DON'T MISS ANY OF THESES
CHILLING BESTSELLERS
BY IRA LEVIN
ROSEMARY'S BABY
THIS PERFECT DAY
THE STEPFORD WIVES
THE BOYS FROM BRAZIL
SLIVER
Now available wherever
Bantam Books are sold
9780553180831

Acclaim for Ira Levin's new bestseller
SLIVER
"Ira Levin is the Swiss watchmaker of the suspense
novel; in terms of plot, he makes what the rest of us
do look like those five-dollar watches you can buy at
discount drugstores. . . . Mr. Levin, who wove his
jittery, compelling magic in such novels as Rose-
mary's Baby, The Stepford Wives, and The Boys
from Brazil, has in Sliver created the apartment
dweller's worst nightmare. As always, his characters
have a texture and a reality that's almost eerie, and
the narrative is as stripped-down and efficient as an
automatic weapon."
I enjoyed Sliver to the limit. Ira Levin is the daddy of
all contemporary horror writers and I think it's im-
portant to remember that it was Rosemary's Baby
that began the whole late-20th-century cycle (was,
indeed, the book that kicked me into becoming a
writer myself).... Ira is the real master of horror."
A page turner . . . [Levin] just gets better. . . . Sliver
becomes so irresistible that it will have you phoning
in sick."
-STEPHEN KING
hi
-THOMAS TRYON,
author of The Wings of the Morning
-THOMAS M. DISCH
Entertainment Weekly
ight and fast and fun.
-KIRKUS REVIEWS
tightly written, quick-paced thriller."
-THE KNOXVILLE NEWS-SENTINEL
"A

Ira Levin's
Novels and Plays
Sliver
Cantorial
Deathtrap
The Boys from Brazil
Veronica's Room
The Stepford Wives
Break a Leg
This Perfect Day
Dr. Cook's Garden
Rosemary's Baby
Drat! The Cat!
Critic's Choice
General Seeger
Interlock
No Time for Sergeants
A Kiss Before Dying

A NOVEL
IRA LEI
bantam
books I NEW YORK / TORONTO / LONDON / SYDNEY / AUCKLAND

This is, as the title page states, a novel, which means that
everything in it is fictional. The author is grateful to the
following people for advice and information on various
subjects: Paul Busman, Gloria Dougal, Peter L. Felcher,
Herbert E. Kaplan, Adam Levin, Jed Levin, and Genevieve
Young.
SLIVER
A Bantam Book
PRINTING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published March 1991
Bantam export edition / December 1991
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1991 by Ira Levin.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-46204.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is
stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and
neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped
book."
ISBN 0-553-18083-5
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell
Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the
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countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York
10103.
Printed in the United States of America.
OPM 0987654321

to
Dorothy Olding

ONE

1
It was a good Monday morning to begin with—the
Hoffmans slugging it out again, Dr. Palme on the
phone with a suicidal ex-patient, the Coles' maid
getting it off with one of their vibrators, Lesley and

4 IRA LEVIN
Phil meeting in the laundry room—and then it got
even better. MacEvoy came into the lobby with a
woman who looked like Thea Marshall, the same
oval face, the same dark hair. Obviously she was
there to look at 20B, repainted the week before.
He watched them ride up in the number-two el-
evator. She was beautifully built, tall and bosomy,
in a good-looking medium-dark suit. Threw a
glance his way then stood with a hand on her shoul-
der bag watching MacEvoy spieling about the cen-
tral air-conditioning and the Poggenpohl kitchen.
Thirty-five or -six. A strong resemblance.
He put the 20B living room and bedroom on the
masters and watched her come into the foyer and
across the bare living room, her heels twanging on
the parquet. She looked good from behind too as
she went to the window and stood facing out over
the lower buildings across Madison. "It is a glori-
ous view," she said, and her voice, melodic and
throaty, echoed Thea Marshall's.
He couldn't spot a wedding ring but she was
probably married or living with someone. He was
going to approve her no matter what, of course,
assuming she decided she wanted the apartment.
He crossed his fingers.
She turned from the window, looked around,
smiled. Raised her face. Coming closer, she looked
right at him—Thea Marshall looked right at him—
knocking him breathless.

SLIVER 5
"What a lovely light," she said. The shallow
glass ceiling dish was sculpted in Art Deco curves.
In its chrome center her small raspberry-clad reflec-
tion hung face down looking at her.
"Isn't it?" Mrs. MacEvoy said, coming up beside
her. "They're all through the building. Truly, no
expense was spared. It was planned as a condo
originally. The rent is a bargain, considering."
The rent was high but not impossible. She
walked back toward the foyer, turned, surveyed the
room—freshly white-painted, twenty by twenty-
two, the window wide and large, the floor parquet,
a pass-through to the kitchen. ... If the rest of the
apartment was on a par, she would have to make a
decision then and there, first shot out of the classi-
fieds. Did she really want to leave Bank Street? Go
through all the hassle of moving?
She went on to the foyer.
The kitchen was handsome—tan laminate, stain-
less steel. Fluorescent lighting under the cabinets,
appliances trim and foursquare. Good counter
space.
The bathroom beyond it was glitzy but fun.
Black glass walls, black fixtures, chrome hardware;
a large tub, a stall shower. Tube lights by the over-

6 IRA LEVIN
the-sink cabinet; another chrome-centered Art
Deco dish in the black glass ceiling, smaller than
the one in the living room.
The bedroom, at the end of the foyer, was almost
as large as the living room, freshly white too, the
left-hand wall all accordion-doored closets. An-
other wide window at the back, another great
view—a slice of the yellowing park and part of the
reservoir, the roof of a Gothic mansion on Fifth.
More than enough space for the desk against the
right-hand wall by the window, with the bed, of
course, across from the window and facing it. She
sighed at her upside-down self in the ceiling light,
at Mrs. MacEvoy waiting in the corner by the door.
"This is the first apartment I've looked at," she
said.
Mrs. MacEvoy smiled. "It's a gem," she said. "I
wouldn't let it slip through my fingers."
They went back into the foyer. Mrs. MacEvoy
opened the linen closet.
.She took another look around, thinking about
her beautiful apartment on Bank Street with its
high ceilings and working fireplace. And its rock
club on the corner, its roaches, its two years of Jeff
and six years of Alex.
"I'll take it," she said.
Mrs. MacEvoy smiled. "Let's go back to my of-
fice," she said. "You can fill out the application and
I'll put it right in the works."

SLIVER 16
He got antsy waiting for Edgar's call. It didn't
come till late Wednesday afternoon. "Hello, Ed-
gar," he said, killing both masters, "how are you?"
"Getting on tolerably well. You?"
"Fine," he said.
"The September statement is on its way; consid-
ering how the market's been behaving, I think you'll
be pleased. About the building: I had Mills speak
to Dmitri again about the lobby."
"Tell him to try it in Russian," he said. "That
piece of marble is still there. I mean those two
pieces."
"I'm sure the new piece is on order, I'll check
and get back to you. And Mrs. MacEvoy has an
applicant for twenty B. Did I tell you it was going
vacant?"
"Yes," he said, "you did."
"Kay Norris. Thirty-nine, divorced. She's a sen-
ior editor at Diadem, the publishing house, so she
ought to be nice and quiet. Credit history and ref-
erences first-rate. Mrs. MacEvoy says she's good-
looking. She has one cat."
"Is Kay her name or her initial?" he asked.
"Her name."
"Kay Norris."

8 IRA LEVIN
"Yes."
Printing it on the clipboard, he said, "She sounds
ideal. Tell Mills to see that everyone takes extra
good care of her."
"I will. There's nothing else at the moment...."
"Then don't let me keep you," he said. Hung up.
Underlined it: Kay Norris.
Older than he'd thought, thirty-nine.
Thea Marshall had been forty when she died; he
drew a breath, sighed a long sigh.
He switched on the masters and put her living
room on 1 and her bedroom on 2, the same as
Monday morning. The bedroom glared, sunlight
pouring through the bare window. He turned the
brightness down. Up a little in the living room.
His hands on the console, he gazed at the two
empty rooms on the twin masters. The monitors
spread away in multitiered wings, blue-white, flick-
ing with movement here and there.
She called Alex on Thursday night and told
him to come get his books.
"Oh God, Kay, I know I keep saying it but this
is really the worst possible time, the semester start-
ing. You'll have to keep them just a few more
months."
"Sorry, I can't," she said. "I'm moving a week

SLIVER 9
from tomorrow. Either pick them up or I'm putting
them outside. I've lost my interest in medieval ar-
chitecture. God knows why."
He hadn't heard about her breakup with Jeff. He
sounded genuinely sorry. "It's good you're moving,
it's a fine idea. Start fresh. What have you found?"
She told him about it. "And it's on the next-to-
the-top floor," she said. "You can see some of the
East River from the living room and a piece of Cen-
tral Park from the bedroom. Daylight galore. It's a
lovely neighborhood, lots of well-kept old build-
ings, low ones, and the Cooper-Hewitt Museum is
a block away."
"Thirteen . . . Hundred . . . Madison . . ."—in
the musing tone he used before putting her down.
"A sliver building? Narrow site?"
She drew breath and said, "Yes ..."
"Kay, that's where the man was decapitated in
the elevator machinery last winter. Remember? The
super? There've been three or four deaths there and
it's only a few years old. I remember thinking it's a
pity the address is Thirteen Hundred because it re-
inforces superstition. That was the lead-in they
used on TV, 'Thirteen hundred is an unlucky num-
ber on Madison Avenue' or some such. Of course
you're—" "Alex," she said, "I knew about that. Do
you think that I'm superstitious? Why did you ex-
pect me to mention it?"
"I was about to say, of course you're not super-

10 IRA LEVIN
stitious, but I thought you would want to know
anyway, if you didn't."
"The books, Alex," she said.
They agreed he would come pack them on Sun-
day afternoon and have tliem removed during the
week. They said good-bye, she hung up.
Old Reliable. Negative, negative, negative.
It was awful about the super but the apartment
was great nonetheless. She certainly wasn't going to
let Alex and some tabloid-TV newscaster sour her
on it. Three or four deaths over three years wasn't
remarkable; two apartments on a floor meant forty
altogether, with couples, probably, in most of
them—sixty or seventy people. Without counting
the turnover. And the staff.
Felice rubbed against her ankle. She picked her
up, cradled her on her shoulder, nuzzled purring
calico fur. Said, "Ooh Felice, are you in for a sur-
prise! A whole new world. No more roaches to play
with. Poor you. At least I hope not. You never
know."

2
A
11 man in a light blue sweater hurried ahead of her,
straight-armed the thick glass door, and leaning,
braced it open for her. She was carrying two flat
cartons of precious breakables, one atop the other,

12 IRA LEVIN
and the doorman was getting someone with suit-
cases into the cab she'd gotten out of, so she was
grateful. She smiled and thanked the man as she
passed his arm. He was young and blue-eyed, good-
looking.
A kneeling workman chip-chipped at the marble
floor by the entrance to the mail room. Above the
elevator doors, B and 15 glowed in red digits.
The young man had crossed the lobby after her
and was standing a few feet away on her right. She
side-glanced at him as he looked from one indica-
tor to the other, an I-Heart-New-York bag of gro-
ceries hanging from his hand. Reeboks, jeans, the
light blue pullover. He was trim and clean-cut, her
height, with reddish-brown hair. Twenty-five,
twenty-six. He turned and said, "I could take one
of those	"
"They're light," she said. "But thanks."
He smiled at her—a dynamite smile, wide,
bracketed with dimples, his blue eyes vivid.
She smiled and looked at the indicators—B and
15.
"Somebody's holding them," the very young
man said, and turned and went to the side of the
lobby, where security monitors glowed screens-up-
ward in a tan marble block banked with greenery.
The doorman came in—Terry, husky in his gray
uniform, ruddy-faced. She had given him a ten-
dollar handshake the last time she was there. He
looked sadly at her and said, "Sorry I couldn't get
the door."

SLIVER 13
"No problem," she said.
"The guy on fifteen is holding the elevator
again," the young man said.
Terry shook his head on his way to the monitors.
"Them Hoffmans ..." He bent and peered, jabbed
a button. Jabbed it longer, turning toward her.
"Dmitri is just now putting the pads up in the other
car," he said.
"It'll be a while before they get here," she said.
"They wtere stopping to eat."
He headed for the door. "I'll buzz you when I see
em.
"Mother Truckers!" she called over the cartons.
A howling police car raced up the avenue flinging
red and white light as Terry opened the door for a
jogger in a hooded sweatsuit. "It's coming," the
young man said, returning. "Are you moving in?"
"Yes," she said. "In twenty B."
"I'm in thirteen A," he said. "Pete Henderson."
"Hi," she said, smiling over the cartons. "Kay
Norris." The jogger was watching her, jogging in
place a few yards away; as she glanced at him, he
looked toward the chip-chipping and watched that.
Rawboned cheeks and a sandy mustache, fortyish.
"Where are you moving from}" Pete Henderson
asked.
"Bank Street," she said to him. "In the Village."
The elevator door slid sideward and a schnauzer
shot out pawing marble, leashed back by a woman
in a blue denim pantsuit, mirror sunglasses, and a

14 IRA LEVIN
white kerchief. The man behind her wore mirror
sunglasses and a baseball cap, a bomber jacket, chi-
nos. He caught up with the woman and they
hooked fingers as they followed the schnauzer to-
ward the door.
She carried the cartons into the tan leathery ele-
vator and turned around. Pete Henderson touched
the 20 and 13 buttons alight, glancing at her. She
smiled. He nodded to the jogger, who nodded back,
touched 9, faced the closing door. Dark blotches
spined his gray sweatsuit.
She looked at the changing number above the
door, at the videocamera perched in the corner.
Frowned at it. They were useful, of course, surveil-
lance cameras, reassuring even—yet disquieting,
with their intimation of unseen watchers.
The door slid open. The ninth-floor hallway was
the same as the twentieth and the others she'd
seen—a tan Parsons table and a gilt-framed mirror
against a black-and-white-checked wall, brown
carpet. The hooded man went to the right, to the A
apartment, as the elevator door slid closed.
"I know the neighborhood pretty well," Pete
Henderson said, "so if you need any information
about stores or anything ..."
"How's the market across the street?" she asked.
"Fine," he said. "These are from there. There's a
Sloan's over on Lexington that's cheaper." The
door slid sideward.
"Good to know," she said as he went out into

SLIVER 15
the thirteenth-floor hallway — black and white
checks, brown carpet.
Turning, he put a hand across the door's edge
and smiled his dynamite smile. "Welcome to the
building," he said. "I hope you enjoy living here."
Smiling at him over the cartons, she said,
"Thank you."
He smiled at her, holding the door open.
She said, "They're getting heavy.. . ."
"Oh God, I'm sorry!" His hand flew; the door
slid sideward. "See you!" he said.
"See you," she said as the door slid closed.
She smiled.
Cute, Pete Henderson.
Twenty-seven, tops.
After the movers had gone and she had put the
trash down the chute on the stairway landing, she
washed up, poured herself a diet soda, and gave the
place an objective survey. In the mellowing late-
afternoon light her mix of contemporary and Vic-
torian furniture looked far less grungy than she had
anticipated. With the worst pieces replaced—
maybe by something Art Deco, tying in with the
ceiling lights—and with the cartons gone, books
shelved, paintings and curtains hung, with the light
and the views and the post-Ice-Age kitchen and

16 IRA LEVIN
bathroom and the blessed quiet, the apartment was
definitely going to be all-around-better than the old
one. And memory-free! The only thing she would
miss was the fireplace. Felice would miss it too; she
had always come hurrying at the sound of the
screen's chain. . . .
She phoned Roxie and offered to pick Felice up
that evening, but Roxie was working and wanted to
leave things as planned: she would bring her over
the next afternoon and help with the unpacking.
Maybe they'd have dinner, Fletcher was away. Felice
was fine.
She touched base again with Sara and listened to
messages, not many and none that couldn't wait till
Monday for action. With forecasts promising an
ideal Indian-summer weekend, the day had been
quiet even for a Friday. She told Sara to go home.
She decided to pick up the groceries she needed
before starting to work on the cartons; unpacked
the answering machine and connected it to the desk
phone, checked it out and left it on. Found her
maize sweater and pulled it on over her shirt;
fluffed her hair, did a one-two with lipstick and
blush in the bathroom mirror, tucked her wallet
and keys in the pockets of her jeans.
A tall balding man in a business suit came into
the elevator on seventeen. They nodded and he
reached to the lighted L button, stayed his hand,
stepped back. On eight a square-jawed woman in
dark green came in—stocky, with black bangs and

SLIVER 17
straight hair. She eyed Kay with a week's worth of
mascara and silver-blue eyeshadow, turned and
faced the door. Her handbag and high-heeled
pumps were snakeskin; the suit looked pricey too.
Perfume suffused the air—Giorgio, a major over-
dose.
In the lobby, she saw Dmitri standing over to the
right, his fists on his hips, his shaggy head down.
She went to him, following in the Giorgio wake of
the woman in green, who went into the mail room.
Dmitri raised his head; she thanked him for help-
ing the move-in go smoothly. She had shaken his
hand the other day at double the doormen's rate.
"Glad," he said, smiling, apple-cheeked. "I hope
all is how you like, Meese Norris."
"It is," she said. Looked down at the new span
of marble. "That looks good."
He shook his head. "No," he said. "Manager
will say is too light. See? All around not-so-light,
here too light. Will say is no good." He heaved a
sigh.
"It's awfully close," she said.
"You think?" His dark eyes looked at her.
"It gets my vote," she said. "Thanks again."
"Glad, Meese Norris," he said. "Please. Any
problem, you call."
She went to the door and pulled it open. The tall
man who had been in the elevator waited under the
rim of the canopy while the doorman, one she
hadn't seen before, blew his whistle and waved at

18 IRA LEVIN
the traffic coming up the avenue. She held the door
open behind her for a gray-haired man in a Beetho-
ven sweatshirt; he caught the door's edge, looking
at her with dark-ringed eyes. Smiling, she turned
and went to the corner, Ninety-second and Madi-
son.
Dont Walk changed to Walk as she joined the
people waiting. She crossed Madison and strolled
back up on the other side, looking into a restau-
rant, Sarabeth's; a hotel entrance, the Wales; an-
other restaurant, Island, its front open to the mild
weather. She went into Patrick Murphy's Market.
In narrow aisles stacked almost to the ceiling,
she tracked down cat food and litter, yogurt and
juices, cleaning supplies. The prices were higher
than in the Village but she'd expected that. Her for-
ties, she had decided, were going to be a decade of
self-indulgence. She backtracked to the ice-cream
case and took a chocolate chip.
When she pushed her cart onto the shorter of the
two checkout lines, the man in the Beethoven sweat-
shirt came along after her with a basket. He was in
his sixties, his mane of gray hair unkempt. Beetho-
ven was gray too, hair and face, white lines washed
thin on the purplish sweatshirt. The basket held a
pack of Ivory and some cans of sardines. "Hi," he
said, the slow shopper. Though maybe he'd gone
somewhere else first.
"Hi," she said. "Why don't you go ahead of
me?"

SLIVER 19
"Thanks," he said, and went around her as she
drew back her cart. He turned before it and looked
at her, a bit shorter than she, light glinting in his
dark-ringed eyes. "You moved in today, didn't
you," he said. His voice had a rasp in it.
She nodded.
"I'm Sam Yale," he said. "Welcome to Thirteen
Hundred. A really rotten year."
She smiled. "Kay Norris," she said, trying to re-
member where she'd heard the name Sam Yale be-
fore. Or seen it?
"You brought a painting in the other day," he
said, backing into space by the end of the counter.
"Is that by any chance a Hopper?"
"Don't I wish," she said, following him with the
cart. "It's by an artist named Zwick who admires
Hopper."
"It looks good," he said. "At least from a third-
floor window. I'm in three B."
"Are you an artist?" she asked.
"Don't I wish," he said, turning. He moved over
and put his basket on the counter before the clerk.
She turned the cart against the end of the counter
and unloaded it while Sam Yale—where had she
seen that name?—paid for his soap and sardines.
He waited by the exit door with his I-Heart-
New-York bag, watching her, while the clerk tallied
her items, made change, bagged everything, two
bags.
Streetlights shone under a violet sky when they

20 IRA LEVIN
came out. Traffic was jammed and honking, the
sidewalk crowded. He said, "I figure that a woman
who hires Mother Truckers wants to carry her own
bags, am I right?"
She smiled and said, "At the moment."
"Fine with me . . ."
Walking toward the corner, she looked beyond
him at 1300's towering tan slab. Violet sky filled
the two lanes of windows climbing its narrow
front. She spotted her own window all the way up,
one from the top on the right. "It's a goddamn eye-
sore, isn't it?" Sam Yale said.
She said, "The neighbors must have been
thrilled."
"They fought it, for years."
She looked at him in profile. His nose had been
battered long ago, his stubbly cheek was scarred.
They were at the corner waiting. She said, "I've
seen your name somewhere, or heard it."
"Son of a gun," he said, looking across toward
the sign. "Long ago maybe. I directed. TV, in the
'golden age.' When it was black and white and live
from New York." He glanced at her. "You were
watching from your playpen."
"I wasn't allowed to watch," she said, "not till I
was sixteen. Both my parents teach English."
"You didn't miss much," he said. "Kukla, Fran,
and Ollie; the rest is overrated. Which isn't to say
it wasn't better than today's crapola."

SLIVER 21
The sign changed. They started across the ave-
nue.
"Now I remember," she said, smiling at him.
"You directed a play Thea Marshall was in."
He stopped, dark-ringed eyes looking at her.
She stopped. "I saw a kinescope at the Museum
of Broadcasting," she said. "Last year. I've been
told a few times that I look like her." People hur-
ried past them. "Let's not get killed," she said.
They walked on across the avenue.
"It's a strong resemblance," he said. "Even the
vocal quality."
"I don't see it at all," she said. "Well, maybe a
little . . ." She stopped on the sidewalk, faced him.
"That's why you followed me," she said.
He nodded, his gray hair lifted by a breeze.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to pester you," he
said. "I just wanted a better look. She wasn't the
love of my life or anything. She was someone I
worked with a few times."
They walked toward the canopy.
"What did she die of?" she asked.
"A broken neck," he said. "She fell down a flight
of stairs."
She sighed and shook her head.
The doorman hurried toward them—tall and
thin, middle-aged, in glasses. "Hi, Walt," Sam Yale
said.
Walt took her bags as she introduced herself.

