From the place where Gregor was standing, the hall went in two directions, right and left, Gregor tried to orient himself, and decided that the front of the building was probably to his left. He went that way, past the Water Department, and got to a corner. He turned the corner and found the office of the tax collector. Obviously, the basement was laid out like a gigantic doughnut, with a concrete block instead of a hole in the middle. Gregor passed a ladies’ room and kept on going.
Finally, when he turned the next corner, Gregor heard signs of life. Somebody slammed a door. Somebody called out to somebody else. There was a fire door set up in the middle of the hall—because of worries about fires? because of worries about security?—and Gregor went through it. On the other side of it he found a big sign with the words BELLERTON POLICE DEPARTMENT written on it. He also found an open door with light spilling out of it.
Gregor went to the open door and looked in. The big man he had seen first was now standing at a coffee machine, fiddling with coffee grounds and water. The smaller man was now sitting at a desk and reading. There was a radio in one corner of the room, tuned to the state police band. It was giving out information on traffic conditions on Interstate 95.
Gregor knocked as loudly as he could on the frame of the door and waited. The big man didn’t hear him. The small man heard him, and looked up, and jumped to his feet.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
The big man turned around now, and looked Gregor over. Then he looked at the small man and said, “You shouldn’t swear like that, Jackson. You don’t know who you might be talking to.”
“Well, I’m not talking to a preacher now, am I?” Jackson demanded. “Look at him. He’s one of those reporters.”
“I’m Gregor Demarkian,” Gregor said.
The big man came across the room and held out his hand. “I know you are,” he said. “I read an article about you in People magazine. I’m Clayton Hall.”
“How do you do.” Gregor shook the man’s hand. He never shook hands anymore, except in small towns. People in cities seemed to have given the practice up.
Jackson was looking back and forth between Clayton Hall and Gregor Demarkian. He dropped back down in his chair and said, “My, my. Gregor Demarkian. You finally got here.”
“Now, now,” Clayton Hall said.
“Tell me something,” Jackson said. “Are you a religious man, Mr. Demarkian?”
Gregor was beginning to think he ought to become a Buddhist, at least for as long as he was going to stay in Bellerton. He was also wondering if Jackson was this man’s first or last name.
“You don’t want to get started on all that religious stuff,” Clayton Hall said. “Mr. Demarkian just got here. I hope you don’t mind too much, Mr. Demarkian. The religion thing has become a sore point down here over the past few weeks. People are beginning to feel—harassed.”
“Harassed isn’t the half of it,” Jackson said. “Persecuted is more like it. Persecuted.”
“Certain members of the media from up North,” Clayton Hall said, “seem to think that belief in a literal interpretation of the Bible is irrefutable proof of mental retardation.”
“They think it turns you into an ax murderer,” Jackson snarled. “They think it makes you crazy.”
“Mr. Demarkian didn’t come here to talk about religion,” Clayton Hall said. “Or I don’t think he did. Why don’t you come in and have a seat, Mr. Demarkian. Drink a cup of coffee. David Sandler says you’re a very intelligent man.”
“David Sandler says you’re a very intelligent man.”
There was a full coffeepot sitting next to the coffee maker, which was just beginning to pour dark brown liquid into an empty one. Clayton Hall picked up the full pot and poured some coffee into a small white Styrofoam cup.
“Have a seat,” Clayton Hall said again.
Gregor made his way into the room and found a chair to sit in. All the chairs were wooden and cheap and uniform, the kind of chairs they used to have in schoolrooms when he was a child. The air-conditioning, he realized, was even stronger in here than it had been in the hall. Neither Clayton Hall nor his associate Jackson seemed to notice the cold. Because of it, Gregor took the coffee gratefully when Clayton finally handed it to him, in spite of the fact that he knew what it would taste like. Police department coffee tastes the same everywhere, all over the world. Police departments in Bolivia serve up the same awful brew that sits ready and waiting in police departments in New York. Gregor took a long sip and was instantly warmer. He also felt instantly a little sick.