Panic!

The waitress moved away, and Vollyer belched delicately, if sourly, and sighed again. He wore a tailored powder-blue suit and a handmade silk shirt the color of fresh grapefruit juice; his tie was by Bronzini, dark blue with faint black diamonds, fastened to his shirt by a tiny white-gold tack; his shoes were bench-crafted from imported Spanish leather, polished to a high gloss. On the little fingers of each hand he wore thick white-gold rings, with platinum-and-onyx settings in simple geometric designs. He had wide, bright blue eyes that gave him the appearance of being perpetually incredulous, and silvered hair that was cut and shaped immaculately to the roundness of his skull. The curve of his lips was benign and cheerful, and from the faint wrinkles at each corner you could tell that he laughed often, that he was a complacent and happy man.

There was movement from across the room, and Vollyer saw that Di Parma was finally coming back from the telephone booth. He smiled in a fatherly way. He had felt paternal toward Di Parma from the moment he met him, he didn’t know exactly why; Livio was thirty-six, only fifteen years younger than Vollyer, but he gave the impression of being just a youth, of needing constant guidance and direction. It wasn’t that his actions, his thoughts, were juvenile, it was just that he had this habitual look of being lost, of being about to burst into tears, which got right down and pulled at your heart. Vollyer liked Di Parma. He had only been working with him for eight months now, but he liked him considerably more than any of the others he had worked with over the years; he hoped that they could stay together for a while, that nothing would come up to necessitate a severance of their relationship. There were a lot of things he could teach Di Parma, and Livio was a willing student. It gave you a sense of well-being, of completion, when you had somebody like that to work with, somebody who didn’t claim to know all the answers because he’d been around in some of the other channels for a while, somebody who could follow orders without back-talking or petulance.

Di Parma slipped into the booth across from him, a frown tugging at the edges of his mouth, corrugating the faintly freckled surface of his forehead. He was a very tall man with crew-cut brown hair and medium-length sideburns, dressed in a dove-gray suit that managed to look rumpled most of the time, in spite of the fact that it had cost as much money as Vollyer’s powder-blue one. His shirt and tie were striped, colors harmonious, but he wore no clip or tack, no jewelry of any kind; he had an intense personal aversion to it and he refused to wear it, even refused to wear a wedding ring—a fact which never ceased to amaze Vollyer. He possessed a slender, aquiline nose that gave the illusion of turning up like an inverted fishhook when you faced him, and liquid brown eyes that conveyed the sense of bemusement which Vollyer found so appealing. His hands were oversized, spatulate, and he was self-conscious about them; he put them under the table now, because he had the inveterate feeling that everybody, even Vollyer, would stare at them if they were in plain sight, although Harry had told him on a number of occasions that his hands were not anywhere near as conspicuous as he imagined.

Vollyer smiled paternally and said, “Did you get through to Jean all right?”

“No,” Di Parma answered, frowning, “no, she wasn’t home. I called back twice but she didn’t answer.”

“Maybe she went out shopping.”

“She does her shopping on Tuesdays and Fridays,” Di Parma said. “This is Monday, Harry.”

“A movie then, or a walk.”

“Jean doesn’t like movies, and she’s been having this trouble with her arches. She’s been to a podiatrist three times already this month.” He worried his lower lip. “Damn, I don’t know what to think.”

“Livio, Livio, you just talked to her this morning. She was fine then, wasn’t she?”

“Sure. Sure, she was okay.”

“Then she’s okay now, too,” Vollyer said reasonably. “It’s only been four hours.”

“But she’s not home and she’s always home this time of day.”

“Are you sure she didn’t say something to you this morning about going out? Or maybe last night? Think about it, Livio.”

Di Parma thought about it—and then he blinked and looked surprised and said, “One of the neighbors asked her to come over to some kind of luncheon. Us being new in the neighborhood and all.”

Vollyer nodded tolerantly. “You see? Nothing to get excited about.”

Di Parma was embarrassed. “Hell, Harry, I—”

“Forget it,” Vollyer said. He made a dismissive gesture. “You’re too tense all the time. Relax a little.”

“Well,” Di Parma said, and cleared his throat. “Did you order yet? I’m hungrier than I thought I was.”

“All taken care of.”

“A steak sandwich for me, no fries?”

“Just like always.”