11 IH A LEVIN
"I have to get something in Feldman's," Sam
Yale said. "Which play did you see?"
"It was set in a beach house," she said. "Paul
Newman was in it, about twenty-two."
"The Chambered Nautilus."
"Yes."
He nodded. "The Steel Hour, Tad Mosel. She
wasn't bad in that."
"She was excellent," she said. "Everyone was. It
was a moving play, beautifully done."
"Thanks," he said. Smiled at her. "See you," he
said, and turned and went.
"See you," she said, and watched him go toward
the housewares store farther up the block, walking
briskly—black sneakers, jeans, the faded purplish
sweatshirt. She turned. Walt stood inside the lobby
in his gray uniform, his back against the open door,
looking at her, holding her two bags of groceries
one-handed at his side.
"Sorry," she said. She went past him into the
lobby and across it toward the open left-hand ele-
vator, unsnapping her wallet as she went.
He brought the bags in after her and set them
down on the floor by the door.
"Thanks," she said, smiling, offering her hand.
He stood up tall, his face lined, his steel-rimmed
glasses blank with reflected light. He took her
hand. "Thank you, Miss Norris," he said in a bari-
tone surprisingly deep and resonant for his thin

SLIVER 23
frame. "It's nice to have you in the building." He
withdrew his hand and stepped back.
"Thanks, Walt, it's nice to be here," she said,
and touched the 20 button alight.
The door slid closed.
She watched the changing number above it.
Sam Yale . . . Interesting. And amusing.
Sixty-five at least.
She called the folks and Bob and Cass, to tell
them she was in and how great it was. Ate a straw-
berry yogurt gazing at glittering high-rises nearer
the river, Matchbox traffic down below. She'd
opened the window a few inches at either side; the
traffic sounds were a pleasant urban hum com-
pared to the grinding and growling outside the old
apartment's second-floor windows.
She washed up, fed the portable player the first
cassette of John Gielgud reading Dombey and Son,
and—feeling uneasy, she wasn't sure why—went to
work on the bedroom cartons.
Even with kay norris of the copper-brown
eyes—a far nicer color than the green he'd ex-

24 IRA LEVIN
pected—even with Kay Norris of the cream skin
and the sable hair, even with Kay Norris of the bo-
somed shirt and the buttocked jeans, hanging up
dresses and putting things into drawers got boring
after a while. John Gielgud reading Dombey and
Son didn't help.
He kept her on 2, switched the sound to 1, and
scanned the monitors, swiveling in the chair, sip-
ping the celebratory gin and tonic.
Half of them were out, either for the evening or
the whole damn Indian-summer weekend. Half of
the ones who were in were in their kitchens or
watching the tube or reading.
He watched the Gruens arguing about their
bridge signals, Daisy against using them, Glenn in-
sisting. Frank and his fiancee coming to play.
He watched Ruby taking Polaroids of Ginger.
Mark coming in with flowers—a sound move
but a night too late.
He watched the week's man from Yoshiwara set-
ting the low dark table for two. Kay was arranging
shoes on the closet floor. Both crouching in their
different cultures. Nice bit.
He listened to Stefan and a fireman in Cincinnati
who had answered the ad. Liz giving her mother the
week's dirt from Price Waterhouse.
Bonanza! Dr. Palme came into the lobby, nod-
ded to John as he went to the elevators. On a Friday
evening? Of an Indian-summer weekend? Some-
body had to be in desperate trouble. Nina? Hugh?

SLIVER 25
Michelle? Or could the good doctor be up to
hanky-panky?
Kay was still doing shoes. He put Dr. Palme's
office on 1, turned the sound higher, got up.
Stretched—a good groaner, punching the small of
his back—and brought the empty glass to the
kitchen, went on into the bathroom.
Stood thinking about her, recalling her
colors. . . .
Zipped. Flushed the black bowl.
He went into the kitchen and made another gin
and tonic, lighter this time, hearing the creaks of
Dr. Palme's leather chair, the ping and click of the
fresh tape being put into the recorder. Stirring the
drink with a fork handle, he looked out through
the pass-through. She stood by the night table, a
white phone at her cheek. He threw the fork on the
dishes in the sink and hurried back in, switching the
sound to 2 and the phone link on as he sat down in
the warm chair, " — for the moon, damn it," a
man boomed—he turned the sound lower—"just a
few minutes somewhere talking face-to-face! Is that
such a big fucking deal?"
The clock said 9:53 when she hung up. She
rolled onto her back, drew a deep breath and blew
it out slowly, blinked a few times. Lay with an arm

26 IRA LEVIN
across her forehead, looking at her miniature self
hovering beyond the foot of the bed in the center of
the ceiling light.
Good for you, Tiny.
Over and done with. Finally. Forever.
She lay there a while longer, then reached to the
night table and gathered the damp tissues. Got up
and went into the bathroom, blowing her nose.
Tossed the tissues into the black bowl and flushed
it; moved to the black sink, patted cold water on
her eyes and face. Took up the soap and scrubbed.
Looked at herself in the mirror as she toweled.
Good for you too.
And enough work for the day.
She called Roxie and got the machine. "Don't
bother," she said, "I'll tell you tomorrow. I'm turn-
ing in."
She replaced Dickens and Gielgud with Segovia's
guitar. Made the bed with stiff new clean-smelling
linens, the yellow-flowered set.
She went into the kitchen, took a taste of the
chocolate chip. Yum. Got the cleanser and sponge
from under the sink, went into the bathroom.
She scrubbed the large black tub, bending and
stretching, sweeping it rim to rim with sponge-
strokes of foam. Gripped the chrome Art Deco
spout and muzzled its mouth with her fingers;
sprayed the foam down the curving black walls,
chased it into the chrome-rimmed drain.
She ran the water hot on her wrist and started

SLIVER 36
the tub filling. Squeezed a jade loop of Vitabath
into the water, watched foam grow and spread.
Dimmed the ceiling light—beautiful, those lights—
dimmed it to a pale glow on the black glass and
porcelain.
She undressed in the bedroom, lights out, the
blind up. The distant cliff of light was Central Park
West. Lights twinkled in the park's darkness, ex-
cept where part of the reservoir lay.
She opened the left-hand side of the window;
tugged with both hands at the rim of the bronze-
bound panel, slid it a foot or so in its stubborn
knee-high track. A warm breeze brushed her bare
skin; the weather forecasts had been right for a
change.
Ahead and far below—fourteen floors, she had
worked it out—the pinnacled Gothic roof of the
Jewish Museum lay lit by the windows of the apart-
ment house alongside.
She smiled down at the dollhouse mansion.
Heights didn't bother her. Her office at Diadem
was on the forty-eighth floor, one wall of it glass
from floor to ceiling.
Once again and worse than ever he wanted to
kick himself for not having changed the bathrooms
to white. Or gray, which would have been best. He

28 IRA LEVIN
had thought about doing it when he bought the
building but the black fixtures had already been or-
dered and the Colonel had sworn that the Takai
Z/3, which had just come onto the market, could
pick up newsprint by matchlight. And it would
have been hard explaining to Edgar and company,
who already thought he was bonkers, why he was
giving up a twenty-thousand-dollar deposit to
change the color of the bathrooms. So he had stayed
with black, Barry Beck's idea of classy design.
Between the black and the dim light and the
damn foam, he could have been watching Dynasty.
Just about. . .
He had the brightness at max, so no contrast at
all—everything soaked in gray, worse than a kinny.
She was beautiful though, lying with her head rest-
ing on the corner of the tub by the wall, copper-
brown eyes closed, her feet coming out through the
foam now and then in the opposite corner. Some-
times just her toes. You could tell by the foam's
slow rolling that she was stroking herself under-
neath it—nothing heavy, just relaxing, easing her-
self after the long day moving and the shit Jeff had
dumped on her.
She had looked over at him—at her reflection in
the light, of course—twice. The first time she'd
smiled and waved a little. Knocked him out of the
chair. He'd waved back and said "Hi, Kay"—gin
and tonic number three. The second time she'd

SLIVER 29
swung her head slowly from side to side, gazing at
him.
He had her on both masters and was taping Dr.
Palme and Hugh, which was too painful and dis-
tracting for simultaneous viewing. Rocky was in
Chicago overnight for his nephew's wedding, so he
was able to focus on her completely.
No, not completely. He had to look around in
Rocky's apartment later on. No more drinks after
this one. Seriously. It was a golden opportunity;
maybe he could find an appointment schedule and
settle whether or not he was being paranoid.
Her hand came out of the foam and stroked her
throat, massaging; stroked the side of her neck. The
sloshing water sounded glassy, brilliant. Behind it,
the ventilator hummed, the guitar plinked. Segovia?
She frowned. Still thinking about that bastard
Jeff most likely. How could she have lived with him
for two years? It boggled the mind, despite Babette
and Lauren and the other women he'd seen put up
with exactly the same kind of turd. Jesus, Kay ...
He leaned back, swiveled, fished with a foot un-
der the console. Hooked out the leather pig and
pulled it closer; crossed his feet on its back, wiggled
his bare toes. Drank from the glass, watching her.
Held the glass in his lap, its wet base pressed in his
hair.
He had undressed when she did.
He sucked a sliver of ice, watching her. The two
of her, side by side on the masters.
Beautiful. . .

30 IRA LEVIN
. . . the quick-fingered guitar, the pine scent, the
hissing foam . . . the hot silky water, herself so
smooth in it. . .
But something was bugging her. .. .
A sense of a missed signal. Of odd vibes that had
come at her that day, before Jeff, vibes she'd been
too rushed to pick up on . . .
From Sam Yale? When he'd stopped in the mid-
dle of the avenue and looked at her with those in-
somniac eyes? Had he been lying about his strictly
professional relationship with Thea Marshall? In a
Gothic or thriller he would have been. . . .
What was definitely odd about him was his liv-
ing there, in 1300 Madison Avenue. Old directors
in sweatshirts and jeans lived in rent-controlled
apartments on the West Side, or down in the Vil-
lage or SoHo, among the actors and artists and wri-
ters. What was he doing in a new high-rise on the
Yupper East Side? When had he stopped directing?
Why?
What did Pete Henderson do, shopping for gro-
ceries on a Friday morning?
Worked nights, worked at home, was on vaca-
tion, had won the lottery. Whichever it was, what a
doll—the dynamite smile, the vivid blue eyes, the
reddish-brown hair. Nothing odd about his vibes;
he was young and smitten, like assistant editors. If
he were fifteen years older ... Or ten . . .
The jogger in his hooded sweatsuit, jogging in
place, watching her—was he the one who was bug-

SLIVER 31
ging her? He'd been attractive in the glimpse she'd
gotten, the rawboned cheeks and sandy mustache.
Marlboro Country. Married or gay, be sure.
Walt, when she'd tipped him? His light-blanked
eyes ...
The blond mover? No missing her signals ...
She shifted under the foam.
Maybe what was really bugging her was being
alone. . . . No Felice, no nobody, on the first night
in a new apartment. Strangers above and strangers
below, a stranger next door. (V. Travisano, the 20A
doorbell said. Victor? Victoria?)
She sat up and leaned back, her arms along the
end and side of the tub. Looked at the glowing ceil-
ing light, the curved pale patch in its dark iris, the
tiny figure seated in it.
She blew foam from her breasts—left, right,
chilling her hard nipples. Peered at the tiny dark-
haired figure . . .
Lifted her leg from the water, watching the tiny
leg, foam sliding from her heel... Arched her foot...
watching...
Touched her toe to the tip of the chrome Art
Deco spout...
Slid low in the water, foam islands breaking . ..
Maybe what she really needed . . . maybe? . . .
was an easing of the tension....

32 IRA LEVIN
He timed it so they came together.
It was great.
For what it was . . .
Sprawled with one foot on the pig and one on
the floor, he caught his breath, his hand full of tis-
sues and himself.
He stayed for a while without moving, just
breathing, watching her doing the same in the
foam-flecked water. Both of her, turned toward the
wall, showing their Thea Marshall profiles, eyes
closed. So doubly beautiful. . .
He must never put himself in her path again.
He knew. He wasn't planning to . . .
If it happened, all right, but it was to be
avoided.
He knew.
Remember Naomi.
He did. And felt rotten about her, still.
He got up, holding himself with the tissues. Kay
was back in business too, the two of her, sitting up,
soaping their underarms.
He went into the bathroom. Dropped the tissues
into the black bowl, flushed it. Shook his head,
sighing.
It was going to be hard just watching her . . .
Now that he'd seen her live and in color. . . .

3
Walled with dark-grained wood and curtained
with tiers of chain rippling up toward its three-
floors-high ceiling, the Grill Room of the Four Sea-
sons is where editors and publishers, those who
haven't moved downtown, lunch with one another

34 IRA LEVIN
and their or someone else's cherished writers. At
midday on that spacious stage (hung upstage right
with a cloud of brass rods), dark-suited men and
varicolored women settle in twos and fours at the
good and the less good tables, on the good and the
less good levels, like the birds convening on Hitch-
cock's jungle gym. They peck at who's with whom
and who looks how, who's moving where, who's
buying what. Bobbing waiters bring them food, art-
fully arranged, in portions far too large for birds.
Seating herself on a banquette on the good level,
at a less good table, Kay saw, up on the less good
level, a rawboned cheek and a sandy mustache. The
man seated in profile looked like the jogger in 9A,
but she'd only glimpsed him once, nearly a week
before, and some thirty feet separated them. He
was with a white-haired man, an editor whose
name and current house escaped her.
Her bearded guest Jack Mulligan had written,
under a pen name, sixteen romantic thrillers; she
had edited the last four, best sellers. He over-
wrote—jungles of entwined and floriferous prose;
she cut paths through branching metaphors,
chopped away vines of adverbial clauses, changed
profusions of viridescent foliation into masses of
green leaves. He had followed her from Random to
Putnam to Diadem. Publishing is played like check-
ers.
Lately he had become a media celebrity; people
stopped at the table to congratulate him and shake

SLIVER 35
his hand. "Right on, Jack!" they said, and, "It's
about time someone got even!"
"No, no, really," he said, beaming. A month or
so earlier, he had claimed and then denied respon-
sibility for a computer virus, ultimately untrace-
able, that had laid low a noted journal, stripping its
data banks of all names and words containing the
letters F and Y. The journal's review of his
Vanessa's Lover, though a quote-studded rave, had
thoughtlessly given away one of the book's sur-
prises. He had faxed four pages of fury at the edi-
tor; the customary short whine from a reader had
been published.
When the journal howled with its wound, Mul-
ligan's friends had believed his swear-you-won't-
tell phone calls. He had three sons in computers,
pioneer hackers grown and working in artificial in-
telligence and security-systems design; and further-
more, at about the same time the journal lost its F
and Y words, the author of the careless review had
vanished from the memories of more than half the
commercial computers that till then had known
and trusted him. To representatives of the District
Attorney's office and the FBI, however, Mulligan
had said—flanked by Paul, Weiss, Rifkind, and oth-
ers—no, no, he'd spoken in jest, he'd said he wished
he had done it, he deplored vandalism, and so on
and so forth. His twinkling eye had subsequently
appeared on Live at five, A Current Affair, and
Nightline's panel on computer insecurity.

36 IRA LEVIN
The upshot of the matter, as the journal and the
reviewer struggled to reorder their lives, was ex-
actly what one would expect: booming sales for
Vanessa's Lover and a request from Mulligan's
agent for a cosmic advance for a two-paragraph
outline of Marguerite's Stepfather. It was in the
faint hope of reducing that request that Kay, with
her chief's wholehearted endorsement, was lunch-
ing Mulligan at the Seasons.
"Do you know the white-haired man on the
mezzanine?" she asked when they were finally left
to themselves. "He used to be with Essandess; I
can't remember his name or where he is now."
Jack scratched his ear, turned, scanned the walls
and the ceiling, turned to her. "That's the same ta-
ble where Bill Eisenbud had his heart attack," he
said. "Wasn't he a dear man? What a shame. We
had a house next to them on the Vineyard the sum-
mer of 'seventy-three. No, 'seventy-four. A lovely
house with a big screened-in porch. All incastel-
lated with wisteria vines."
She said, "Do you know him?"
"No, it was 'seventy-three," he said. " 'Seventy-
four was South America." He shook his head.
"No," he said. "I wonder if Sheer is writing another
book. He said he wasn't. He's odd about money.
We shared a cab afterwards and I gave him a five
when I got out—there was a little under seven on
the meter—and he insisted on calculating my exact
change to the nickel."

SLIVER 37
The waiter came, bobbed for their drink order,
left.
" 'Sheer'?" she said. "You know the man with
him?"
He looked at her across the table. "I thought you
watched Nightline," he said.
"I did," she said.
"On what? That antique portable? Do you mean
to say that's still the only set you own?"
"He was on it too?"
"The doom-and-gloom man," Jack said. "The
one who wrote the book about computers making
us vulnerable to all kinds of disasters. Like getting
paid back for spoiling a story."
She said, "Hubert Sheer ... Of course, I remem-
ber now. He was hostile to you. . . ."
Jack chuckled. "Wasn't he though," he said.
"But perfectly nice in the cab. He apologized sin-
cerely for that 'juvenile mentality' crack. They dra-
gooned him for the show at the last minute, some-
body canceled. He doesn't like doing TV, though
Koppel certainly had a hard time cutting him off
once he got started. He wrote the book years ago."
"I think he lives in my new building," she said.
"Oh, does he? Yes, he could, he was going on up
Madison. . .."
They looked at the menus.
She glanced up and he was watching her, Hubert
Sheer. Sat smiling, his cheeks and forehead flushed,
his thinning hair sandy like his mustache.

38 IRA LEVIN
She gave him a low-scale smile and nod.
He nodded, redder.
The waiter put down her Perrier and lime, Jack's
Glenlivet.
They ordered—veal paillards, grilled salmon.
Jack offered his glass. "To Marguerite's Stepfa-
ther.."
She touched hers to it. "To Diadem's solvency."
"Party pooper."
They talked about a new best seller—good but
not that good—the Washington scandal, the un-
promising Broadway season.
The white-haired man came grinning; a few
yards behind him, Hubert Sheer limped against a
cane. "Kay!" the man said. "Martin Sugarman.
How are you?"
"Martin!" she said. "How nice to see you!"
He bent and kissed her cheek. "You look won-
derful!"
"So do you!" she said. "Jack Mulligan, Martin
Sugarman."
"A real pleasure!" Sugarman said, holding
Jack's hand in both of his, pumping. "It's about
time someone got even!"
"No, no, really," Jack said, beaming.
Hubert Sheer limped up, red-faced, in tan tweed,
a brown shirt, rust tie. His eyes, gray under sandy
brows, shone with suppressed excitement. He
smiled at her, braced against his cane.

SLIVER 39
"Kay, this is Hubert Sheer, who's just signed to
do a book with us. Kay Norris."
"Congratulations," she said, smiling, offering
her hand.
He took it backhanded in his left, hot and moist.
"Thank you," he said. "We're neighbors."
"I know," she said.
His gray eyes widened; he let go of her hand,
caught Jack's. "Hello," he said.
"Hello," Jack said. "What happened to you?"
"I fractured my ankle," Sheer said. "The day be-
fore yesterday." He smiled at her. "My bike fell
apart when I was on my way to make copies of the
outline. Do you think God is trying to tell me
something?"
"Maybe 'Break a leg,' " she said.
He smiled. Sugarman laughed.
"I thought you were through with books," Jack
said.
"So did I," Sheer said to him, "but Marty called
me the day after Nightline with an idea that really
excited me." His gray eyes swung back to her,
piercing. "Television," he said. "A complete over-
view of the way it's impacted on society so far and
will impact in the years ahead. Every aspect of it,
from soap operas to surveillance cameras to the ef-
fect camcorders are having on world affairs. I'm
even planning to—" "Rocky . . ." Sugarman said.
Sheer looked at him, at her. Went redder, smiled.
"I won't breathe a word," she said, smiling.

40 IRA LEVIN
"Please keep it under your hats," Sugarman said
to her and Jack. "It's very early stages."
"It sounds fascinating," Jack said. "And right in
line with your other book."
"Yes," Sheer said, "I'm really excited about it.
I've been taking a crash course in Japanese. I'm go-
ing over there next week to visit factories and inter-
view manufacturers and designers."
"It was kismet," Sugarman said. "I got the idea
in the morning, and that night, there he was on
Nightline, the perfect writer for it. Oh look, Joni's
here." He touched Sheer's shoulder. "You go ahead,
Rocky, I'll catch up with you downstairs."
Sheer looked at her. "Do you bike?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "I don't have one	"
"Neither do I," he said, smiling. "A bus got it.
They rent them in the park, by the boathouse. Can
I call when I get back?"
"Please do," she said, smiling. "I hope it's a pro-
ductive trip."
"Thank you," he said, smiling, red-faced.
He said good-bye to Jack, limped away.
Sugarman leaned closer. "Terrifically percep-
tive," he said. "Makes all kinds of surprising con-
nections. Did you read The Worm in the Apple?"
"No," she said, "I'd like to."
"I'll messenger you a copy this afternoon," he
said. "Incidentally, he asked to be introduced, if
that's of any interest. He's forty-three, divorced,
and an exceptionally nice guy. Well, I'd have come

SLIVER 41
over and said hello anyway. Wonderful seeing you,
and meeting you, Jack. Congratulations. In all de-
partments!" He turned and went toward the better
tables.
She smiled after him, waved at Joni waving at
her.
" 'Rocky'?" Jack said, cutting his veal.
"It beats Hubert," she said.
She turned and looked over her shoulder,
through'gold-threaded glass, at Sheer's tan back be-
yond the rim of the wide stairway, going down
slowly, close against the left-hand railing.
Going down out of sight, slice by slice.
She brought the window measurements in to
Bloomingdale's custom drapery department and
ordered white silk for the living room and green-
and-white-striped chintz for the bedroom. On the
way to contemporary furniture she spotted a high-
style scratching post—brown cork doughnuts on a
giant chrome staple. Only at Bloomie's . . .
She worked out at the Vertical Club, sweating as
she battled the biceps machine, the leg press, the
stomach board. Pedaled an exercise bike awhile.
Came out of the elevator to Felice's meowing
and the hallway full of fat pink leather suitcases, a
herd of them, blocking her door and butting open

42 IRA LEVIN
the door of 20A, where across the foyer, in her own
kitchen flipped over, a young woman in a white
coat said into the phone, "No! I meant exactly
what I said!" Seeing Kay, she raised a spread hand,
every finger ringed. Mimed a groan, looked to
heaven, to Kay, shrugged piteously. She was model-
gorgeous, slim, in her early twenties, with a cap of
straight blond hair. The belted white coat was the
one that had been on Elle. "Fuck both of you!"
she said in a furry voice, and slammed the phone to
the wall. "I'll get those right out of your way," she
said, coming to the door. She opened it wider,
kneed a suitcase to hold it. "I'm sorry, your poor
cat's going crazy. I guess he never smelled India be-
fore." She corraled pink suitcases. "When did you
move in?" she asked.
"A week ago . . ." Kay said, sidestepping past
the stairway door.
"Let him out," V. Travisano said, flashing a
smile at her. "Give him a treat. I'm a cat person
too."
"She's a she." She put down her briefcase and
the Bloomingdale's bag, shifted a suitcase, un-
locked the door.
Felice raced out and prowled a lightning clover-
leaf where leather met carpet, sniffing, sniffing,
sniffing, sniffing.
"Oh, she's a beauty! I love calicoes. What's her
name?"
"Felice."

