He stared at me, as if I'd said something stupid. “Because he listened. Right after the Hitler canonization, I called him and told him it had bothered me. And he listened. I could tell he was taking me seriously. He made an appointment to speak to me. I was going to show up, but something came up—another dungeon.”

“Why'd you tell him your name was Merino? Why'd you tell me you were Mr. Silk?”

Wrinkled forehead. “You spoke to Harrison? Maybe I'll visit him after all.”

A sick feeling flooded me. “He doesn't know anyth—”

“Don't fret, fool, I'm fair, always have been. I gave all of you the same chance I gave Harrison. But the rest of you flunked.”

“You never called me,” I said.

Smile. “November thirtieth, nineteen seventy-nine. Two p.m. I have a written record of it. Your snotty secretary insisted you only treated children and couldn't see me.”

“She wasn't supposed to screen—I never knew.”

“That's an excuse? When the troops fuck up, the general's culpable. And it was a chance you didn't even deserve—a lot more than I got, or Delmar, or any of the other loved ones. You muffed it, bro.”

“But Rosenblatt,” I said. “He did see you.”

“He was the biggest hypocrite. Pretending to understand—the soft voice, the phony empathy. Then he revealed his true colors. Quizzing me, trying to get into my head.” Coburg put on an unctuous look: “ 'I'm hearing a lot of pain . . . one thing you might consider is talking about this more.' ” Fury compressed the light brown eyes. “The phony bastard wanted to give me psychoanalysis to deal with my conflicts. Hundred-buck-an-hour couch work as a cure for political oppression because he couldn't accept the fact that he'd worshiped Hitler. He sat there and pretended to hear, but he didn't believe me. Just wanted to mess with my head—the worst one of all, bye-bye birdie.”

He made a shoving motion with his free hand and smiled.

I said, “How'd you get him to see you outside his office?”

“I told him I was bedridden. Crippled by something Hitler had done. That piqued his interest, he came right over that evening, with his kind looks and his beard and his bad tweed suit—it was hot but he needed his little shrink costume. The whole time he was there, I stayed in bed. The second time, also. I had him bring me a drink . . . serving me. It was a really muggy day, the window was wide open for air. Tissue box on the ledge—karma. I pretended to sneeze and asked him to get me a tissue.” Shove. “Fly away, hypocrite bird.”

Other people's houses. A financial man . . . A farm in Connecticut. Did that mean an apartment in New York City? And her such an educated woman.

She a lawyer, he a banker.

I said, “The apartment belonged to your mother and stepfather.”