. It was the surly uncomfortable man from the bar.
"You still looking for trouble?" the man snarled. "Faggot!" He placed his open hand on Reuben,s chest and tried to shove him backwards, but Reuben didn,t budge. His right fist shot up and struck the man right under his nostrils, sending him off the sidewalk and into the gutter.
People around them were gasping, whispering, pointing.
The man was astonished. Reuben watched him, watched his shock, watched the way he reached for his bloody nose, watched the way that he backed up, almost into the traffic, and then sauntered off.
Reuben looked down at his hand. No blood, thank God.
But he had an uncontrollable desire to wash his hand nevertheless. He stepped out in the street and hailed a cab and went home.
Now all this must mean something. He had been overpowered by two thug druggies who,d nearly killed him. And now he was able very easily to defend himself against a big lumbering guy who two weeks ago might have scared him out of his wits. Not that he was a coward, no. He just knew what all men know: you don,t tangle with some belligerent weather-beaten guy who outweighs you by seventy-five pounds and has arms that are half a foot longer than your arms. You get out of the way of violent men like that. Fast.
Well, not now.
And it must mean something, but he had trouble caring what it meant. He was still wrapped up in the details.
Grace was in hysterics when he got home. Where had he been?
"Out, Ma, what do you think?" he asked. He went to the computer. "Look, I,ve got to get to work."
"What is this," she stammered, gesturing wildly, "delayed adolescent rebellion? I mean is that what,s happening now, you,re going through some sort of adolescent recharge of your whole system?"
His father spoke up from his book.
"Son, are you sure you want to offer two hundred thousand dollars for the personal possessions of this Nideck family? Did you really tell Simon Oliver to do that?"
"It,s a steal, Dad," he said. "I,m trying to do what Marchent would want."