SLIVER 43
"That's a nice one. 'Felice. . . .' Mine is Vida
Travisano."
"That's a nice one too."
She laughed. "Thanks," she said, "I made it up
myself."
"Mine's Kay Norris."
"That's nice."
"My parents made it up." She picked up strain-
ing India-crazed Felice.
Vida Travisano hauled in the last suitcase.
"You're a big improvement over the poor Kesten-
baums," she said. Smiled in the doorway in her Elle
white coat, a glittering hand on the jamb, white
boots crossed at the ankles. "Did you hear about
the Kestenbaums?" she asked.
"Felice! Stop it! No," Kay said. "No. I didn't...."
"They were an interesting kind of couple," Vida
Travisano said. "He was American and she was Ko-
rean. Very beautiful; she could have been a model.
They never mentioned what they did. Entertained a
lot. Then he developed MS—multiple sclerosis? —
and just started melting. And she's pushing him in
and out in the wheelchair. . . . And I mean, your
heart breaks, but it's so depressing. ... You know?
They moved out to this place in California where
they're doing advanced research on it. It looked like
they wouldn't be able to, she was crying about it a
few months ago; it costs a fortune and their insur-
ance didn't cover it. Thank God they got the money
from someplace. If you want to dish sometime, ring

44 IRA LEVIN
the bell. I'm going to be around till November
ninth, then it's—" The phone rang. "Oh shit. Then
it's off to sunny Portugal. See you." Backing inside,
she waved at Felice. " 'Bye, Felice!" She closed the
door as the phone rang.
Felice hit the carpet sniffing suitcase prints, ber-
serk.
Dmitri came and put up the bookshelf supports
in the living room, drilled the X's she had marked
low on the kitchen wall. She put the scratching post
up and showed Felice what it was, rubbing her front
paws against the cork doughnuts. Lots of luck.
She hung Roxie's falcon in the foyer; both it and
the Zwick looked better apart. She put books on
the shelves while Claire Bloom read To the Light-
house. Introduced herself at the Corner Bookstore
on Ninety-third Street—it never hurts to get win-
dow space.
She called the folks and thanked them for the
bowl, which had Art Deco lines and would look
fine on the new coffee table when it came. Got into
the usual argument with Dad when he told her to
tell Bob to call.
She read the trade paperback edition of Hubert
Sheer's The Worm in the Apple, the first four chap-
ters. Called Roxie. "And it's terrific so far, he's a
very good writer."
"So what's the story?"
"There is no story," she said, lying on the bed
playing with Felice's white ear. "We have a sort of

SLIVER 45
a date to go biking after he's back from a trip. I
don't even know how long he's going to be gone.
Japan. He's leaving this week sometime."
"It sounds kind of vague."
"It is," she said, watching Tiny and her teeny cat
in the ceiling light. "I told you, there's no story. But
he's awfully attractive and the book is great. What's
doing with you and Fletcher?"
She held winter dresses against herself in the
bedroom mirror. Wasn't thrilled.
Put books on the end of the top shelf, standing
on the stepladder, reaching.
Felice, in the kitchen, stood watching the base of
the below-the-sink cabinet.
Who would ever think, with all the restaurants
in the city, thousands of them, that she and what's-
his-name, Rocky's editor, would zero in on the
same one for lunch? Incredible . .. Unless the Four
Seasons had turned into some kind of hangout for
writers and editors since he'd been there . . . But it
still had class; the Steins were taking Lesley's par-
ents there for their silver anniversary, Vida and
Lauren suggested it to johns. No, it was just an-
other of life's amazing coincidences....
It was a shame she liked Rocky. They'd be a
good match, when you considered how much they
had in common. . . .

46 IRA LEVIN
He couldn't let it make any difference though.
Not when Rocky had an appointment at eight
a.m. Osaka time a week from Tuesday in the Takai
Company's showroom, and they'd probably made
an extra light or two for display purposes or at
least had some eight-by-ten glossies in the album.
Wouldn't any manufacturer, let alone a smart hot-
for-more-business Jap?
Stay cool. Think. No time for panic. It's Sunday
night, no, Monday morning; Rocky's flight leaves
JFK Friday morning at eleven.
Think.
Maybe the bike wasn't really a total washout	
Look at the positive side. It had left Rocky with his
foot in a cast, limping around 9 A with a cane. . . .
She usually worked at home one day a week-
Tuesday or Wednesday, depending on her appoint-
ments and whatever meetings were scheduled—and
got as much done, with minimal phone calls from
Sara, as in two days at the office. She worked most
evenings too, and three or four hours on weekends;
read manuscripts in bed from six to eight each
morning.
Her at-home day that week was Tuesday, the
24th of October, a day that at its end was declared
by all the weathermen on all the channels to have

SLIVER 47
been the most glorious day of that glorious season.
Their stats were backed by footage of turquoise
skies, fiery trees, and upturned faces—footage shot
for the most part in Central Park.
To sit that glorious morning with a slice of fiery
park and turquoise reservoir beyond one's left
shoulder and to be editing a book, even a fine book
such as the one she was glad to be working on,
was—work. Especially for a country girl...
She turned, lifting her glasses; looked out at a
skein of geese flying down to the turquoise; leaned
to watch the geese merge with geese flying up from
beneath, feathering water between them.
She lowered her glasses, turned and read.
Made marks.
Drew in breath as papers stirred by the window,
inches open. . . .
She hung on till the end of the part.
Gathered Adidas, jeans, the burgundy turtle-
neck, the Irish wool sweater. Felice, meatloafed in
the middle of the bed, watched her.
When she was more than halfway around the dirt
track skirting the lake of chain-link—fenced reser-
voir, striding along behind her sunglasses high on
the turquoise sky, fiery trees, edged air, motley
people, bold squirrels (should've brought pea-
nuts), and soaring fowl, feeling better than she had
in over two years and maybe in seven or eight, she
rounded a leftward curve and saw on the track
ahead Sam Yale coming toward her among the

48 IRA LEVIN
pay-no-attention-to-the-arrows crowd, looking as
high on the glorious morning as she was, walking
with his arms swinging and gray hair blowing,
beaming at the water on his right. She slowed as he
came nearer, squinting upward. "Sam!" she called.
He stopped and raccoon-eyed her; a jogger swerved
past him.
She moved onto the shoulder of the track, lifting
her glasses. "Kay," she said. "Norris."
He smiled. "Hi!" he said. Stood smiling while
three men walked past him, flat-footed, bare-
limbed, elbows pumping.
She took the glasses off as he came across and
onto the shoulder with her, in jeans and black
sneakers, a gray windbreaker zipped to the collar
of a red flannel shirt. "What a day!" he said, rub-
bing his hands.
"Sensational, isn't it?" she said.
"And how."
"I don't want to stop. Come on, walk with the
arrows, it won't hurt you."
"Arrows?" he said, following her onto the track.
"On the base of the fence," she said, putting the
glasses on. "Every once in a while."
"Hey, slow down," he said, behind her on her
left, "I'm out here for pleasure."
She slowed down. Smiled at him as he caught up
and strode along. His battered face wasn't bad-
looking for sixty-six. In the stamp-sized picture in
Television's Golden Age he'd been a soulful wun-

SLIVER 49
derkind with wavy dark hair, his eyes dark-ringed
even back then.
He smiled at her. "Did the book business declare
a holiday?" he asked in his raspy voice.
"I work at home sometimes," she said.
"Nice work," he said.
"I picked the wrong day," she said. "The right
one, I mean. How do you know I'm in publishing?"
He dropped behind her for a stroller with a pac-
ifier-gagged baby in it, pushed by a teenaged girl in
a sheepskin jacket and a headband radio.
He moved up alongside her. "I passed the truck
the day you moved in," he said. "Lots of cartons
with the Diadem logo."
"Oh," she said.
"Great rolltop desk. How old is that?"
"Eighty, eighty-five years."
"What do you do?" he asked.
"I'm an editor," she said. "There, there's an ar-
row."
"Jesus," he said, "they painted that when Mc-
Kinley was president. It's practically invisible. No-
body's expected to follow those."
"What do you mean}" she said as joggers
bounded past them. "They're there. Who said
you're not expected to follow them?"
"It's common knowledge," he said, dropping
behind her for a pair of nuns. A horse cantered by
on the bridle path to her right, cantered down a

50 IRA LEVIN
fiery arcade, a chestnut mare ridden by a man in a
checked jacket, black boots, riding breeches.
Sam moved up on her left. "What a day," he
said.
"A holiday for directors?"
"Every day, for retired ones. Will you look at
that skyline?"
She looked at shining ranks of white and steel
towers south of the park, the beveled Citicorp
Building, the Empire State's needle against the tur-
quoise. "Fantastic," she said.
"You're not in Kansas any more, Dorothy."
She gave him a sidelong look as they walked.
"What had Kansas on it?" she asked.
He smiled at her. "Nothing," he said. "It's in
your mouth."
"I don't have an accent," she said, bridling. "I
worked to get rid of it."
"Excuse me," he said. "I'm psychic."
They detoured around a television crew point-
ing a peacock-logoed minicam up at fiery trees.
"You forget," he said when they were back on
the left-curving track, "I directed. The ear is
tuned." He tapped it with a fingertip. "To the av-
erage person, no, you don't have an accent. Except
on words like 'hello' and 'how are you.' "
"I don't" she said.
"Very slight," he said, smiling. "Really, very
slight. Only an extremely gifted pro would catch
it." He dropped behind her for a wheelbarrow full

SLIVER 51
of dark cinders pushed by a brown-uniformed
man.
He moved up alongside her. She said, "I looked
you up in a book we published a few years ago,
Television's Golden Age."
"Wow, what a great title," he said. "Who
thought of that? Not you I hope."
"It happens to be a very good title," she said. "It
tells what the book is about in clear understand-
able English."
"I stand corrected," he said.
"No, it wasn't mine," she said.
They walked toward the gatehouse at the south
end of the reservoir. Joggers bounded past them.
"So were you impressed?" he asked.
"Very," she said. "Puzzled too."
"Why it all ended? Easy. I'm a recovering alco-
holic."
"I'm sorry," she said, looking at him. "Glad
you're recovering though. That wasn't what I
meant, although— I'm sorry, I shouldn't have
brought this up. I'm sure you don't want to talk
about it."
He said, "Initials T. M.?"
She sighed, nodded.
"Tom Mix. Always a favorite."
She smiled.
"You cross-checked our credits," he said.
"Yes," she said. "She was in almost twenty plays
that you directed."

52 IRA LEVIN
"They liked her at Steel and Kraft."
"You won two Directors Guild Awards and an
Emmy," she said, "and your career stopped short
the year she died."
"What do you edit?" he asked. "Kissing with
castles in back?"
"I have," she said.
"One thing had nothing to do with the other,"
he said. "We hadn't seen each other for two or three
years at that point. Our paths had separated, in
every sense. I was out on the coast doing movies of
the week. She was here doing soaps."
They crossed the terrace before the stone gate-
house, passing people at the fountains, people
stretching themselves over legs braced on bench
backs, a jostle of teenagers in red track suits, a man
in red clapping at them.
"If you want the truth," Sam said, "she wasn't a
very good actress."
"I noticed," she said.
"Or a very good person," he said. "She was vain
and greedy. Totally self-centered. Spiteful. Incon-
siderate. Petty. I was crazy about her."
"Why?" she asked.
"I said 'crazy,' " he said. "Who can explain it?"
He looked at the track ahead, sighed. "Who can tell
you why?" he said. "It was an enchanted morning.
Across a crowded television studio ..."
The teens in red track suits loped past them in

SLIVER 53
ones and twos as they followed the curve to the east
of the reservoir.
"Are you completely retired?" she asked.
He said, "I teach a little. Acting, directing . . ."
"How long have you been in the building?"
"Since it went up," he said. "Three years."
They walked on.
Joggers bounded past them.
A red-suited teen.
"If you're wondering what I'm doing up in this
neck of the woods," he said, "I'm a charity case."
"No I wasn't, don't be silly," she said, "every-
body lives all over the place nowadays, it's great, it's
one of the best things about the city."
He said, "The Carnegie Hill Cultural Enrich-
ment Foundation. Do I have to explain what their
purpose in life is? One of the ways they think they'll
achieve it is by seeding the neighborhood with
hard-up artsy types. I get the apartment rent-free
plus a stipend. And it's the ideal location for me."
He smiled at her. "Smithers around the corner on
Ninety-third. The Smithers Treatment Center. I
was in it for a while when the building was under
construction." He dropped behind her for a pair of
joggers, a man and a boy, in sweatshirts stenciled
blind and guide.
They came to the esplanade at Ninetieth Street,
went down the wide pebbled steps. A television
crew stood in the bridle path, pointing a minicam
at passers-by looking up at fiery trees.

54 IRA LEVIN
"Oh great," she said, "we'll be on the six o'clock
news. Tomorrow's joke at the office."
"I'm that bad?"
"You know what I mean."
"Don't panic," he said. "There's always a solu-
tion."
They walked past the eye-logoed minicam with
his middle finger in the air.
They crossed the park drive and Fifth Avenue.
Walked along Ninetieth Street past the iron-fenced
garden behind the Cooper-Hewitt Museum. He
said, "That was Andrew Carnegie's retirement
home."
"I didn't know that," she said, looking at the
brick-and-stone Palladian mansion.
"That's why we're on Carnegie Hill," he said.
"This was farmland when he bought it. His steel
company eventually became U.S. Steel; I did so
many Steel Hours I feel I'm on home territory. This
is the house Robert Chambers lived in."
"I know the name. . . ."
"The preppie who strangled the girl in the park."
"Oh."
"We're a mixed bunch up here."
They turned at the corner, headed up Madison.
"Television must have been very different early
on," she said.
"And how," he said. "Everything going out live,
no tape, no retakes. Every show an opening night—
blown lines, missing props, but alive, electric, the

SLIVER 55
actors going for broke. The scenery was painted
different shades of gray, color didn't matter."
She said, "Why don't you write your memoirs?
Or talk them into a tape recorder. It could be inter-
esting."
"My 'memoirs'?" He smiled.
"Yes," she said. "Give it some thought. Do you
know Hubert Sheer? He lives in our building, in
nine A."
He shook his head.
"He's a writer," she said, "a good one. He's do-
ing a book on television that he'd probably like to
talk to you about. I'll have to introduce you. But
think about doing something of your own. Really,
it could be saleable. If you want to go into serious
personal material, fine. Or you could keep it light
and amusing if you like, which I'm sure you could
do. Whatever feels comfortable."
He smiled. "I'll think about it," he said. Ges-
tured at Jackson Hole as they passed it. "Want
some coffee?"
"Can I have a rain check?" she asked. "I have to
go to the bank and get back to work."
They crossed Ninety-first Street. She took her
sunglasses off. "I'm glad we met," she said, offering
her hand.
"Same here," he said, shaking it, smiling at her.
"Think about it," she said. "I'm not just making
nice."
"Okay, I'll think," he said. Turned and went.

56 IRA LEVIN
Came back. "Hey," he said. "I was kidding
about the accent. I saw the return address on a
package of yours in the mail room the other day.
Norrises in Wichita."
Smiling, she said, "Thanks for telling me."
"I wouldn't want you to think you wasted your
time," he said. "No accent at all, not a whisper."
He smiled at her, turned and went.
She turned, put the glasses on, waited for the
sign to change. Jigged on her toes, smiling up at the
turquoise sky.
She presented three books at the pre-sales
conference Wednesday; the marketing people liked
two and loathed the third less than she and the rest
of the editorial department had expected. She spent
an hour at Saks—bought a claret silk dress and
some underthings.
Had long talks that evening with Bob and with
Meg Hunter, who called from JFK between planes
to London; they relived Syracuse for over an hour.
She shaved her legs while Claire Bloom read the last
part of To the Lighthouse, and Felice, on the bath-
mat, licked and scrubbed.
She worked most of Thursday with a woman
from Newark whose first novel, witty science fic-
tion, was two hundred pages too long. Went to the

SLIVER 57
Warner party for their Catherine the Great bio, up-
stairs at the Tea Room—everyone there for cham-
pagne and blini and caviar.
Opened her cab door to white light and a caring-
looking woman with a microphone. "Do you live
here?" A man, "Did you know Hubert Sheer?" The
woman, "Do you know this building is being called
the Horror High-Rise?" Walt fended them off, ush-
ering her toward the door. "He kicked me! Did you
get him kicking me? Hey you! Doorman! You're in
trouble, shitbeadV
Walt looked out through the glass door as he
closed it. "The scum of the earth," he said in his
deep baritone. "It was like feeding time at the zoo
before. You're lucky you're late."
She said, "Hubert Sheer?"
He turned toward her, looked at her through his
glasses. Nodded. Glanced away and stepped back,
pulling the door open. People went out. He closed
the door.
"What happened?" she asked.
He drew a breath and took his glasses off.
Looked at her with watery hazel eyes, his lined face
pale. "He fell in the shower," he said. "He had a
cast on his foot, and a plastic bag taped around it
to keep it dry—and he slipped and hit his head."
"He's dead}" she said.
He nodded, opened the door. A man came in
saying, "Jesus Christ . . ." Walt closed the door,

58 IRA LEVIN
watching her. Said, "Did you know him, Miss Nor-
ris?"
She nodded.
"Would you like to sit down?"
She couldn't decide.
He showed her to a bench by the block where the
monitors were, took her briefcase as she sat. He put
his glasses on, held the briefcase with both hands.
Bent to her over it. "Someone from his agent's of-
fice came to check," he said. "He wasn't returning
his phone calls and he missed an appointment."
"When did it happen?" she asked, looking up at
him.
He drew breath and looked away. Shook his
head, sighing. "They're not sure yet." He looked at
her. Blinked through his steel-rimmed glasses. "He
was on the floor under the shower," he said. "Very
hot. So they may not be able to tell exactly. The last
time anyone heard from him was late Monday
night."
"Oh Lord," she said.

4
Edgar called, of course. "Good God, what abys-
mally rotten luck!"
"Isn't it, I can't believe it," he said, muting the
TV at the foot of the bed. "I spoke to him in the
elevator a few times. He seemed like a nice guy."

60 IRA LEVIN
He put the remote on the night table, picked up the
I-Heart-New-York mug; held the phone with his
shoulder, pushed up the pillows in back.
"And it had to be on a day with no news."
"It'll blow over," he said, settling in. "The same
as it did with Rafael." He sipped the coffee.
"I beg to differ. This is the fifth, not the fourth,
and a somewhat distinguished author, not a super-
intendent. The building is bound to become—less
desirable. I hate to say I told you so, but do you
remember my warnings against going rental? If
you'd left it a condominium you could be uncon-
cerned. Relatively."
"I know," he said, watching a muted cleanser
commercial. "I'm sorry now I didn't listen to you."
He sipped coffee.
"I assume you've seen the newspapers."
"Not yet," he said. "I'm still in bed; I was up
late last night." He put the mug down, picked up
the remote.
"The front page of the Post is 'Horror High-
Rise' in giant letters, alongside a photo of the
building looking up toward the top. The News
opted for 'High-Rise Horror' with the same layout.
The Times—here we are—has it on page B three:
'Writer Is Fifth to Die in Upper East Side Building.'
They have Connahay working for Merrill Lynch; I
suppose they'll correct that tomorrow."
"It'll blow over," he said, thumbing away tod-

SLIVER 61
dlers, soapflakes, gorillas in the wild. "It'll take a
few days longer this time, that's all."
"The phones have been ringing incessantly. 'Who
owns the corporation? How do they feel?' "
"Shitty, how do they think?"
"I strongly suggest, and everyone here concurs,
that a public-relations specialist be brought in at
once."
"To do what?" he asked, thumbing. "Hold a
press conference? It'll only keep the story hot."
"No, no, no. To cool the story down. A special-
ist who would—encourage the media to turn their
attention elsewhere as quickly as possible."
He sat up. Asked, "Do you know someone who
could do that?"
"I've been told of two people. They're expensive
and not necessarily deductible, though I think we
could make a persuasive argument to the IRS."
"Fuck the IRS," he said, "get right on it. That's
a great idea, Edgar. Jesus, what a world we live in."
"I'm glad you agree."
"You bet I do," he said. "Hop to it." He hung
up, sat a moment, smiled. Zapped the TV. Slung
the blanket off, got up.
Went to the window and threw the right side of
it all the way open. Pulled air in through his nos-
trils, as much of it as he could contain, rising up
tall on his toes . ..
Puffed it out, pummeling his bare chest with his
fists.

62 IRA LEVIN
Alex called, of course. "I was so sorry to hear
the news. Did you know the man?"
"No," she said.
"That's quite a list: a suicide, a cocaine overd—"
"Alex, I'm working."
"Oh. Sorry. I just wanted to say hello and see
how you're doing."
"Fine," she said. "Wreaths of garlic on the win-
dows, crucifixes close at hand."
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind," she said.
Roxie called. "Jesus, what a pity." Bucked her
up. "Chances are he liked all the wrong things."
Vida Travisano rang the doorbell, tinted to per-
fection and perfumed, pink-nailed fingers holding
up the top of an embroidered ivory-satin sheath.
She'd gotten the back of it partly buttoned and the
fingernails had started coming off.
Kay brought her into the kitchen's white fluores-
cence, and bending, squinting, teased silk loops
over satin pea-buttons. Vida stood pinching her fin-
gertips. Felice, having sniffed Vida's stockinged feet
and been patted with the heel of a hand, crouched
at her seafood feast.
"Beautiful embroidery . . . India?"
"China. Shit. Do you have Krazy Glue?"

SLIVER 63
"No, sorry." She looped a button. "Where are
you going?" she asked.
"Some dinner at the Plaza," Vida said. "A lot of
speeches ... The Governor's going to be there. Isn't
it awful? Sheer? I spoke to him! In the elevator a
few months ago! He had a big plant he got at the
street fair on Third Avenue. . . ." She breathed a
sigh. "To think of him laying there all that time
getting poached. That's what whosit on Channel
Five said, poached." The blond-capped head
turned. "I hope he wasn't a friend of yours or any-
thing. . . ."
She smiled, looping a button. "No, he wasn't,"
she said.
"Poor guy.. ."
Felice went into the foyer, sat down, began
cleaning.
"I knew Naomi Singer," Vida said, pinching a
fingernail.
She looped a button, squinting.
"We took a course at the Y," Vida said. "Rape
defense. We walked back together a couple of
times. You been there? On Lex?"
"To a few concerts," she said.
"They give all kinds of courses. It's a Jewish one
but anyone can go."
She said, "She must have been one unhappy
lady.. . ."
"She didn't act that way," Vida said, "but I guess
they don't always. She was like bubbly on the out-

64 IRA LEVIN
side. She had your kind of looks, dark hair, oval
face. Not as pretty. Shorter. From 'Baaaston.'
Where are you from?"
"Wichita."
"I'm from everywhere," Vida said. "My father's
a major general in the Air Force."
Looping a button, she said, "The Times didn't
say what was in the note. . . ."
"The Post had some of it," Vida said. "She was
depressed. About everything. The environment, ra-
cism, nuclear weapons, you know. And there was a
guy in Boston she'd broken up with, he was in it
too." She sighed. "She sure scared the pants off
Dmitri."
"What do you mean?"
"She nearly hit him," Vida said. "He was polish-
ing the—you know, the rods that hold up the can-
opy. He was the porter then, Rafael was the super.
She landed right alongside him. He had blood on
him. The building gave him a week in Disneyland,
him and his wife and kid, all expenses paid."
"Not so bad," she said, looping a button.
"Oh, they're not chintzy here," Vida said. "They
better not be, with so many people popping off.
Who's going to want to renew?" She shook her
head, sighed. " 'Horror High-Rise . . .' Yikes. I feel
like I'm in a Jamie Lee Curtis movie."
She looped the top button, smiling. "Okay, Ja-
mie Lee," she said, stepping back, "go say hello to
the Governor. You look terrific."

SLIVER 65
A paisley-wrapped package on the mail room
counter was addressed calligraphically to her, from
someplace called Victoriana on East Eighty-ninth
Street. About the size of a shoebox, fairly heavy, the
Art Nouveau label expensively printed. She won-
dered who and what as she rode up in the elevator
with the goateed man on twelve and a middle-aged
Japanese couple who got out on sixteen.
"Who" was Norman and June, Norman's hand-
writing big and round on the heavy cream card em-
bossed with Diadem's logo: Clear skies, bright
stars, good luck. We love you. Norman and June.
"What," in a roll of plastic bubble-wrap and
deep blue tissue paper, was a magnificent brass tel-
escope, two sections opening out to eighteen or
twenty inches, stamped near the eyepiece with a
Liberty Bell, the name Sinclair, and the year 1893.
Feeling like Ahab, she watched a tugboat push-
ing a barge upriver, a white yacht heading down.
Cars moving on the Triboro Bridge. The windows
of high-rises, telescopes on tripods standing in
some of them. Her knee was rubbed—Felice on the
windowsill, purring.
She went with Roxie and Fletcher to the flea
market on Twenty-sixth Street, bought a pair of
pewter candlesticks; to a revival of Annie Hall and
Manhattan, a Chinese restaurant.

Si !HA LEVIN

She read a good manuscript. Got a cut and a
rinse. Lunched Florence Leary Winthrop at the
Seasons. Another man sat where Sheer had sat. She
attended a production meeting.
Her at-home day that week, Wednesday, was a
stinker, rain drizzling down on the brown park and
gunmetal reservoir, on the Jewish Museum's pin-
nacled slate roof, on brown gardens between black
roofs of midblock brownstones. A great day,
though, for being at home—even when it meant
crawling through Florence's arrow-strewn pages of
typing and serpentine handwriting.
A great day too for doing the laundry, she real-
ized as Susannah scrubbed bloodstains from
Derek's riding jacket; no wait for the machines. The
clock said 3:25. She left Susannah scrubbing and
worrying, got the stuffed laundry basket out of the
linen closet—Felice came into the foyer to see what
was doing—gathered towels from the bathroom
and kitchen, Tide from under the sink, quarters
from the Mickey Mouse mug.
When she carried the overstuffed basket with the
box on top into the white-tiled laundry room, Pete
whatever with the reddish-brown hair turned from
one of the dryers opposite the door and stood look-
ing at her, something yellow sliding from his hand
to his laundry basket. She said, "Hi," going to the
side of the room and clomping the basket onto the
end washer. Near the other end of the line red lights

SLIVER 67
gleamed on a humming washer with an empty bas-
ket on it.
"Hi!" he said, his voice tile-sharpened. "How
are you?"
"Fine," she said, sorry she hadn't fixed herself up
a little even if he was twenty-seven, tops. "You?"
"Fine," Pete Henderson said. "Are you all set-
tled in now?"
"Just about." She smiled at him smiling that dy-
namite smile, in a green T-shirt and jeans—and
turned aside, opened the tops of two washers. Tak-
ing the filters out, she said, "Isn't this super equip-
ment? Everything's first-rate here."
"It was supposed to be a condo originally," he
said, turning to his dryer.
"Lucky for me it isn't," she said.
"Me too."
She put the box aside and began unloading the
basket, the colored things into one washer, the
white into the other. "I wonder how come it was
changed?" she said.
"I guess the demand changed."
"Still," she said, "once they'd made the invest-
ment . . . Who owns it, do you know?"
"Uh-uh. All I know is MacEvoy-Cortez, where
the checks go." He sighed a resonant tile-bounced
sigh. "You sure got a whale of a welcome. . . ."
She said, "You can say that again. .. ."
"Aren't those reporters incredible? I suppose
they're decent people to begin with, but boy, they

68 IRA LEVIN
sure wind up—piranhas. Like in James Bond. Eat
anything."
"He was going to write a book about televi-
sion," she said, putting a pair of jeans in with the
colored, "the different ways it's affected our lives. I
wonder if he was going to include that, turning re-
porters into piranhas."
"Did you know him?" he asked, turning.
She worked at a handkerchief snagged on a shirt
button. "Slightly," she said. "We'd been intro-
duced."
"It sounds like a good subject," he said. "I
watched all the time when I was a kid; now I just
rent movies once in a while. Was he going to in-
clude the way VCRs have changed things?"
"I would think so," she said. "He didn't go into
details. We only spoke a minute or two."
"It must have made it worse for you though," he
said, "having met him."
"Oh sure," she said. "It did. Definitely." She put
the shirt in one washer, the handkerchief in the
other.
"I talked with him a couple of times about the
weather. You know, in the elevator. And I read his
book on computers."
"I did too," she said, turning. "What did you
think of it?"
He stood silent, frowning. "It was all right," he
said. "I thought it was well written but—it annoyed
me." He looked at her. "I'm in computers," he

SLIVER 69
said. "There's no reason to get paranoid about
them; they're machines, that's all, machines that
process data quickly."
"He didn't get paranoid," she said. "There are
real dangers inherent in them."
"He exaggerated them by a factor of about ten,"
he said.
She turned. Hand-over-handed the yellow-flow-
ered sheets from the basket down into the white.
"What do you do?" she asked.
"I'm a free-lance programmer," he said. "I do
consulting for different companies, financial
mostly, and I've written some games that have been
marketed." The dryer door closed. "You?"
"I'm an editor," she said. "At Diadem Press."
"Would you like a snack? Or a candy bar?" He
was going to the vending machines at the other side
of the room, looking at her over his shoulder.
"No, thanks." She smiled at him, turned. Sorted
the last towels and washcloths.
Coins dropped in a slot. "They've got catnip
here, did you know that?"
"Go on," she said, "I didn't." She opened the
spout of the Tide.
"Dog chews too. How come no parakeet seed?"
A machine hummed; something fell.
Powdering a trail around the colored things, she
stopped midway and righted the box, turned.
Looked at him coming across the room tearing at a

70 IRA LEVIN
bag. He smiled at her. "I saw you buying litter in
Murphy's," he said. "Saturday morning."
"Oh," she said.
"I was with someone," he said, "so I didn't say
hello."
She smiled, turned. Trailed out more powder.
He leaned against the humming red-lighted
washer, two away from her. "Male or female?" he
asked.
"Female," she said. "A calico."
He tore open his bag of potato chips.
"Where are you from?" she asked, circling the
box above the white things.
"Pittsburgh," he said. "I've been here five years
now. In New York, I mean. Three in the building."
He reached toward her, offering the open bag of
chips, his vivid blue eyes looking at her.
"No, thanks," she said, smiling, pushing the
spout on the box closed. She turned, put it in the
basket. "I'm from Wichita," she said. "I've been
here—ye gods, eighteen years now."
"I knew you were from someplace in the Mid-
west," he said. "From the way you speak. It's nice."
She looked at him picking a chip out of the bag.
"Thanks," she said.
Put the filters into the washers. Shut their tops.
"Get out your gas mask," he murmured, looking
beyond her. She smelled Giorgio as she turned.
The stocky black-banged woman on eight
stopped in the doorway, beneath the videocamera,

SLIVER 71
in dark glasses, amber beads, a black long-sleeved
dress. Behind her a man wheeled a bike into one of
the elevators.
They nodded to her and said, "Hi."
She nodded; went to the vending machines,
black high heels clicking on vinyl. Giorgio chal-
lenged Tide and Clorox.
Pete sniffed the air, smiled at her. She smiled,
plugging quarters into the coin trays. He straight-
ened from the washer—its lights had gone out—
and went to the dryers. Coins dropped in slots
across the room; machines hummed, things fell.
She homed the trays, studied the glowing selector
buttons.
A woman came in and went sniffing and frown-
ing to the washer Pete had leaned against—a plump
black-haired woman in a red blouse and purple
skirt, brown scuffs. She took the basket from the
washer, opened the top.
"You timed that perfectly. It just went off."
The woman turned to her. "Eh?"
"Just, went, off," she said. "Now." Sliced with a
hand. "Off." She pointed at the washer.
"Ah, st," the woman said, smiling. She pulled
matted laundry out into the basket. "Si, veintecinco
minutos," she said. "Exactamente. Veintecinco
minutos."
"Twenty-five," she said.
"Si."
"Thanks."

81 IRA LEVIN
She touched buttons; the washers rushed to life.
She took the box from the basket. "Not yet," Pete
said, alongside her with his basket of clean clothes,
glancing toward the hallway.
She searched around for something until Gior-
gio, champion over Tide and Clorox, went into an
elevator and the door had closed.
"She must have a pipeline from the factory," Pete
said as they went into the tan-painted hallway.
"It's Giorgio," she said. "Talk about too much
of a good thing." She touched the button between
the doors. The indicators above showed 2 become
L, 4 become 5.
The stairway door at the right of the elevators
opened and Terry in a wet black rubber raincoat
came into the hallway. Smiling at them, he went
into the laundry room. A man came out of the bike
room in a wet yellow poncho, a foam helmet in his
hand. He closed the mesh door, nodded at them.
They nodded.
He wiped a hand over damp blond curls, shook
it at the floor.
"Still coming down?" Pete asked.
"Worse than before," the man said—fleshy-
looking, in his mid-thirties.
The left-hand elevator door slid open.
"Would you?" Pete asked, coming in after her
with his laundry basket. "Thirteen." She touched
20, 13. The man in the poncho touched 16.
The door slid open at the lobby and a round-

SLIVER 73
faced elderly woman in a navy hat and raincoat
came in; nodded, turned, touched 10.
They rode up in silence. The woman got out.
"Nice seeing you again," Pete said, smiling at
her as the door slid open on thirteen.
"Same here," she said, smiling at him.
The man in the poncho got out on sixteen.
She stood holding her box of Tide.
Glanced at the videocamera up in the corner.
Got out her keys as 19 above the door became
20.
She had a few friends over that Friday night-
Diadem people and Roxie and Fletcher. They
praised the apartment, Felice, and Roxie's falcon;
took turns with the telescope, sipped vodka, soda,
white wine; talked about takeover rumors, the
Middle East crisis, the spring list.
"That's a beautiful light," June said as they ate.
"Is it yours?" Everyone looked up at the ceiling
light—the ten or twelve of them and she too, sitting
around the living room with their plates of chicken
and salad, glasses of wine. "It's the building's," she
said, on a cushion by the coffee table. "Everything
in the place is first-rate. It was planned as a condo
but there's a mysterious owner who switched it to
rental. Nobody knows who he is; he hides behind

74 IRA LEVIN
a law firm downtown. Supposedly he's a pain in the
ass but in my book he's right up there with Santa
Claus."
"This chicken is great," Norman said.
"From Petak's," she said.
"Someone must know who he is," Gary said.
She sipped wine. "The brokers who manage the
place don't," she said. "They deal with the law-
yers."
"Well, it's not surprising," Tamiko said. "Let's
face it, the building hasn't been getting dream pub-
licity."
"This goes back to when he bought it," she said.
"From Barry Beck," June said. "I never thought
I'd be sitting here. Did you, Norman? We fought
against this building."
"We're active in Civitas," Norman said. "It's an
organization that tries to preserve the area and
keep it from being overbuilt. There were two beau-
tiful brownstones on this site. We lost the battle but
we won the war—against slivers, at any rate. They
were outlawed a month after the foundation for
this one was poured."
"The construction is certainly first-rate," Stuart
said. "I haven't heard a sound from next door and
there were people going in there too. My building's
a new rental and I can hear my neighbors pushing
their phone buttons."
"If it was built to condo standards," Tamiko
said, "why did he turn it into a rental?"

SLIVER 75
"That's what I wondered," she said, going
around refilling wineglasses. "It bugged me. I
spoke to Jo Harding in accounting—she invests in
real estate—and she said the rental market up here
has been softer than the condo market for years. So
I called the woman who showed me the place and
buttered her up a little. She's the one who said he's
a pain in the ass, and she only knows he's a man
because the lawyers call him a son of a bitch. Felice!
Get down from there! Now! He pesters them about
the maintenance, blackballs prospective tenants for
no logical reason. . . . Fletcher? Just a bit? He acts
as if he lives here, but why would he live in a three-
room apartment? He's got to be worth at least fifty
million. Wendy?"
"He could have a pied-a-terre here," Stuart said,
"and live in six other places."
"I suppose so," she said, pouring wine into
Wendy's glass, "but she gave the sense of a full-time
nuisance."
"Barry Beck probably knows who he is," June
said.
"Or the contractor, a man named Michelan-
gelo," Norman said. "Beck sold it when it was still
unfinished."
"I'm not that interested in pursuing it," she said,
refilling Gary's glass. "I'll assume he's a nut and let
him have his privacy; I'm grateful to him. Will
everybody please take some more chicken?"

76 IRA LEVIN
He sat staring. Waggled his head, slack-jawed.
Tried to laugh.
You had to keep your sense of humor, right?
That she should be the first one in how-long-had-
it-been to look the gift horse in the mouth and ask
questions, that her bosses should steer her instan-
taneously toward Michelangelo ... There had to be
a laugh in there somewhere.
"Pain in the ass" and "son of a bitch."
Har-dee-har-har.
He watched her bringing in the strawberry
mousse, putting it on the dining table. Wondered if
he might be caught someday.
Of course he might. How come he hadn't consid-
ered the possibility before? A Columbo clone at the
door: "I hate to bother you but could you possibly
let me have a couple of minutes of your time? I've
got some questions here about the deaths in this
building. . . ."
Relax. Stay cool. She wasn't going to pursue it.
Hadn't she said so?
And Michelangelo was in Bimini, fishing for sail-
fish and screwing his new young wife, and would
play dumb about anything connected with the
building even if it was the Pope asking the ques-
tions. So let's not get paranoid.

SLIVER 86
He got up and got some more ginger ale. Found
some chicken lo mein.
Sat eating, watching them sipping decaf and
spooning the strawberry mousse, oohing and aah-
ing over it. Nice for her.
He watched Vida's little party, and the Stanger-
sons'.
Chris breaking the news to Sally.
Stefan pleading with Hank.
Kay heading for the foyer with good old Norman
and June.
Stay cool. Not to worry.
Hadn't she said she was going to let him have his
privacy?
"Am so sorry not coming before party," Dmitri
said.
"That's all right," she said, showing him into the
bedroom. "Scoot, Felice. Go on, scoot."
"Was in boiler room a flood yesterday," Dmitri
said, shaking a green-topped spray can near his
shoulder.
"Oh my," she said, following him.
"Fixed now. Soon dry. Mmm! Such a nice day!"
He put the can on the sill by the end of the desk
and tugged with both hands at the window's right-
hand inner panel—tugged it open four or five

78 IRA LEVIN
inches. Moved across and tugged the left-hand
outer panel open the same. "No problem," he said.
Holding her arms, rubbing them against the chill
air, she studied Dmitri in his gray shirt and shiny
brown pants as he shook the spray can, pulled its
top off. Did fixing tight windows remind him of
Naomi Singer doing her swan dive and nearly hit-
ting him? Stupid woman ... If she'd had to do it,
why hadn't she done it from her bedroom?
He seemed untroubled, bending, drawing a
plume of spray slowly along the inner track, com-
ing her way. She moved farther aside and back,
closer to the closet wall. Asked, "What is that?"
"Silicone," he said, spraying back the other way.
Felice sprang onto the sill and leaned out and
down, rump up, white tail waving its black tip, as
Dmitri put the can down and took hold of the
panel.
Stepping forward, she stroked Felice's back.
"No .. ." She picked her up with both hands, lifted
her and turned her around, held her in midair, fore-
legs splayed, the orange-and-white face close to
hers. "No," she said, staring into the slit-pupil
green eyes. "N, O. We do not lean out of windows
here. All nine lives, pfft. That's a definite no-no.
Capeesh?" Felice looked at her; she looked at Dmi-
tri.
He seemed as untroubled as before, moving the
panel toward her. She stepped back, putting Felice
on her shoulder; kissed and petted her. Said, "I hear

SLIVER 79
the owner of the building is a pain in the neck."
Felice purred.
Dmitri sprayed the farther half of the track.
"Meals I know," he said, "not owner."
"Meals?"
"Mr. Meals, manager. You know Mr.
Meals.. . ." Dark eyes glanced at her.
"He sent me a letter," she said. "Does he like the
marble in the lobby?"
"Da! Surprise. Marble is good." He put the can
down, pulled the panel to him, slid it from side to
side. "See? No problem." He coasted the panel in
its easy track, side to side, side to side.
"Terrific," she said. Felice purred at high. Strok-
ing her, she watched Dmitri spray the farther half
of the outer track. "Dmitri..." she said, "I wonder...
did Mr. Mills ever tell you to—give extra attention
to one tenant, listen to what he says, do what he
asks?"
He nodded. "Da," he said. "She ..."
"A woman?" she said.
"You," he said.
"Me?"
He nodded. Put the can down. "When you sign
lease." He pulled the outer panel toward him.
She said, "When I signed the lease}"
He drew the inner panel over. Glanced at her.
"You not know Mr. Meals?" he asked, dark eyes
twinkling above his apple cheeks.
"No," she said.

80 IRA LEVIN
He shrugged. "He say, 'Make sure she happy.
Take extra good care.' " He picked the can up,
shook it.
She lifted Felice from her shoulder, put her down
on the rug, looked at him. "You're sure he said
meshe said.
" 'Meese Norris,' " he said, spraying along the
near half of the outer track. " 'Moves into twenty
B. Make sure she happy. Take extra good care.' "
"And he doesn't always say something like that
when—"
Shaking his head, he said, "Never. Never. You
only."
She said, "I can't understand how that could
be. . . ."
He coasted both panels, side to side, side to side.
He did the living-room window too.
Backed from her moneyed palm with raised
hands, holding the spray can. "No, no. Please.
Glad. No."
She didn't push it.
Went back to cleaning.
Wendy called to thank her. They talked about
how much better June looked. What was going on
between Tamiko and Gary.
Tamiko called. They talked about Stuart,
Wendy.
June. After the chitchat she said, "June, I do
want to find out who owns this building; could you

SLIVER 81
get me the builder's phone number, or the contrac-
tor's, or both?"
"Yes, I'm sure Civitas will have them."
"I'm going to call the manager Monday," she
said, "but he's in the same office as the woman I
spoke to; he probably doesn't know any more than
she does. And I don't see the lawyers being forth-
coming. I'll let you know for sure Monday. Don't
bother till I do."
"What made you change your mind?"
She told her.
"I love it! It's right out of Lydia's Landlord."
"Olivia's Landlord," she said. "Lydia's Doc-
tor."
"Whichever. Do you want to come play Scrabble
tomorrow afternoon? It's supposed to rain. Paul's
going to be here."
They left it open.
Thank you, dmitri.
No, thank you himself, for telling Edgar to have
them take extra good care of her in the first place.
As if otherwise somebody might have insulted her
or pushed her down a flight of stairs.
No question about what he had to do now,
whether he wanted to or not. And before Monday
morning.

02 IRA LEVIN
After Edgar stonewalled and Barry Beck really
didn't know, she was going to be on the phone
pronto with Dominic Michelangelo. Maybe he'd
play dumb but maybe she'd inspire some of his
witty macho repartee. Had she ever been on TV?
She sounded pretty enough. . . . Especially if she
caught him with a glass in his hand, which was
probably hard not to do nowadays. Was she sure
she'd never been on TV?
And she would wonder how come he was retired
and living in Bimini, still in his forties. . . .
Before tomorrow he had to do it. Because to-
morrow she could be out all afternoon playing
Scrabble and maybe stay there for dinner.
Part of him wanted to do it, he knew that. Knew
which part of him too. You don't watch a shrink of
Dr. Palme's caliber for three years without picking
up a few personal insights.
But she'd really left him no choice. The minute
she caught on to the cameras she'd be blowing the
whistle right and left; no buying off a straight ar-
row like her. He'd be finished. Charged even with
Brendan's heart attack—not that one charge more
or less would make a difference.
It was prudence, not paranoia.
He stayed cool. Tracked different approaches
while she finished cleaning and went out to shop.
Daisy's famous father, in from Washington, was
giving Glenn and Daisy the inside scoop on the

SLIVER 83
Middle East crisis. He couldn't focus on it, didn't
even bother taping.
Decided on the best way to handle it, thought
out the details. Tried to stay cool.
He went out and did some shopping himself,
hurrying up Madison, hoping he wouldn't bump
into her.
Watched out for her going back in.
She was at her desk, settling down to work on
the same manuscript she'd been working on all
week.
He put the bottle in the refrigerator.
Watched her. Waited.
He called her at 5:08 by both their clocks, as she
finished a short end-of-a-chapter page, Felice
snoozing in the middle of the bed. He had them on
1, nothing on 2.
She was turned toward the phone at the window
end of the desk when he said who it was; he
couldn't see her face, didn't give her time to speak.
"I'm sorry to bother you," he said, "but there's
something I'd like to speak to you about. It's a little
heavy for the phone. It has to do with the building.
Could I see you, please, for a couple of minutes?"
"Right now?" she asked, swiveling in the chair,
swinging her glasses up into her hair, looking to-
ward Felice standing on the bed arching her back.
"If it's not a bad time for you," he said.
She said, "No, it's not. . ."
"May I come up?" he asked.

84 IRA LEVIN
She walked the chair closer to the bed as Felice
stalked toward her paw by paw. "In ten minutes,"
she said. Felice flew into her lap. "Oof," she said,
swiveling back. "A cat just pounced on me."
Smiling, he said, "It's a jungle out there. Up
there, I mean. Thank you."
"See you," she said.
They hung up.
He drew a deep breath. Puffed it out, watch-
ing her swinging around in the chair, putting
her glasses on the desk, stroking Felice's back.
"Hmm ..." she said. "Interesting ..."
"You said it," he said.
She switched the lamp off, pulled down the
desk's gleaming top. Stood up, dumping Felice to
the rug. Went to the closets, unbuttoning her shirt.
Changing for him. Nice . . .
He looked down at his stained jeans.
He'd better change too.

5
She put on the black jeans and the beige turtle-
neck, black flats.
Brushed her hair and put on lipstick and blush,
might as well, wondering what it could be that was
a little heavy for the phone and had to do with the

86 IRA LEVIN
building. Something connected with the deaths?
She hoped not, didn't want to be reminded of—
Humming "Strike Up the Band," she switched the
bathroom light off, went through the foyer switch-
ing the light on, and into the living room; switched
on the end-table lamps.
Dmitri's spray tinged the air. She went to the
window and opened the right-hand panel, caught it
as it slid too far—good job, Dmitri—pulled it back
to a few inches open. The sky was dark; the Match-
box traffic, less of it than on weekdays, flowed and
paused in the streetlights' pink-gold glow.
Listening for the elevator door, she went back
into the bedroom and eased the left side of the win-
dow open. Cool earthy air flowed past her as she
returned through the foyer. Felice looked out at her
from the kitchen, up on her hind legs scratching at
the post. "Good cat, what a cat," she said, veering
in. She got the box of treats from the cabinet, shook
one out, tossed it. Put the box back and got a treat
for herself from the fridge, a cherry tomato from
under the salad's wrap. Chewing, she rinsed her fin-
gers, wiped them on the dish towel.
She went into the living room. De-neatened the
books and bowl on the coffee table. Raised the
blind all the way and cinched it.
Stood watching a long truck, a moving van,
jockeying into Ninety-second Street, its ID number
black on the pink-gold roof. It hitched back and

SLIVER 87
forth, clogging traffic on the avenue. Horns
honked, blatted. Felice meowed.
Stood meowing at the hall door. Meowed at the
crack at its bottom.
The bell chimed as she went to the door. She
leaned to the peephole; unlocked the door and
opened it. "Hi," she said, smiling, offering her
hand.
"Hi," Pete said, shaking it, smiling, coming in,
in a canary sweater over a white shirt, knife-edged
tan chinos, new-looking white sneakers. Felice
sniffed them; he crouched down to her, rubbing a
hand back over her head and ears. "And here's the
famous pouncing cat," he said, rubbing down
around the side of her neck. "Isn't she a cutie. . . ."
Felice lifted her orange-and-white head, eyes
clenched, as he tickled a finger under her jaw.
Comb tracks streaked his dampened red-brown
hair. "How old is she?"
"Going on four," she said, smiling, closing the
door.
"What's her name?"
"Felice."
His blue eyes looked up at her. "As in Felix?" he
asked.
"Yes," she said, smiling down at him. "You're
the second person to catch that in less than twenty-
four hours, which is amazing. It goes right past al-
most everybody."

88 IRA LEVIN
"Really?" He smiled at Felice pushing the side of
her head against his rubbing hand.
"I had company last night and someone got it,"
she said. "Someone who's known her for over a
year."
"It's a great name for a female cat," he said.
"It's Spanish for happy too," she said, "but I
wasn't thinking of that."
"Oh sure, felizhe said, standing up. "Hey,
that's great. . . . Wow, what a painting. That's ter-
rific. .. ."
"My best friend did it," she said.
"Really? No amateur, I'm sure."
"No, she's exhibited here and in Toronto. Rox-
anne Arvold."
He squinted. "It's great the way she's got the—
grace of it," he said, "and the delicacy of all the
feathers and all, without letting you forget it's a
bird of prey."
She said, "That's what she was aiming for. . . ."
Looking at him.
He turned toward the living room. "Oh that's
nice," he said. "You furnished it very nicely. Great
colors . . ."
"There are things that haven't come yet," she
said, following after him and Felice.
He stood before the Zwick. "I like this too," he
said. "It's got a Hopper feeling. Another friend?"
"No," she said. "The Washington Square art ex-
hibit."

SLIVER 89
He circled around. "Very nice . . ." he said.
Looked at the sofa. "What color would you call
that?"
She looked, cocked her head. "Apricot," she
said.
"Apricot..." He studied it. "Great color . .."
She smiled at him, and at the sofa. "It was a
great sofa too," she said, "before Felice got at it.
I'm going to have it refinished and re-upholstered
once she's learned to use the scratching post. I have
a feeling that the minute I'm in the elevator she's
back here scratching the arms again."
"I have a feeling you're right," he said, smiling,
bending sideways and scratching Felice's head as
she rubbed it against his chinos. "Cats being how
they are . . ." He looked around. "Wow," he said,
standing straight. "What a difference between thir-
teen and twenty." He went to the window, looked
out through the right-hand panel. "This is fantas-
tic. I've got the roof of the Wales and the back of
that building."
"Be careful," she said, going to the window.
"They slide easily. Dmitri sprayed the tracks this
morning."
"Is that Queens or Brooklyn?" he asked.
"Queens," she said, looking out through the
left-hand panel.
He whistled. "What a view," he said, bowing
Felice's tail as she walked the windowsill.
They stood looking out at glittering high-rises,

90 IRA LEVIN
blue and gold bridge lights doubled in water, far-
off fields of light. Stars gleamed in the dark above,
a few of them moving, red and white. "JFK is out
that way," he said.
She said, "What did you want to speak to me
about?"
He turned toward her, drew a breath, his blue
eyes troubled. "I've been feeling guilty," he said.
"The other day, in the laundry room, you asked me
if I knew who owned the building, and I said no. I
think maybe you're still wondering about it, be-
cause of what you said about why was it changed
to rental after the money had been invested." He
smiled. "I have a feeling you're the kind of person
who . . . doesn't give up on a puzzle until she's got
it solved." He shrugged. "And I don't like to think
that maybe you're being distracted from your work
for no good reason."
She said, "You know who owns it?"
He nodded.
"Who?" she asked.
He touched his canary-sweatered chest, tapped
it with a finger. "Me," he said. "I'm the owner."
She looked at him.
"I semi-grew-up in the neighborhood," he said.
"My folks had an apartment over on Park besides
the house in Pittsburgh. And the house in Palm
Beach ..." He sighed, smiled. "I inherited a load of
loot when I was twenty-one," he said. "I always
liked living here the best of all, so I moved into the

SLIVER 91
Wales while I sort of got my bearings. Five years
ago that was. Listen, Kay—is it all right if I call you
Kay?"
Nodding, she said, "Sure . . ."
"Would you mind if I closed this window?" he
asked. "It's a little chilly standing here."
"Oh sure, go ahead," she said. "And sit down,
for goodness' sake."
He closed the window.
She sat on the near end of the sofa, a leg folded
under her.
He sat in a side chair, crossed his legs, loosed the
pressed knee of his chinos.
Felice curled up on a cushion by the heating strip
below the window. Watched them.
"So as I said," he said, leaning toward her with
an elbow on the chair arm, his hands folded, "there
I was in the Wales. Sixth floor front, watching them
demolish the brownstones that used to be here, two
of them, and excavate, and pour the concrete. . . .
And it hit me that it would be really cool to own
an apartment house and live in it, since I enjoyed
the time I spent in Eleven-eighty-five so much.
That's where we were—the big building with the
drive-in courtyard?"
She nodded.
"And real estate is a good investment, isn't it?
It's how Donald Trump started." He smiled. "So I
had my lawyers buy it," he said. "I switched it to
rental because if it were a condo and somebody

92 IRA LEVIN
turned out to be a pain, gave noisy parties every
night or something, I'd be stuck with them. This
way I've got some flexibility. And I don't let anyone
know I'm the owner, not even the folks at Mac-
Evoy-Cortez, believe it or not, because I don't want
to be bothered about the details and have people
coming to me with complaints, and the staff kiss-
ing my ass all the time, excuse the expression."
She said, "You live here all year round?"
He nodded. "I'm a computer person," he said.
"I'm not interested in yachts and mansions. Oh, I
expect one day I'll get a bigger place to live in, with
a game room and maybe a pool, but right now a
small apartment suits me fine. I can take care of it
myself without having anyone fussing with my pa-
pers and things."
"How come you didn't take the whole top
floor?" she asked, smiling. "That's what I'd have
done."
He smiled. "I told you," he said, "I'm a com-
puter person. I spend the day looking at my moni-
tor, and most of the night too; the view would be
totally wasted. So I'm on thirteen. It's the hardest
floor to rent. You'd be surprised how many people
are superstitious."
"Especially now," she said.
He nodded. "Especially now." He sighed.
She said, "It's a tough break for you. Has the
building lost value?"

SLIVER 93
He shrugged. "A little, maybe. It'll come back
up."
She smiled at him. "You were right," she said, "I
was still wondering. I even asked Mrs. MacEvoy,
the day after we spoke."
"You did?" he said.
"I feel a little—tacky about it now."
"No, don't be silly," he said. "It's great you have
that kind of persistence. I said, I sensed it about
you."
They smiled at each other.
"Would you like a drink?" she asked.
"Sure, why not?" he said. "Thanks. A gin and
tonic?"
"Vodka?" she asked, getting up.
"Fine," he said. Looked across the room. "You
certainly have a lot of books. How many of those
are ones you edited?"
She stopped beyond the sofa. "Pete," she said,
turning, "Dmitri said he was told to take special
care of me. When I signed the lease. Why?" She
stood looking at him.
He drew a breath. Uncrossed his legs and leaned
forward, forearms on knees. "Thank you, Dmitri,"
he said.
Turned his head, looked at her. Nodded. "When
you came to look at the apartment," he said, "I
happened to be in the mail room. I saw you for a
moment."
"A moment?" she said, smiling.

94 IRA LEVIN
He said, "Did you ever hear of a television ac-
tress named Thea Marshall?"
She looked at him.
He sat straight, stared at her, his blue eyes elec-
tric. "Oh my God," he said, "I just realized. Of
course you've heard of her, people must have told
you lots of times you look like her. I didn't think of
it till just this instant. Jesus ..." He shook his head,
smiled, got up. "They have, haven't they?" He came
toward her. "Told you? Not so many nowadays, I
guess."
She said, "Sometimes . . ."
"Your voice is like hers too." He leaned at her
over the sofa, gripping its Cupid's-bow back, smil-
ing his dynamite smile. "So a moment was all it
took for me to be attracted," he said, "as I'm sure
you've noticed. Dr. Palme says it's universal, no ex-
ceptions whatsoever. The Oedipus complex, I
mean. She was my mother. Thea Marshall." He
nodded, smiling. "My mother." He nodded. "Thea
Marshall." He blinked, smiled. "I heard him say
that in the elevator once," he said. "Dr. Palme in
two A. He's a psychiatrist, a good one. On the staff
of Mount Sinai."
She looked at him. Raised two fingers. Said,
"Two vodka and tonics . . ."
Went into the kitchen.
Drew a breath.
Got glasses from the cabinet.
He came to the pass-through and leaned in,

SLIVER 95
canary-sweatered arms folded on the counter.
Watched as she put crescents of ice into the glasses.
"She was a terrific actress," he said. "So lifelike you
wouldn't believe it. She was on all the great dra-
matic shows of the Golden Age—The U.S. Steel
Hour, Kraft Theatre, Philco Playhouse, Studio
One. . . . They have kinnies of three of her plays at
the Museum of Broadcasting. Kinescopes. Paul
Newman has bit parts in two of them. Hi there,
Felice."
Felice meowed, going to the water bowl.
She poured vodka over the ice.
"She was on Search for Tomorrow most of the
time I was growing up," he said. "Play production
had moved out to the West Coast and my father
wouldn't let her go out there, so she had to do
soaps—The Guiding Light and then Search for To-
morrow. What a job that is. Rehearse in the morn-
ing, tape, block tomorrow's show, come home and
study the lines; rehearse, tape, block, study—an
endless cycle. Practically the only time I saw her was
on the tube! She was a fantastic actress though. So
lifelike. A year on The Guiding Light and six on
Search for Tomorrow ..."
She poured tonic. "What did your father do?"
she asked.
"He was the chairman of U.S. Steel," he said.
She glanced at him.
He smiled. "I know what you're thinking," he
said. "That maybe he used his influence to get her

96 IRA LEVIN
parts on the show. He didn't, not on the Steel Hour
or Kraft Theatre—he owned a lot of Kraft too. But
he didn't. He always maintained a strictly hands-
off policy where her career was concerned, they
both wanted it that way. She never needed help get-
ting good parts, she was a really terrific actress."
She cut lime.
Asked, "Do you have any brothers and sisters?"
"No," he said. "Do you?"
"A younger brother." Felice scratched at the
post, looking up at her. "Good cat," she said, turn-
ing to the cabinet.
"Don't give her something just like that," he
said. "Make her do some serious scratching. She's
conning you."
Holding the open cabinet door, she looked at
him; at Felice on her hind legs, paws on the post,
looking up at her. Giving a scratch to cue her.
"You're right," she said, closing the door.
"Sorry, Felice," he said.
Felice looked at him. At her. At him.
They chuckled.
Felice dropped from the post and sauntered into
the foyer, black-tipped tail swaying.
"I think I've made an enemy," he said.
"She'll get over it," she said, smiling. "You're
right, I've been an absolute patsy. She's so damn
smart. . . ." She handed him a glass through the
pass-through.

SLIVER 
97
"Thanks." He held the glass toward her.
"Cheers," he said.
"Cheers," she said, touching hers to it.
They smiled at each other, sipped.
She turned and went toward the door, saying
louder, "It can't just be a coincidence that Sam
Yale is in the building." Glass smashed on parquet,
liquid splashed. She stopped.
"Shit, I'm such a klutz	"
"Don't worry," she said, putting her glass down,
going for the paper towels. "That's another thing
you're the second person to do in less than twenty-
four hours."
The border of the rug was wet, and the cuffs of
his chinos. Crouching, they blotted at the parquet
with paper towels, picked pieces of glass from the
puddle. Felice came and watched.
"I'm sorry about the glass," he said.
"I'll deduct it from the rent," she said.
They smiled, blotting the parquet.
"No," he said, "it's not a coincidence that Sam
Yale lives here. Are you friends?"
"Acquaintances," she said. "He followed me
onto the checkout line at Murphy's the day I moved
in."
"I figured you'd meet sooner or later."
"It couldn't have been much sooner," she said.
Glanced at him. "Was it just by chance that you
were on hand to welcome me?"
He smiled. "No comment," he said. Teased a

98 IRA LEVIN
sliver of glass from the floor, set it on paper towel.
"There are factors involved in his being here," he
said, "that I don't think it would be right for me to
go into."
"He told me he's a recovering alcoholic," she
said, "and about the foundation."
He looked at her.
"The one supporting him," she said. "Carnegie
Hill something. You must know."
He said, "Just like that, in Murphy's?"
"In the park one day."
"Oh."
They wiped the floor.
"Well in that case," he said, "I guess there's no
reason why I can't tell you the whole story."
They brought the wet towels and wrapped glass
into the kitchen. He took the garbage out to the
chute while she made another drink.
They went into the living room.
Sat at the ends of the sofa facing each other, each
with a folded leg on the cushion. Reached glasses
and clinked them, smiling.
He drank. Looked at his glass. "I think they
were lovers," he said. "I don't hold it against him.
If he made her happy, fine. My father asked for it.
He was a real bastard and had plenty of affairs him-
self."
She watched him as he drew a breath, took a sip
of his drink.
"After she died," he said, "Sam dropped out of

SLIVER 99
sight, for almost ten years. At least you didn't see
his credit anywhere. The first I heard of him was a
few months after I bought the building; he was
speaking down at the New School. 'Directing in
Television's Golden Age.' I went to hear him, of
course. It was pretty embarrassing. He was half
drunk, rambled all over the place, forgot the ques-
tion he was answering. . .."
She sighed, shook her head.
"I did some checking," he said. "He was living
in a ratty little hole on Bleecker Street, teaching act-
ing. He'd been canned by some school down there.
I thought maybe he wouldn't take anything if he
knew it was my father's money, so I had my lawyers
set up the foundation. It's not a big deal. And they
hired someone who got in touch with him and put
him into the Smithers Treatment Center, right
around the corner. When the building was finished,
the foundation rented an apartment for him."
She said, "That was incredibly generous and sen-
sitive of you, and continues to be."
He shrugged. "He directed some of Thea Mar-
shall's best performances," he said. "I knew she
would have wanted to help him even if they weren't
lovers. And as I said, I don't hold it against him if
they were."
"Obviously you don't," she said.
They smiled at each other, drank.
"Well," he said, "we went off on a couple of tan-
gents, but that's what I wanted to tell you, that I'm

100 IRA LEVIN
the owner, so you can stop wondering. I told you
another lie down there. I knew you had a cat from
your application, I wasn't in Murphy's with anyone
last Saturday morning. I took a chance that that
was when you shopped and that you bought litter."
She smiled at him. "You're a good guesser," she
said. "Both lies forgiven. Gladly."
They drank.
Felice jumped up on the sofa between them.
Walked the yielding apricot velvet and sniffed his
rubbing fingers. He caressed her head. "Every-
body's forgiving me," he said.
She looked at him. Said, "Aren't you afraid I'll
tell the other tenants?"
"No," he said. He shook his head. "You won't.
You'll—protect my privacy."
"How do you know?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I just know it." His vivid blue
eyes looked at her. "That's the kind of person you
are," he said. "Do I read you wrong?"
She shook her head, looking at him. "No," she
said, "you don't."
They drank.
Felice curled up against his knee. He fingered
her orange ear, caressed her head. Said, "What a
cutie . . ."
She said, "Are you hungry? I have a refrigerator
full of chicken tarragon and salad, and some super
strawberry mousse. . . ."
"That sounds great," he said, smiling at her.

SLIVER 101
"I've got a bottle of vintage Dom Perignon cham-
pagne, the kind James Bond used to drink. Should
I run downstairs and get it?"
She smiled at him. "Why not?" she said.
"Alex is sixteen years older than I am. He
teaches architectural history at NYU. He was on
the faculty at Syracuse when we started going to-
gether. In my sophomore year."
"Hotter?"
"Sure."
He took an arm from around her, groped, found
the shower handle; turned the water hotter.
"We didn't get married till I was twenty-nine,"
she said. "Mmm, that's great. And Jeff is twelve
years older; you're not the only one with a parental
hang-up." She kissed his throat as he licked water
from her eyebrow. He said, "At least you're getting
over yours. . . ." They kissed, laughing.
Kissed. "Oh God . . ." Turned, kissing. "We're
going to make The Guinness Book of Records	"
"Back up . . ." "Wait a sec . . ." She took an arm
from around him, groped, found the shower han-
dle; turned the water hotter.

6
She sailed into the office and slowed and walked.
Smiled and said good morning—to Gary, to Car-
los, to Jean, to Sara—trying to look as if she hadn't
spent Saturday night and all day Sunday making
rapturous love with a twenty-six-year-old man who

106 IRA LEVIN
happened to be the most perceptive, sensitive, in-
tuitive person she had ever known.
Telling Roxie was one thing; she wasn't about to
tell the world.
She looked in on June around ten-thirty, asked
how the Scrabble had gone and told her not to
bother getting those phone numbers; she had spo-
ken to the manager, there had been a misunder-
standing. He had told the super, whose English
wasn't very good, to be more attentive to all the
tenants; so she was going back to her let-the-owner-
have-his-privacy position. Life hadn't imitated Oli-
via's Landlord after all. But thanks.
She didn't like lying to June, not even white-ly-
ing, but she was afraid that once she got started on
how she learned who the owner was, she would
wind up gushing out everything.
She had gushed to Roxie on the phone the night
before. "He has these vivid blue eyes and I swear to
God he sees right into me! And not just me, Roxie;
he took one look at the falcon, which he loves, and
he immediately saw what you were going for and
expressed it in almost exactly your terms\ He even
psyched out Felice! You can't believe how percep-
tive he is! And funny, and sweet, and wild about
me .. ."
She had told Roxie who his mother had been,
and his father, how unaffected he was about his
wealth—doing his own laundry, his apartment fur-

SLIVER 107
nished in simple Conran's contemporary under a
layer of mess. . . .
She knew it wasn't going to be a long-term rela-
tionship, not with thirteen years between them—
and didn't want it to be, for his sake; he ought to
have children. But for a while at least, for both of
them, it was surely the best possible thing that
could have happened.
Roxie, delighted for her, had agreed.
Would Dr. Palme agree too? She hoped so—and
that Pete would very soon be secure enough in the
relationship to tell her he was in therapy. How
could he not have been scarred, poor baby, hardly
seeing his mother at all except on television?
Though there was, of course, a slight chance,
very slight, that he had overheard the doctor talking
in the elevator about the Oedipus complex—be-
tween the lobby and the second floor. About one in
a million?
In her office, looking out at buildings of glass-
walled offices, she longed to call him—just a quick
hello to confirm his reality up there on Carnegie
Hill.
No. She resolved she wouldn't be a nuisance;
he'd be busy at his computer in that messy Con-
ran's living room, working on the program he was
doing for Price Waterhouse.
She got to work too; buzzed Sara and asked her
to bring in her notebook.

108 IRA LEVIN
He watched sam.
Jabbing with two fingers at the crummy-looking
portable he'd brought back from Tucson. Abe's,
probably. He'd set it up on the living-room table
along with a pad of paper and a dictionary; sat
with his glasses on, in his Beethoven sweatshirt,
jabbing, stopping and scratching his ear, jabbing,
checking the dictionary. No joint in sight.
Quitting again? And writing what?
The old scumbag . . . On the checkout line be-
hind her the day she moved in. Trying to repeat his-
tory . . .
And in the park! When? How come? What else
had he told her, what had she told him? Obviously
they'd had more than a casual conversation.
The morning after the Rocky thing? When he'd
slept till almost noon and there she was, at the
desk, telling Sara how gorgeous the park had been?
Maddening, not to know . . .
He smiled at himself—spoiled by too much
knowing. Did it matter what they'd said, when and
how they'd met? Not in the least. Not a microdot.
Tough, Sammy, you can't win 'em all. Be glad
you're alive. You don't know how lucky you are
that Abe didn't get to go to your funeral. . . .

SLIVER 118
He watched Beth searching Alison's dresser
drawers. Not even warm.
Dr. Palme and Michelle—the usual. Lisa doing
aerobics.
Them again on her bed, she on top, both of them
near coming.
Fantastic, how great she was. Naomi had been
frigid by comparison.
He fast-forwarded through a stretch of talking,
whizzing them all over the bed, out of the room,
back.
Watched them starting in again, kissing, strok-
ing each other.
Thought about calling her, didn't want to bother
her.
But she would be feeling the same way. More so.
And it wasn't as if she was in rehearsal or on cam-
era .. .
He killed the sound. Called Information for Dia-
dem's number.
Got to Sara and said, "Hello, my name is Peter
Henderson. May I speak to Ms. Norris if she's free?
It's a personal matter."
"Just a moment, please."
He watched them lying curled together, sixty-
nining.
"Hi. .."
"Hi..." he said, smiling, watching them. "Sorry

110 IRA LEVIN
to bother you but I had to make sure you're
real...."
It wasn't until a few days later—when she left
the apartment in the morning to find Vida in a
flowered kimono hauling out pink suitcases, bound
for a month in Portugal and seeming grim about
it—that she realized (riding down in the elevator
with the blond couple on fourteen, the goateed
man on twelve, the black/white couple on seven)
that Pete knew the occupation, income, age, and
marital status of everyone in the building, and
other information too from their credit reports
and references.
Talk about fun ...
She mentioned it that night over burgers and
fries at Jackson Hole, around ten.
He sat chewing, looking at her across the small
square table.
He swallowed. Sipped from his mug of beer as
she took a bite of her burger.
He wiped his lips with his napkin. "I wouldn't
say fun," he said, "but there's certainly a satisfac-
tion in knowing the basic facts about everybody.
We're all curious about our neighbors; it's a defen-
sive instinct from the most primitive part of the
brain. Like Felice sniffing." He took a fry from the
plate between them.

SLIVER 111
She said, "It's a lot easier to satisfy the instinct
in suburban Wichita, I can tell you that. I grew up
knowing everyone on Eleanor Lane and their com-
plete family histories." She took a fry.
He chewed, swallowed. "If you have any ques-
tions," he said, "I'll be glad to answer them."
"Thought you'd never ask," she said. "What
does Vida Travisano do? My 'hallmate.' "
He smiled. "Officially she's a model," he said.
"My lawyer thinks she's a high-price call girl.
What's your opinion?"
"Either or both," she said. "I was hoping you'd
settle it for me. How come you okayed her? I'm not
objecting, she's perfectly sweet, but if your lawyer
felt that way .. ."
He took a sip of beer. "I like the idea of having
a mix of people in the building," he said. "As much
of a mix as you can get, in this neighborhood, at
these rents. I don't want to be entirely surrounded
by yuppie clones, not even in the elevator."
"That sounds reasonable," she said.
"Ah, but you're not a lawyer," he said. "Or
someone in real-estate management. I'm sure they
think I'm nuts and a pain in the ass."
She smiled at him. Shrugged. "If they do," she
said, "that's their problem."
They ate bites of their burgers. Played some foot-
sie.
She said, "What are the Johnsons like?"
"The Johnsons?" he said. "Oh, thirteen B.

112 IRA LEVIN
They're never here so I forgot about them. Almost
never, a few weeks a year. They're British, fifty-
something. He's a lawyer, excuse me, a barrister,
and she's—I forget what she does. Nothing. Shops.
Comes in with lots of packages."
Giorgio went by outside the window with a Ger-
man shepherd; stood waiting while it nosed the
base of the corner streetlight.
They smiled at each other. "What does she do?"
she asked.
"Owns a travel agency," he said. "Over on Lex-
ington. Single." He took a fry.
She squinted out the window. "She looks like a
man in drag," she said.
He smiled, poking the tip of the fry into ketchup.
"You're right, she does," he said. Ate the red-tipped
fry, looking away for the waitress.
She went to a Women's Media Group lunch at
the Harvard Club. Everyone said she never looked
better. Ditto at the Vertical Club.
She took Felice to Dr. Monsey on Bank Street
for her shots; stopped in at the superette and the
bookshop. Everyone said she never looked better.
They biked in the park. Made spaghetti and clam
sauce.
Went with Roxie and Fletcher to a Cajun place

SLIVER 113
in SoHo. Pete spoke knowledgeably with Roxie
about the artistic process, with Fletcher about fed-
eral guidelines in medical-research funding. He
told a joke that left them limp. Traded tastes with
her, loving looks.
"Didn't I tell you?" she said in the loo.
"Listen," Roxie said, standing on tiptoes at the
sink, painting her eyes in the mirror, "if he's rich
too and the sex is so great, for God's sake grab
him!"
"Roxie . . ."
"Steffi is fifteen years older than Mike and
they're happy as clams. Pounce!"
One night, when he was staying over and they
were going to sleep, she mentioned that an agent
was taking her to lunch the next day at the Four
Seasons.
"Thea Marshall took me there for my tenth
birthday," he said, lying spooned behind her, clasp-
ing her breasts, his cheek in her hair. "God, was it
impressive for a kid, the scale of it. . . . We were
alongside the pool. The waiters and captains all
fawning over us, everyone looking ... Like we were
Mary and Jesus ... Is it some kind of book-
people's place now?"
She said, "Just at lunch. The Grill Room."
"I thought I heard that somewhere. . . ."
Felice turned around against their blanketed
feet.
She fingered the backs of his hands. "You always

114 IRA LEVIN
refer to her as 'Thea Marshall,' " she said—his
hands twitched—"never as 'my mother'.. ."
He shrugged against her. "That's how I think of
her," he said. "How I always have. It was the way
she wanted to be thought of—the actress, not
somebody's mother. She only had me because my
father made her. And the ironic thing is, she was
this really terrific young mother who always did the
right thing. On Search for Tomorrow. And totally
believable. Day after day, a really fantastic per-
formance. I took cabs home from school to catch
it, it was before VCRs."
She drew his hands tighter to her, kissed them.
Said, "You know, don't you, darling, that there's
nothing you can't tell me. . . ."
He lay still against her back. "What do you
mean?"
She turned herself around in his arms, hugged
him. He stared at her in the near-dark. She kissed
the tip of his nose. Said, "Isn't there something you
haven't told me, baby?"
He stared at her.
"There's no shame attached to it if you need it,"
she said. "I'm all for it, you must know that."
Staring, he said, "What are you talking about?"
She said, "Dr. Palme . . ."
He swallowed, looked at her. "Dr. Palme?" he
said.
She nodded.

SLIVER 115
"You-think I-see him?"
She said, "Don't you?"
He looked at her, shook his head. "No," he said.
"I'm not his patient. Haven't been. His or anyone's.
Why did you think so? When I said I heard him... ?"
She nodded. "It seemed so—unlikely," she said.
"That he was talking about the Oedipus complex
in the elevator, and that you of all people overheard
him."
He smiled. Let out breath. "But it happened," he
said. Smiled wider. "One of life's amazing coinci-
dences."
She hugged him, nuzzled into his shoulder, gig-
gling. "Oh God, darling, I'm sorry," she said. "Be-
lieve me, it wasn't anything else! Only that. Oh
Lord. That'll teach me a lesson. I was so sure . . ."
They kissed, hugging. Felice jumped off the bed.
He laughed, hugging her. Drew a deep breath,
puffed it out over her shoulder. "Jeez," he said, "I
couldn't imagine what the hell you were talking
about!"
They took the Circle Line cruise around Man-
hattan.
She trimmed his hair.
He gave her a Tiffany package, the paper the blue
of his eyes. The fluid gold openwork heart on a
chain, the big one.
She gave him five pounds of gourmet jelly
beans—luscious colors.

116 IRA LEVIN
Sam called. "How are you?"
"Fine," she said. "You?"
"Okay. I was in Arizona for a while. My brother
died."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear it	"
"Yeah, well, what are you gonna do. . . . That
was awful about your friend Sheer. I'm beginning
to think there's really a jinx on this place."
"Hardly," she said.
"Listen, I did some thinking out there, about
what you said. The memoirs. I decided to give it a
shot. Funny and serious both, why be shy?"
"Hey, that's great news, Sam," she said. "I'm re-
ally glad to hear it. I'm sure you can do it."
"Thanks, I hope so. I've written—I guess you'd
call it a first chapter. Would you like to see it?"
She drew breath. "I don't think I'm the right
one," she said, "I do very little nonfiction; but yes,
send it to me, just drop it off in the mail room; I'll
get it to an editor who'll be sympathetic to the ma-
terial and who'll give you a good objective reac-
tion."
"Okay . . . Thanks. That'll be fine, I appreciate
it. The typing's from hunger."
"As long as it's double-spaced and legible."
She told Pete about it when he came up—late,

SLIVER 117
he'd hit a glitch in the program he was working on.
"It'll be interesting," he said, sitting on the side of
the bed after she'd gotten back into it. "Maybe I'll
finally find out for sure about him and Thea Mar-
shall."
She watched him untying a sneaker, sparring
with Felice over the laces. She said, "I got the im-
pression that there was a relationship, and it was
very much love-hate. He's liable to say unkind
things about her."
He shrugged, glanced at her. "Is that why you're
giving it to someone else?" he asked.
"No," she said. "You know I don't do much
nonfiction."
He pulled the sneaker off. "It was your idea," he
said. "I would think you'd want to work on it."
She gathered the manuscript she'd been reading
into its box. "Oh boy," she said, shaking her head.
"Yes, I would love to, if what he's written is halfway
good. But I wouldn't be comfortable working with
him now, knowing about you and the foundation
when he doesn't, being one-up on him that way. It
should be a very open and candid relationship, es-
pecially with a writer who'll probably have to be
nursed along chapter by chapter. It's no good if I
have to watch what I'm saying." She closed the box.
"And yes," she said, "there would be a problem if
he got into things I thought might hurt you. . . ."
She put the box on the others under the night table.

118 IRA LEVIN
He was sitting up looking at her when she sat
straight.
She smiled at him, reached, caressed his cheek.
"It's not important, baby," she said. "Really. I
wouldn't even know him if you hadn't brought him
here, right?"
He nodded.
She smiled. "So quit stalling and get the clothes
off," she said.
He smiled at her. Bent to his other sneaker.
Sam left an envelope in the mail room—folded
pages, a dozen. Bad typing but good stuff: New
York in the early thirties, eight-year-old Sam and
twelve-year-old Abe—Yellen, not Yale—being spir-
ited from the Bronx by Uncle Maurice the actor
and shoved onstage in the Group Theatre produc-
tion of Waiting for Lefty.
Slightly E. L. Doctorow ...
She gave it to Stuart.
It was the one thing he hadn't expected, that he'd
fall in love with her.
Amazing, that lack of foresight, considering how
marvelous she was: warm, smart, honest, funny,
sexy—and looking like Thea Marshall. All of
which he had known almost since the day she
moved in—nowhere near as well as he knew it now,

SLIVER 119
of course—yet the thought he might fall in love with
her hadn't even crossed his mind.
There it was, though. Ruining everything.
He watched her sitting on the sofa with her
glasses on and her feet on the coffee table, reading
another manuscript some agent was hot on. Con-
temporary sexual conflicts.
He wished he could tell her about Phil and Les-
ley and Mark, Vida, the Fishers, the Hoffmans—
about everything that was going on in the building,
not just the sexual conflicts. How right she had
been: it was no good watching every word, having
secrets that couldn't be shared. No good? Make
that rotten, Kay.
And if Naomi, who hadn't been half as sharp as
she was, had caught on, wouldn't she catch on
sooner or later no matter how careful he was?
Wasn't he bound to make a slip he couldn't explain
someday? What then, for God's sake?
She turned, looked at him over her glasses.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said. Smiled. "I was just watching
you. Resting my eyes."
Smiling, she said, "If you don't like it, don't read
it. I won't be hurt."
"No, I'm enjoying it," he said, lifting the open
book. "This part on the boat is terrific."
They smiled at each other. She nodded toward
the door, chuckling. "Go on downstairs," she said.

120 IRA LEVIN
"Work on the program. I could use some alone
time too."
He tucked the book's flap in its pages. "I'm go-
ing to take it with me," he said. Leaned to her as
she took her glasses off. He kissed her. "I love you,"
he said.
She kissed him, caressed his cheek, looking at
him.
They kissed, and he got up and went around the
sofa to the foyer. "Good night, Felice," he called,
"wherever you are!"
Watching him, she said, "Hey, wait a minute..."
She put the manuscript aside, getting up.
He waited by the hall door.
She went and stood before him. Looked him in
the eye. "One of our editors, Wendy Wechsler," she
said, "I think I mentioned her—"
He nodded.
"She does a Thanksgiving dinner for trans-
planted people who aren't going home," she said.
"Would you like to go with me? I know it's late
but—I waffled. You know ..."
He glanced away, drew a breath. Put the book
under his arm and took her by the shoulders. "I
would love to, Kay," he said, "and I appreciate
your asking me. Sincerely. But I have these cousins
in Pittsburgh that I promised I'd go to. I've been
putting them off year after year and I just can't
back out now after I finally said yes."
She said, "I understand."

SLIVER 121
"I'm sorry," he said.
"It's okay," she said. "I shouldn't have waited so
long."
They kissed. Hugged.
He looked at her. "Ummm . . . ?"
"No, go on," she said. "We both could use a
little space. Go on. We'll talk tomorrow."
They kissed.
He opened the door, went out.
She watched him open the stairway door and go
out to the landing. He waved at her through the
wired-glass panel as the door closed.
She closed the apartment door, turned the bolt.
Breathed a sigh. Crouched and picked up Felice.
Held her before her, eye-to-eye. "Cousins?" she
asked.
"Is it anything I said?"
"No."
"Or did?"
"No," he said. "It's me, not you. Honestly." His
eyelids closed.
She kissed his lips, smoothed his hair back with
both hands. "Something with your work?" she
asked.
"No," he said. "Yes. No."
"I'm not completely computer-illiterate, you
know. . . ."

122 IRA LEVIN
"Honey, please, shh, let's not talk, okay? Shh.
Zap, we're mute."
She kissed his lips, his eyelids. Closed her eyes.
He moved in her, stiffening.
She signed a writer, bought a suit.
He didn't call. She decided she'd wait this time.
Worked out at the club, scored at an editorial
meeting. Went to a party. Went home and checked
the machine. He hadn't called.
She baked two pumpkin pies, Felice watching.
She called the folks Thanksgiving morning. Bob
and Cass were there, Uncle Ted, everyone cheery
except the baby wailing in the den. A good call—
no arguments, no questions about men. They
looked forward to her Christmas visit; she did too.
The turkey was dry but the trimmings were
great, the table bigger than last year's—familiar
faces, new ones. She imagined him at a cold table
in a Pittsburgh mansion, or, she hoped, alone at his
computer with a frozen dinner, the hell with him.
Wendy's suave orthopedist came on to her but she
was through with old no matter what. The pies
were a smash. She went home and checked the ma-
chine; he hadn't called.
Friday was dreary—surprise. A gray sky, flecks
of snow. She paid some bills, cleaned a little,

SLIVER 123
changed the bed. Got the telescope; watched gulls
on the reservoir, joggers on the mesh-fenced
track—two middle-aged women arguing on the
shoulder, one showing her palms, the other shaking
a finger, both in blue sweatsuits. Too bad she
couldn't lip-read. Felice, on the windowsill, nuzzled
her knee.
She tried to do some work—paring down an
overstuffed bio of Dorothy Parker. Got nowhere
with it. What was he doing?
She cocooned herself on the sofa and watched
soaps—One Life to Live, General Hospital. Hoped
the actresses, fairly decent, some of them, were giv-
ing their kids enough quality time. Roxie called;
she kept her mouth shut and listened for a change.
Said everything was fine, status quo. Busy.
She watched Now, Voyager, Felice sleeping in her
lap.
Ate a yogurt, took a bath.
On Saturday she got back on track; put the TV
in its corner, finished the cleaning, shopped,
squared herself at the desk. Three weeks since the
whole thing had started. She polished his open gold
heart with her thumb—and got to work. Picked up
speed, plowed ahead. Clean copy, thank God.
The phone rang as she finished marking a short
end-of-a-chapter page —4:54 on the clock. She
watched the phone. It rang. She picked up.
"Hello?" she said.
"Hi."

124 IRA LEVIN
She took her glasses off. "Hi," she said.
"How was Thanksgiving?"
"Caloric," she said. "Fun. Yours?"
"I didn't have one. I was lying, I was afraid we
were getting in too deep. I'm sorry now."
She turned in the chair. "So am I," she said.
"I love you, Kay."
"Oh Petey"—she shut her eyes, drew breath—"I
love you, baby, so much. . . ."
"Oh honey . . . God, I've missed you. There's
something we have to talk about, it's too heavy for
the phone. Does that sound familiar?"
Smiling, she said, "Two vodka and tonics, com-
ing up."
"No. Down here this time. Would you mind?"
"Terribly," she said. "Now?"
"Whenever you're ready."
"Fifteen minutes."
"You won't know the place. I cleaned in your
honor."

1
Whatever it was, they could deal with it, now that
he was ready to talk about it. The damn age differ-
ence, probably.
She showered and made herself gorgeous and
thirty-five, tops. Put on white slacks and flats and

126 IRA LEVIN
the peach pullover, the heart on the chain. Florence
Leary Winthrop called, manic, wanting to bounce
ideas off her; it took five minutes to get a post-
ponement till first thing Monday. She turned the
machine on, got her keys. Put down fresh food and
water, told Felice she'd see her later.
The elevators were at fifteen and six, both going
down; she took the stairs. Jigged down the zigzag-
ging half-flights lit by fluorescents at the numbered
landings, her footfalls whispering down the gray
concrete well. She hoped it was the age difference,
not MS or cancer or something, there in that bad-
luck building. . . .
She went out on thirteen.
He was busy in the kitchen in a plaid shirt and
jeans, the apartment door wide open, the Beatles
singing "Hey Jude." He turned, smiling the dyna-
mite smile. "Two vodka and tonics," he said, wip-
ing his hands on a hanging towel. "But I'm sorry,
miss, you'll have to show me some ID.. . ."
They kissed through the end of "Hey Jude," a
deejay talking, and part of "Eleanor Rigby."
She went into the living room, combing her hair
with her fingers. The blind was down, cups of light
on chrome rods glowed at the ceiling; the ceiling
light glowed back. The tan-carpeted room looked
sterile—a bit—minus its overlay of clothes and
what-all. But nice, the tan leather couch almost at
the center, facing the TV and stereo at the left; the
desk and computer against the right-hand wall, ta-

SLIVER 127
ble and chairs by the pass-through—everything tan
and white and chrome except some yellow and or-
ange cushions, the twinkling red stereo lights, the
black TV.
"It looks great," she said. "You're right, I
wouldn't have recognized it."
"I took out a ton of stuff," he said, going to the
couch with two glasses, ice tinkling. "Suddenly I
have glasses again."
She checked the low bookcase by the desk—
technical books and texts, some in Carnegie-
Mellon jackets. The Worm in the Apple stood
among them.
The Beatles stopped as he switched the stereo
off.
She smiled, went to him.
They sat on the soft leather couch knee to knee,
hand in hand. Touched glasses.
Sipped, eye-smiling at each other. Put the glasses
down on lucite blocks.
He took both her hands, looked into her eyes.
"The first thing," he said, "is I love you." He
leaned, kissed her lips meeting his. "That's why I'm
telling you this. Remember that, please. You're go-
ing to get angry, very. I promise. So remember, I'm
telling you because I love you. You once said I
could tell you anything; I'm taking you at your
word."
"If you have a wife and children," she said, "I'm
going to cream you. I mean it."

137 IRA LEVIN
"No, no," he said, shaking his head. "No . . ."
He drew a breath, looked down.
She watched him.
"The second thing," he said, "is I've told you a
lot of lies." He raised his head, looked at her.
"Nothing but lies, practically."
She said, "Such as . . ."
He drew breath. "I'm not a computer program-
mer," he said. "Professionally I mean. I can write
programs—I wrote the games, back when I was in
high school—but those were lies about free-lanc-
ing, and Price Waterhouse and ABC."
"You don't own the building," she said.
"No, I do," he said. "That was one of the true
things, everything about my family, and the money...
Kay, listen—" His blue eyes sparked, his hands
gripped hers. "Suppose I told you I was dealing
drugs—I'm not, but suppose that's what I told you.
What would you say? Really. If I told you that."
She looked at him.
"What would you say?" he asked. "This is just
what-if. Honestly."
She said, "I'd say 'Quit this minute. It's wrong,
it's criminal, it's crazy. Thank your lucky stars you
haven't been caught.'"
"And suppose I did. Quit. What then?"
"What do you mean, what then?"
He said, "What would you do if I quit?"
She drew breath. "I would try to help you find a
legal occupation," she said. "I would try to under-

SLIVER 129
stand, and help you understand, why you had done
such a stupid, risky thing. And help you—not get
into it again."
"Would you blow the whistle on me?" he asked.
"Of course not," she said. "Don't be silly. I love
you too, remember?"
He nodded. Leaned, kissed her lips.
She drew back, freed her hands. "Pete, darling,
please," she said, "get to the point; I don't know
what the hell to expect."
"We're at it," he said.
He picked up a remote controller, thumbed red
lights onto the TV and the VCR beside it.
"Show and tell?" she said.
"You got it," he said.
The TV screen came alight—a golf ball rolling
across green turf. It plunked in the cup, applause
rippled. The screen went dark, another red gleam
on the VCR.
She picked up her glass. Said, "I wish you
would—" A living room appeared in black and
white, viewed from above, a man walking around
gathering papers that rustled, plates that clinked.
She put the glass down. Watched.
Him.
In that room. Taking empty glasses off the lucite
blocks. He raised his face, smiled at her. "Hi, Kay,"
he said. Kissed her.
She turned to him beside her, blue eyes watching
her. "Hi, Kay," he said. Kissed at her.

130 IRA LEVIN
She turned, looked up at the chrome-centered
Art Deco light.
At him. "I don't get it," she said.
"There's a camera up between the floors," he
said, pointing the controller aside; the TV clicked
off. "And a glass thread coming down through the
stem of the light."
She squinted at him. "Why?" she asked. "Are
you with the CIA? Or the FBI?"
"No," he said, "but it's stuff they use. Takai,
Japanese, the best in the world. A former colonel in
the CIA helped me set up the system, procured
everything. . . ."
She looked at him. Said, "The 'system'?"
He nodded. "That's what it is, Kay," he said. "A
whole system. All the lights feed into cameras.
Yours included."
She looked at him.
"I've been watching you since the day you moved
in," he said. "And listening. To your phone conver-
sations too. Both ends. That's how I was so intui-
tive and perceptive."
She stared at him.
"I told you you would get angry," he said. "I
violated your privacy and in a sense it's almost as
if I raped you. But if I hadn't, would we be here
now? Would we have had the wonderful times we've
had? And don't I really know you anyway, more
sides of you than anyone else does? Even if I pirated
some of the data?"

She stared at him.
"I was going to let the relationship just tail off,"
he said, "but I can't. It's too important to me, I love
you too much. And having to lie all the time spoils
it, not being able to share things .. ." He shrugged,
smiled. "So ... I'm in your hands now, because you
could blow the whistle and get me into a lot of very
hot water."
She stared at him.
Looked away. At her glass. Picked it up, her hand
quivering.
Sipped, ice in the glass tinkling.
He watched her, reaching aside, putting the re-
mote controller down.
She swallowed. Put the glass down. Looked at
him. Said, "You watch everybody?"
He nodded.
"Guided by the light?" she said. "Searching for
tomorrow?"
Pink-cheeked, he nodded. Smiled. "God, you're
quick," he said. "It took me years to see that. Sure,
that's how it started, but it's a whole other thing
now, far beyond that."
She shook her head. "I don't understand—" She
looked at the blank TV. "How? How do you—"
She turned her hands out.
He stood up. "Come on, I'll show you," he said.
"It's next door." He bent and picked his glass up,
drank.
"Next door?" she said.

132 IRA LEVIN
He put the glass down, backhanded his mouth.
"I have thirteen B too," he said. "The Johnsons are
another lie." He moved away, waited.
She looked at him.
Got up, putting a hand to the back of the couch.
Followed him out of the apartment.
Across the hallway.
He unlocked 13B's door, braced it open for her.
"If you think it was messy in there," he said, "you
ought to see what it looked like in here."
The kitchen was the kitchen, half-lit in the hall-
way's light and a green glow from the pass-
through.
The foyer was pallid green. A green-shaded lamp
in the living room hung before a colossal wall-to-
wall sea monster, all gray-green scales, lying on a
curved sweep of tan.
Television screens, a curving multitiered wall of
them, two mammoth ones in the center. A hundred
or more dark screens, each with a green glint mov-
ing sideways as she moved nearer, the light growing
brighter.
He was playing the dimmer behind her.
Ranks of buttons and switches on the curved tan
console.
A black posture-back armchair before it.

SLIVER 133
She stopped a few feet back. Stood scanning the
half-dozen rows of screens, the pale digits above—
4 A, 5A, 6A — and across the middle — 6B, 7B,
8B...
He went to the console's left end, turning; stood
with a hand on its rounded rim, watching her.
"Three for each apartment," he said, "except this
one. The security cameras too—the lobby, the ele-
vators, et cetera. A hundred and thirty altogether. I
can feed them onto either of the masters. The dis-
tortion is electronically corrected; what's left I
don't even notice. The eye adjusts pretty quickly."
She turned her head, looked at him. "Three?"
she said.
He nodded. "I said, all the lights."
She stared at him.
"I know, it's a little gross," he said. "I was ten
or eleven when I first got the idea, just a thing I used
to fantasize about. Then, watching them start this
building, when I saw I could actually do it, I never
thought of not including the bathrooms." He
smiled. "They were crucial originally. And a lot of
good conversations take place there."
She looked at him, drew a breath. "You have got
to realize," she said, "that this is the most—the
most monstrous, horrendous invasion of privacy
that could possibly be perpetrated! Not just against
me"—she clasped herself with both hands, leaning
toward him—"although Jesus God, to say you love

134 IRA LEVIN
someone and all the time be—my God, I can't
even—"
"I do love you," he said, moving toward her.
"Against everybody!" she said. "How can you
do this to people? It's appalling!" She looked at the
screens. "My God .. ."
"They don't know," he said.
"That doesn't matter!" she cried.
"It does," he said, close to her. "Did it hurt you
that I was watching?"
"It hurts me now\"
"Because now you know\ Look"—he took her
by the shoulders—"let's not argue about it, I ex-
pected you to feel this way. I'm closing it down."
He held her, looking at her. "If I have to choose
between it and you," he said, "I choose you. I'm
quitting. It's finished. No more."
They looked at each other.
"You'd better," she said. "This must be against
a dozen laws. And you'll be sued penniless if the
other tenants find out, no matter how much money
you have."
"That's what I meant about hot water," he said.
Breathed a sigh, looking at her. "I'm sorry I hurt
you," he said. "I never saw you do anything that
wasn't beautiful, or heard you say anything
dumb."
"Did you see Hubert Sheer fall?" she asked.
"No, I didn't," he said. "And I didn't see him
afterwards. You can't see into the showers, the an-

SLIVER 135
gle is wrong. There's glare on the door and all the
black makes it worse. Look." He let go of her,
turned, leaned over the chairback. "No," she said.
Reaching to the console, he looked back at her,
his head brushing the green shade. "My bath-
room," he said, "not that one."
She said, "I'll take your word."
He stood and turned, faced her. "I hardly
watched him at all," he said, the green glints stir-
ring on the screens. "He was usually reading. I
thought he'd gone on the trip he was talking about
and left the lights on by mistake. That happens."
He drew a breath. "The only death I saw," he said,
"was Billy Webber when he OD'd. There were two
girls with him, which was why I was watching, and
they called an ambulance the minute he started
convulsing. I wasn't home when Brendan Conna-
hay and Naomi Singer died, and there's no camera
where Rafael, the super before Dmitri, had the ac-
cident."
She said, "Do you watch Sam too?"
"Yes," he said. "He doesn't know. Look, I hap-
pen to have done a lot of good here, and not just
for him. I help people out, financially and in other
ways too, sometimes through the foundation,
sometimes just cash in the mail. Families of people.
Maggie Hoffman's niece needed a liver transplant,
in Shreveport. The mother's a wonderful woman,
gutsy, single, broke; I sent the money. The week

136 IRA LEVIN
before last. The Kestenbaums, who were in your
apartment; I helped them too."
She shook her head. "It's wrong," she said.
Looked at him. "It's wrong."
"So I'm closing it down," he said. He took her
at the waist with both hands, smiled at her.
"Mommy says no and I'm a good boy, right?" He
kissed her cheek. "I can't junk it," he said, "be-
cause it would be a little hard explaining where ev-
erything's coming from, but what we'll do is get a
locksmith up here and change the lock, and you'll
keep the keys. There's a door in back too, through
the closets; I mention it as a sign of good faith; you
never would have noticed it. You can put a combi-
nation lock on that. And that's it. I'll do some pro-
gramming, or maybe finish my degree."
She looked at him.
"Is it worse than dealing drugs?" he asked.
"Do you really mean that?" she asked.
"About the locks? Yes," he said. "I told you, I
choose you."
They looked at each other. Hugged each other,
kissed.
She hugged him tight; sighed and shook her
head, looking over his shoulder at the screens. "Dr.
Palme too?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "See what I meant about having
to lie all the time?"
"Jesus . . ." She looked at the green-glinting

SLIVER 137
screens. "That's the pits," she said, "watching peo-
ple in therapy ..."
"They don't know," he said.
She looked at the screens. Drew back, peered at
him. Said, "And this is what you've been doing for
three years?"
"It's the most fascinating thing you've ever seen,
Kay," he said. "Dramatic, funny, heart-breaking,
sexy, suspenseful, educational..."
She touched his cheek, shaking her head. "Living
soaps," she said.
"No, life," he said. "The real thing, the soap that
God watches. A sliver of it anyway. No actresses,
no actors, no directors. No writers or editors. No
commercials. And every bit of it true, not some-
body's version of the truth—like all the books
you've read."
She drew from his arms. "You son of a bitch,"
she said, "you're trying to sell me on it. .. ."
"Just watch for an hour," he said, reaching to
her. She pushed his hand away, heading for the
foyer. "Tomorrow the locksmith," she said.
"Tomorrow?" he said, going after her.
"Tomorrow," she said, opening the door. "They
work Sundays." She went out into the hallway. "Je-
sus," she said.
Leaned to the mirror, poked her hair.
He came out, closed the door, tried it.
"You're too much," she said. "Mr. Open, Mr.
I'm-In-Your-Hands-Now—pushing his peeping

138 IRA LEVIN
machine. When I think of the conversations you lis-
tened to, never mind the goddamn bathroom . . ."
"I apologized," he said. "What do you want me
to do, grovel? I have something terrific I want to
show you."
"You've shown it," she said, plucking at the pul-
lover's collar. "God almighty, what did you spend
on that?"
"Counting the bribes," he said, "not counting
the building, a little over six million."
She looked at him in the mirror. "That's a gen-
uine sin," she said.
"The building's gone up ten mill," he said. "I'm
ahead on the deal."
"That's worse," she said. "But it makes me feel
fine about locking it up." She turned, stepped to
the elevators, touched between them, looked at
him. "I don't want you watching me tonight," she
said.
"I won't," he said. Raised his hand.
"Or anyone else," she said.
"Oh come on," he said. "The last night? And a
Saturday night?"
They looked at each other.
"On second thought," she said, "maybe I'd bet-
ter watch you. Go turn off the lights. You're staying
at my place."
He went to 13A, smiling.
"Don't look so smug," she said. "I'm really
pissed off at you."

SLIVER 139
"Legally it's still a gray area," he said, lying
spooned behind her, clasping her breasts, his cheek
in her hair. "Especially when the camera is outside
the rented premises, which it is in this case. I'm
very well informed on privacy issues; the couple in
ten B are with the ACLU."
"Jesus Christmas," she said, "you spy on the
ACLU?"
"That's why I approved them," he said. "I fig-
ured they'd keep me up to date. Actually they
turned out to be kind of astounding for lawyers."
"Good night, Pete," she said.
"Good night, Kay." He kissed her neck,
squeezed her breasts.
They snuggled closer, lay silent.
Felice turned around against their blanketed
feet.
"Incidentally," he said, "this was the third apart-
ment house the Colonel worked on. And he did a
hotel too."
They lay silent.
"Here in New York?" she asked.
"He wouldn't talk about them."
"Gee, I'm glad he's so ethical."
"Except he said the hotel's system is computer-
ized; it only shows the rooms where there's move-

140 IRA LEVIN
ment. It can even discriminate between one person
and two. This is small potatoes here."
"Small immoral ones."
They lay silent.
"Come on . . ." he said. "Half an hour and then
we'll call the locksmith. No bathrooms. No Sam if
that's a problem."
"Good night, Peter," she said.
They lay silent.
"It's not just watching," he said. "It's putting
different things alongside each other, or the audio
from one apartment over the video from another.
You get all kinds of—contrasts and harmonies.
Sometimes it's like playing an organ. A people or-
gan."
"Will you shut up and go to sleep?"
"Good night," he said. Kissed her neck.
They lay silent.
A blow shook the ceiling.
"Jesus," she said, "what do they do up there?"
"None of your business," he said.
"Oh, fuck you . . ."
He kissed her neck.

8
H alf an hour," she said.
He unlocked 13B's door, and reaching in,
switched on the foyer light. "I hope there's some-
thing good," he said, bracing the door open for her.
"It's liable to be just a few Jets fans."

142 IRA LEVIN
"I thought it was supposed to be continuous fas-
cination," she said, going in.
"Beautiful Sunday afternoons aren't prime time.
And it's Thanksgiving weekend, don't forget. A lot
of people went home."
She stood at the rim of the living room's dark-
ness, her hand going where her switch upstairs was.
She pressed, and turned the green-shaded lamp up
full, lighting the tan console, the gray screens.
"I'll get a chair...."
She stood surveying the wall-to-wall curve of
green-glinting screens, six rows high from the con-
sole to near the ceiling, single rows passing over
and under the mammoth center screens; six rows
high on either side, pale digits glowing across the
top and midline—2 through 11 on the left, 12
through 21 on the right, A's above, B's below.
She walked nearer, slipping her hands into her
jeans pockets.
Stood behind the posture-back armchair looking
at the console's regiments of paired toggle switches
and push buttons, patterned and plastic-labeled to
match the screens. A center bank of knobs and
larger switches; farther back, sunk in tan laminate,
two VCRs.
An inset face-up clock—blue digits, 12:55—a
phone, a pad in a clipboard. A bowl of jelly beans.
Luscious colors.
The door closed behind her.
She watched his pearly reflection in 1 and 2, the

SLIVER 143
center screens, coming in behind a tall white chair,
bringing it to her left. "Did you tape me?" she
asked, turning.
He put down one of his white leather dining
chairs; held its peaked back, looking at her. "Yes,"
he said. "The night you moved in, in the tub, but
it's so dark you can hardly see anything. And the
two of us, that first Saturday night."
She looked away. "I don't believe it," she said.
"I set it when I came up for the champagne," he
said. Smiled at her. "Just in case. You don't want
to miss a major event. Don't make me erase it; it's
super-safe and think what fun it'll be when we're
old. We'll probably be the only couple in the world
with a tape of their first time together."
She looked at him. Drew a breath. "I wouldn't
doubt it," she said. Turned and sat.
He squared the chair toward the screens, bent
over it, kissed her head.
He went and dimmed the green-shaded lamp;
watched it, dimming it low. "I've got soda and stuff
here," he said. "Do you want anything?"
She shook her head, looking down, rubbing at
the back of a hand.
He came and sat in his chair, rolled close to the
console. Switched on a red gleam, a hum from the
back of the apartment.
She sat straight in the straight-backed chair,
crossed her legs, folded her arms.

144 IRA LEVIN
"This'll take a second," he said. "I'm cutting out
the bathrooms and Sam's apartment."
In the pallid light she watched his hand riding on
its shadow, clicking along the row of toggles near-
est her. "What's the humming?" she asked.
"The power supply." His hand clicked back
along a farther row of toggles. "The voltage has to
be stepped down and converted, from AC to DC.
There'd be too much heat and noise in here with a
separate transformer for each screen. I've got a big
one in back wired right into the mains." He clicked
at the right-hand switches. "I'll close the door if it
bothers you."
"It's all right," she said. Looked at his turned
head. "It would really be super," she said, "if you
put this much effort and industry into something
worthwhile."
"Give me time," he said. "I've got other projects
in mind. Okay . . ."—he faced front, clicked
switches—"welcome to the real Golden Age of Tel-
evision . . ."
The screens bloomed blue-white in rows of
rooms on both sides. The third row down stayed
dark, and the bottom row except the screens under
the large ones—the building's entrance, the lobby,
the mailroom, both elevators. "Let's check out Fel-
ice," he said, touching buttons. The center screens
ballooned with all-around overviews of her living
room, her bedroom.
"Good Lord," she said.

SLIVER 145
He touched knobs on the console.
She looked at her furniture, her patterned rugs,
her Times scattered around the bedroom, her
books, her plants, her ornaments.
"You'll get used to the perspective," he said.
"Here she is. Hi, Felice."
Felice walked past the bed on „ the right-hand
screen, newspaper rustling under her. She walked
to the window at the top of the screen, hopped to
the sill. Lay down in the sunlight, lifted a hind leg,
licked it.
She smiled in the blue-white light.
"Oh shit, I forgot," he said, "we should have
waited till three. Ruby's having a seance and it'll be
interesting. Ruby Clupeida, with the perfume." He
touched a button before her, one before him.
"She's into spiritualism." On the left-hand screen,
Giorgio, in a dark caftan, brought a chair to a
round table. "There's a psychic who's been ripping
her off for months," he said. "I've seen him check-
ing his notes in the bathroom. And she's finally got-
ten suspicious and has an expert coming. He's go-
ing to pretend to be her father's business partner.
The father is dead and has been communicating."
"That's beautiful furniture," she said. "Jaco-
bean."
"Family heirlooms," he said. "Her mother is su-
ing her over them. She claims Ruby took them with-
out permission."
"I gather she's not a man in drag."

146 IRA LEVIN
"No." He smiled, scanning the monitors. "That
was funny, when you said she looked like one, be-
cause you had just asked me about Vida, who is,
more or less."
"What?"
"He's a pre-op transsexual," he said. "He had
the hormone treatments but when it came to the
actual operation he had second thoughts. He's been
fighting with his lover about it for almost a year.
And you'll never guess—oh good, Jay and Lisa are
here." He touched buttons. "The Fishers, four A.
She's been having an affair with her boss and her
sister tipped him off last week. She's been denying
it." In a high-tech living room on the right-hand
screen, an attractive dark-haired woman she'd seen
in the elevator stood in pajamas looking out the
window. A man in pajamas crouched at the TV,
adjusting it. "It's beautiful out," Lisa Fisher said.
"Go for a walk," Jay Fisher said. "Call Ben, it's
okay with me."
"Oh God," Lisa Fisher said, "if you're going to
start in again . . ."
On the left-hand screen, the goateed man on
twelve sat down at a desk in a half-furnished living
room and picked up the phone. "David Hoenen-
kamp," Pete said while the Fishers argued. "An ex-
priest, now in advertising. He has his own agency,
small but successful. He's separated from the
woman he left the church for."

SLIVER 147
They listened to David Hoenenkamp explaining
to a client why he was resigning the account.
The Fishers arguing.
"Fantastic clarity, isn't it?" he said, offering the
jelly beans.
She nodded, taking a couple.
"Takai," he said. "Japanese, the best in the
world." He put the bowl down on the blue 1:07,
took a few beans himself.
They watched the Sweringens on 1, the Fishers
on 2. He switched the sound back and forth.
"I assure you it's not a question of money," Ste-
fan said on 1, going into the kitchen, "it's the time
involved. Do you realize how long it takes to find
the parts?"
"Hey, what time is it?" she asked.
He moved the bowl—from 3:02. "Jeez," he said.
"Good grief," she said.
He killed the sound. Swiveled to her.
They looked at each other.
"And this was nothing, Kay," he said. "Almost
nobody here. No Dr. Palme. No sex even, for God's
sake."
She said, "I didn't expect it to be boring."
"You ought to see it in a few hours," he said,
"when everybody's getting home."

148 IRA LEVIN
She shifted around, leaned to him, took his
hands in hers. "Petey, it's wrong," she said, "no
matter bow interesting and—affecting it is. And
you know it means big trouble if anyone finds out.
It could ruin your whole life. Our whole lives .. ."
They looked at each other.
She said, "It's something you have to put behind
you. Not just for us. For your own sake."
He sighed, nodded. "I guess ..." he said.
She let go his hands.
He swiveled, opened a drawer, brought out the
Yellow Pages. Opened the thick book in his lap,
swiveling back. Sighed, looked at her.
She looked at him.
He riffled pages in the blue-white light, found
the locksmiths. "Wow, look how many," he said,
turning pages.
"How are you going to work this?" she asked.
"Will Terry let a locksmith up here with no John-
sons around?"
He looked at her.
"And if you call someone to thirteen A," she
said, "will he change the lock here?"
He said, "I didn't think of that."
She said, "You goddamn liar ..."
He raised his right hand. "Kay, I swear I didn't.
I was so anxious to get you to watch for a
while . . ." He leaned to her. "Look," he said, "it
really doesn't make any difference. All we have to
do is fix this door so it can't be opened from out-

SLIVER 149
side, nail a piece of wood to the floor or something,
and you can still put a lock on the door in back.
Same effect." He smiled at her. "We can play games
where I try to get you to tell the combination. If I
succeed, you change it."
She sat a moment, looking at him. Shook her
head. "No," she said. "I've changed my mind. I'm
not going to be Mommy-taking-care-of-you all the
time. That's not the kind of relationship I want.
You're dn adult, Pete. You're going to have to be
responsible for your own actions. You know how I
feel about this. If you really want an ongoing rela-
tionship, you're going to have to do the locking up
yourself."
He sighed. "The honor system?" he said.
"Yes," she said.
He nodded, closed the phone book, swiveled,
put it on the console. "You're right, of course." He
swiveled back, smiling at her. "You're really going
to shape me up. . . ." He took her hands, bent,
kissed them. Sat looking at her, his eyes a deeper
blue in the blue-white. "I will," he said. "I'm going
to get onto those other projects. Actually I've sort
of started on one. There are some things going on
here that I'm very involved in—a couple of Dr.
Palme's patients, and eleven B, the two women
there, and the Ostrows right above you—so I can't
swear I'm going to quit cold turkey, but I'm going
to cut way down and taper off fast. I promise I
will."

150 IRA LEVIN
"I hope so, Pete," she said. "I really do."
They leaned to each other, kissed.
"And I won't watch you any more, ever," he
said, freeing a hand, turning. He clicked switches.
The 20B monitors went dark, the next to the last in
the lower right rows. He smiled at her. "You and
Sam," he said. "Symmetrical."
She looked around at the dark second screens in
the lower left rows. Noticed, turning back, new
movement in 8B.
"That's the psychic," he said. Touched buttons.
Hand in hand they looked at the masters. Ruby
and another woman ushered a stout dark-suited
man into the living room. Jay got into an overcoat,
shouting at Lisa who was talking on the phone with
a finger in her ear.
"Turn the sound on," Kay said. "Just for a min-
ute."
First thing Monday morning she called the le-
gal department. Wayne was there. She asked how
Sandy and the kids were. They were fine. "I need
some information about the laws concerning inva-
sion of privacy," she said. "Specifically, a situation
where someone bugs an apartment with a video-
camera and rents it out, on a standard lease, here
in New York."

SLIVER 151
"The tenant being unaware of the videocamera."
"Yes," she said. "The phone is tapped too. I've
got a manuscript based on that situation, and ac-
cording to the author it's a gray area legally. Is he
right, and if so, exactly how gray?"
"I couldn't say offhand, that's not my bailiwick,
but I'll be glad to run it down for you. I can tell you
that a phone tap, if it's unauthorized, is a federal
offense."
"I thought as much," she said.
"Probably state as well. I'll get back to you
about the videocamera. It shouldn't take long."
"It's outside the apartment," she said. "He says
that's a factor. There's a glass thread coming in
through the ceiling light."
"Is it being done for a business-related pur-
pose?"
"No," she said, "it's just a matter of watching."
"Aha. And the heroine moves in."
"How did you guess?" she said.
She asked Sara to get Florence Leary Winthrop
and to hold all calls except Wayne.
Half an hour later she put Florence on hold.
"Wayne?"
"Yes. Your writer's right. There's no federal or
state criminal law yet against visual electronic sur-
veillance per se. The landlord could be subject to a
civil suit if the tenant found out, but the only crim-
inal charge he might face, other than the unauthor-
ized phone tapping—which is a five-year felony, by

152 IRA LEVIN
the way—would be running afoul of the state law
against peeping, a very minor charge. And even
that would be open to challenge."
"I'm surprised," she said.
"So am I. There may be some legislation pend-
ing. Your best bet for information on that would
probably be the ACLU."
She thanked him; apologized to Florence.
"I told you," Pete said that evening, smiling.
"They're very knowledgeable and they never stop
yakking. Two lawyers."
"The penalty for unauthorized phone tapping,"
she said, "is five years."
"I know that," he said.
They were in Table d'Hote, a small storefront
restaurant on Ninety-second Street. Couples and
foursomes were at all but one of the eight antique
tables; the noise level of conversation and cutlery
was high. They were in a corner at a round table,
sitting knee against knee, sipping white wine, but-
tering pieces of marbled bread.
"I can't i/wtap them at this point," he said, "not
without breaking through the basement ceiling. But
nobody'll ever find out. And I'm really tapering off.
I didn't watch at all today, not that Mondays are
fantastic. During the day, I mean. Monday nights
are. Everybody's home."
"What did you do?" she asked.
"Some computer work on the project," he said.
"And I'll tell you right now, it's something I'd

SLIVER 153
rather not talk about until certain details have been
ironed out. I know you'll understand that."
"Of course," she said. "I wasn't probing. I was
just curious about how you spent the day. It must
have been hard not to watch. I couldn't stop think-
ing about it, how hypnotic it is."
"Because it's real," he said. "It's like the differ-
ence between seeing cars piling up in a movie and
a real accident in the street."
"And never knowing what's coming next," she
said.
"Sure, that's a big part of it," he said. "The total
unpredictability, and the variety."
She sighed, sipped her wine. "I wish to hell it
weren't so wrong," she said.
"It's considered wrong," he said, "but nobody
gets hurt and I'll bet there isn't anyone who
wouldn't want to watch for a while."
She looked at him. "No more," she said.
"I know," he said. "I told you, I didn't at all
today, and one of Dr. Palme's most interesting pa-
tients is on Monday."
The waiter set handsomely garnished Victorian
plates before them—grilled swordfish, poached
salmon.
Delicious. They traded tastes.
He told her about some of Dr. Palme's patients.
The tall couple on seventeen came in from the
street; one of the waiters greeted them, pointed
them to the vacant table two away from theirs.

154 IRA LEVIN
"The Coles in seventeen A," he murmured. "The
building's leading kinks."
"We're not?" she said.
"Us? No way. We're fifth or sixth."
"And climbing."
On the way home they stopped at the flower-
banked Korean grocery on the corner, picked up
orange juice and apples for her, milk and grapes
and coffee for him. He put change in the paper cup
of the ragged man outside.
They crossed Ninety-second Street, waited for
the sign to change. Looked up at the towering pink-
lit building, its twin lanes of windows glowing,
glinting to its dark top. "It's an odd feeling," she
said, hugging his arm, looking up, "knowing the
people behind the windows . . ."
"I thought that was how it was back home," he
said, watching her, smiling.
"Oh sure, exactly the same . . ."
They smiled at each other. Puckered, kissed.
Crossed the avenue.
Walt, in winter maroon, backed the door open
as they came near.
"Hi, Walt," they said.
"Miss Norris, Mr. Henderson . . ."
Crossing the lobby, he said in her ear, "He's hav-
ing an affair with Denise Smith in five B."
"He is?"
"He makes out a lot." He touched the up but-
ton; they watched Walt outside, opening a cab

SLIVER 155
door. "It's the voice that gets them," he said. "He
used to sing at the City Opera, in the chorus. He
and Ruby had a thing going last year but he broke
it off. She had him walking Ginger all the time."
The black/white couple came in with Christmas
shopping bags from Lord & Taylor. Everybody
nodded, smiled.
Pete said, " 'Tis the season."
"Yes, it is," the man said, smiling.
The number-one elevator came.
They rode up in silence.
After the door closed on seven, he said, "Bill and
Carol Wagnall. Very interesting."
"I'm sure," she said.
They got out at thirteen to drop off his grocer-
ies.
"Just a little?" he said.
"Pete," she said, "you know what'll happen. . . ."
They looked at each other.
She said, "I don't deny I'd like to.. . ."
"They don't know," he said.
She shook her head. "Jesus," she said.
"Come on," he said. "We'll set a reasonable
time and we'll really stick to it. I said I wasn't going
to quit cold turkey, didn't I? One hour. But really.
We'll set the alarm."
She sighed. "All right," she said. "But really.
One hour."
They set the alarm.

156 IRA LEVIN
a	■	■
They worked up a sweat at the Vertical Club,
battling the biceps machines side by side. Swam
laps in the pool.
Went with Roxie and Fletcher to an Off Broad-
way hit. Didn't think much of it, though Roxie and
Fletcher enjoyed it. Roxie invited them up for a
nightcap; they passed.
A five-year-old could have worked it. You
touched the 10A top button, then the 1 button in
the center bank—and presto, there was the 10A liv-
ing room on 1. Anne Stangerson holding her ears,
refusing to listen to an old woman reading from a
sheet of paper—her mother reading her living will.
They watched a few minutes, while on 2, the
Gruens in 14B, naked on their bed with a book and
a calculator, worked out the best time to get Daisy
pregnant.
She took the left-hand monitors and 1, he took
the right-hand monitors and 2. They found con-
trasts and harmonies.
Played duets on the people organ.
She stood leaning by her office window with her
arms folded, looking down at the shiny necklace of
rainswept traffic far below. She sighed, looked
ahead. A woman at a window across the street
looked away. "Kay," Sara said, "is anything
wrong?"

SLIVER 157
She turned, smiling. "Just the usual," she said.
"Homelessness, drug-related crime, the national
debt..."
She came down on an at-home day to have a
look at Dr. Palme. Two black posture-back chairs
stood before the console.
"What do you know," Pete said, "it divided."
They watched Dr. Palme and Nina.
And Dick.
And Joanna.
Diadem had taken a table at a black-tie dinner
dance for the Literacy Volunteers of America, in the
Celeste Bartos Forum of the Forty-second Street Li-
brary. In the cab on the way down Fifth Avenue, in
faux fur and beaded burgundy velvet, she said,
"Really, be prepared for dirty looks, maybe re-
marks too. I've seen it before. Older men get nasty,
especially when the woman's not deformed. It's an
animal thing, the stags bumping antlers."
"Will you stop worrying?" he said. "Older
women and younger men are all over the place.
Look at Babette and Allan."
"That's five years, for God's sake," she said.
"Relax," he said. "Everybody's going to be nice.
I'll bet you a massage."
She turned to the window. "You're on... ."

158 IRA LEVIN
Traffic crept—the tree in Rockefeller Center.
Which was breathtaking, though, as they inched
past it, the dazzle of lights at the end of the plaza,
the lines of gauze angels lifting gilt trumpets . . .
In the hall outside the forum, she took him by
the hand—"Here we go"—and brought him to a
gray-haired couple at the end of one of the coat-
check lines. "Hi!" she said. "This is Peter Hender-
son! Pete, June del Vecchio, Norman del Vecchio."
"Hello!" June said, shaking Pete's hand, smiling
at him.
"Hello," Norman said, shaking Pete's hand.
Smiling at him.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said to them.
"Kay told me you're active in Civitas. My father
was too; I wonder if you knew him. John Hender-
son?"
Norman said, "Of U.S. Steel?"
"Yes," he said.
"We did, yes," Norman said, smiling at him.
"What a charmer he was!" June said. "You have
his eyes, and his smile!"
"And what a salesman!" Norman said. "He got
us money from builders we'd fought against!"
"You'd better watch out, Kay," June said, "if Pe-
ter's cut from the same cloth!"
She smiled. "Thanks for the warning," she said.
"What field are you in, Peter?" Norman asked.
"I've been doing some computer program-

SLIVER 159
ming," he said. "At the moment I'm sort of in
flux."
"Maybe you could have a look at our billing sys-
tem; God knows it could use overhauling. Oh Jim,
come say hello to Peter Henderson, the son of an
old friend...."
There were cocktails first in Astor Hall. Every-
body was nice.
Stuart had gotten to Sam's material and thanked
her for it. "It's the kind of stuff I love," he said.
"He's coming in next week. If we hit it off, I'm
going to offer him a small advance."
"Oh good, I'm glad," she said.
"That's great," Pete said.
"Do you know him too, Pete?" Stuart asked.
"Just to say hello to in the elevator," he said.
"We're all in the same building."
Wendy, smiling, said, "Would you perchance be
the mysterious owner?"
"No," he said, smiling at Kay, "we haven't fig-
ured out yet who it is. The leading candidates are a
pair of lawyers."
The forum's glass dome —ribbed with steel,
rimmed with bulbs, a spaceship out of H. G.
Wells—was lighted from above with pink shading
into violet. The tables beneath it were purple and
violet with white-and-gold settings, pink-and-vio-
let floral arrangements, tall pink candles. A four-
piece combo played Sondheim and Porter.
The conversation at the Diadem table was about

160 IRA LEVIN
the traffic and the city's crumbling infrastructure,
Japanese investment strategies, health food, living
wills.
After the Cornish game hen, Norman said,
"Kay?" She smiled at Pete as she followed Norman
onto the dance floor. They said some hellos;
danced to "Let's Do It" with air between them.
"He's unusually perceptive," Norman said.
"Well informed too."
"Isn't he?" she said.
"I hope he's more stable emotionally than his
father. Married four times, I believe. Always ac-
tresses. I wonder if . . ."
They danced, couples close around them.
"What?" she asked.
"One of them died in a fall," Norman said.
"Down the stairs of their duplex. I wonder if that
was Peter's mother?"
"It was," she said. "Thea Marshall."
"A curving marble staircase, according to the
story."
"The story?" She smiled at Pete, winking at her
over June's gray curls a few couples away.
"Hello there," Norman said to someone. "Oh, a
bit of gossip that went around at the time—what
was it, twelve or thirteen years ago? There was a
party in progress when it happened. She had suit-
cases with her, that's why she lost her footing. She
was rushing to catch a plane—going home for
Christmas, a last-minute impulse. That's what

SLIVER 161
Henderson said afterwards. She was from some-
place in Canada. Well, supposedly one of the
suitcases popped a latch when it hit bottom and
someone saw bathing suits and summer dresses."
"Do you think we can make a deal?" Pete asked,
June smiling on his arm alongside them.
"Oh yes, indeed," Norman said, letting go of
her, taking June. "An eminently fair deal all
around." Pete slipped an arm around her waist,
smiling at her. June said, "Aren't we gallant this
evening," as Norman danced her into the crowd.
"What about bathing suits and summer
dresses?" Pete asked, drawing her close, taking her
hand, turning her with the music. She looked at
him—handsome in his black tie, his blue eyes smil-
ing at her. He said, "That's what it sounded like."
She said, "I don't know. I wasn't listening."
He held her tight, pressed his cheek to hers,
turned her. 'Who owes who a massage?" he asked.
They danced in the crowd of dancers, to "Easy
to Love," under the steel-ribbed glass dome lit with
violet shading into purple.

9
Uhe had pictured it in some work-related limbo;
how awful that it had happened in the apartment,
at a time when more than likely he had been there
to see it—before Christmas, a party going on.
She thought about it—again—watching Lisa

164 IRA LEVIN
packing a suitcase on 1 and Maggie, poor Maggie,
unpacking a suitcase on 2. He was over in 13A
waiting to pay the man from Jolly Chan's, coming
up in the number-one elevator along with Phil and
the McAuliffs.
The bathing suits and summer dresses, if they'd
been real and not a mistake on someone's part,
suggested California.
Which suggested Sam.
Which suggested an assist down the stairs by
John Henderson.
She had edited dozens of Gothics and thrillers,
she reminded herself. Fatal falls in real life were ac-
cidents more often than not. Even down curving
marble staircases.
They'd had a place in Palm Beach; maybe that
was where Thea had been going, and John had said
she'd been going home only because it sounded like
a better reason for parting at Christmas.
Though surely Thea had had bathing suits and
summer dresses in Palm Beach....
The door opened; she swiveled in her chair.
Watched Pete come into the foyer with a brown pa-
per shopping bag. He smiled—John Henderson's
smile. John's son. "What do you want first?" he
asked, closing the door.
"Whatever, darling," she said. Smiled at him.
He smiled in the pale blue-white, looking be-
yond her. "Nice," he said. "A Tale of Two Suit-

SLIVER 165
cases. Did I say she'd be back?" He went into the
kitchen. Light flooded from the pass-through.
She swiveled. Watched Lisa trying to close her
suitcase, Maggie putting hers in the closet.
She swiveled, got up, went to the kitchen. He
turned from unloading the bag onto the counter.
"I'll do it, honey," he said.
"I want to move around a little," she said. Took
plates from the dish rack, put them on the counter
by him. "Mmm, smells good," she said.
"Why don't they mark these things . . ." He
lifted along the metal rim of a circular container.
She took forks and soup spoons from the
drawer, put the spoons by him. "The suitcases re-
minded me," she said, "Norman told me about
your mother's fall."
He turned and looked at her. "Was he there?" he
asked.
"No," she said, "he heard about it. I knew that
was how she died, Sam told me, but I didn't know
it was at home." She touched his arm, looking at
him. "Were you there?" she asked.
He nodded. "She'd just said good-bye to me," he
said. "About two minutes before."
She winced, squeezed his arm.
"I didn't see it happen," he said. "I was in my
room." He smiled. "Watching Charlie's Angels."
The smile went. "All of a sudden it got quiet down-
stairs. There were a lot of people there, thirty or
forty, and it got real quiet	" He drew a breath

166 IRA LEVIN
and looked to the container, lifted along its rim
with both thumbs. "I think this is the curried
shrimp," he said.
She stood close beside him, holding his arm,
watching his hands. "Where was she going?" she
asked.
"To my grandparents'," he said. "In Nova Sco-
tia. Have you ever been there?"
"No," she said.
"Neither have I," he said. "She made it sound
pretty grim. They visited us a few times, we didn't
go there."
She kissed his ear, let go his arm, took a pinch
of napkins from the box while he spooned shrimp
and rice onto the plates. "What would you like to
drink?" she asked.
He squinted, pursed his lips. "Beer," he said.
"Good idea," she said, putting the forks and
napkins on the tray. She went to the refrigerator,
opened it. "What did your father die of?" she
asked.
"Bone marrow cancer," he said. "When did
Norman tell you? The other night?"
She got out two cans of beer, elbowed the door
closed. "No," she said. "Yesterday, in the office.
He's impressed as all get-out with you, you know
that?"
"Come on," he said, "he's impressed with my
money."
"Both," she said.

SLIVER 167
She got glasses and brought everything in on the
tray. He brought in the two filled plates.
It was Saturday night. They watched till after
two.
"Some night," she said, turning around on his
lap and hugging him. He swiveled his chair while
they kissed, swiveled full circle, twice. "Your aver-
age Saturday," he said.
She got up and stretched, yawning. He caressed
her back, turned, opened a drawer. "I'm going to
tape the Steins," he said, "just in case Springsteen
shows up."
"He isn't going to," she said, buttoning her shirt.
"Mark's full of shit, can't you tell?"
"Vladimir Horowitz was there once," he said,
peeling plastic from a videocassette. "I've got it.
Lesley did all the talking though."
"Do you tape much?" she asked, gathering
plates and napkins from the console.
"No," he said, crumpling the plastic, drawing
the cassette from the slipcase. "I did the first year
or so—those two drawers are full—but there was
always so much new stuff going on that I never got
around to watching." He put the cassette into the
right-hand VCR, homed it. "Now I only bother
when there's a major event." He pressed buttons.
"Like us," she said, using a wadded napkin to
brush bits of rice and chocolate cake from the con-
sole onto the plates.

168 IRA LEVIN
"Right," he said, smiling. "And Springsteen
maybe."
He shut down everything except the VCR and
the input from the Steins' living room.
They straightened up in the kitchen. He took out
the garbage when they left.
She hadn't done more than glance at two of the
manuscripts up for discussion Wednesday after-
noon but she made it through the conference hand-
ily. Had in fact been more cogent in her comments,
she told herself riding down to the forty-eighth
floor, for having seen the woods and not the trees.
Sam sat reading in the reception area, a coat on
the couch beside him. He looked at her over half-
glasses, smiled and got up—in brown corduroy,
plaid shirt, black tie, his gray hair looking freshly
cut. "Hello!" he said, taking the glasses off, putting
a Publishers Weekly down.
"Hi, Sam!" she said, going to him. "Stuart told
me you were coming in."
"Congratulate me," he rasped, shaking her
hand, smiling. "I'm a Diadem author."
"Oh, that's great!" she said. "I do, congratula-
tions!" She hugged him. "I congratulate us too,"
she said.
He grinned at her. Pale scars webbed his flushed

SLIVER 169
cheek and skewed nose. "He's drawing up a con-
tract," he said. "An advance now and another when
I get to the halfway mark."
"I knew he would like it," she said.
"I wanted to thank you."
She took him into her office, had Sara bring two
coffees. They sat by the window in catty-cornered
armchairs.
He scanned the glass-walled offices across the
street. "Voyeur's heaven," he said.
She smiled, stirred her cup.
He sipped from his. "Stuart couldn't be more
simpatico," he said. "He grew up in the movie busi-
ness."
"That's why I gave it to him," she said. "Partly—
the other part being that he's a good editor with
substantial clout here."
"I really am grateful to you," he said. "This has
made a significant difference for me. I think in the
long run it was a mistake taking the grant. From
the foundation. You know." He sipped from the
white cup with the blue three-jeweled crown on it.
"You can get awfully lazy and self-indulgent," he
said, "when the grocery money is coming in re-
gardless. Now, aside from being into the writing,
and feeling that I'm getting better at it, I'm teaching
more than before too." He smiled at her. "I'm be-
ginning to have visions of getting on the talk shows
and winding up directing again."

170 IRA LEVIN
She smiled. "That's great," she said. "I hope it
comes to pass."
They sipped.
"We're aiming for next spring," he said. "I've
got about eighty pages now."
She said, "Would you give me something in re-
turn?"
"Name it," he said, looking at her.
"An answer to a personal question," she said.
He smiled. "Why not? I'm being godawful frank
in the book. Go ahead."
"When Thea Marshall died," she said, "was she
on her way to you?"
He drew back, his dark-ringed eyes squinting at
her. "What in God's name gave you that idea?"
"Or to work out there?"
"No," he said. "Definitely not. I asked her just a
few weeks before and the conversation ended with
her hanging up on me." He sighed, studying his
cup. "We were on-again-off-again for over twenty
years," he said. "She was married for most of them,
to a filthy-rich husband she wouldn't let go of. She
was honest about it, at least. She grew up poor and
was paranoid about dying that way. She felt there
was a good chance of it with me, I was already
drinking too much. Whereas her husband was the
chairman of U.S. Steel and hardly drank at all. It
hadn't been a bad career move either." He sat
straighter, shook his head. "No, she wasn't a risk-
taker," he said. "She was going home, that's what

SLIVER 171
the papers said. She was from Nova Scotia. Her
folks were fishermen." He sipped his coffee.
Watching him, she said, "There was a rumor at
the time that she'd packed for warm weather."
He looked at her.
"One of her suitcases opened when she fell."
He said, "Where'd you hear that?"
"From someone in their circle, or close to it."
He lowered the cup, holding it with both hands.
Put it down.
Sat looking ahead.
"Son of a gun . . ." he said. Scratched his ear.
Looked at her. "You know, it would fit," he said.
"He put out a contract on me. I thought he had
found some of my letters, or maybe she told him
about us at the end."
"A contract?" she said.
He nodded. "Someone I knew who had mob
connections warned me about it. I didn't believe
him. Then I got this." He pointed at his nose and
cheek. "I decided it was a good time to do some
traveling. That's why the career ended. Mainly." He
gazed ahead. "Son of a gun," he said. "I thought he
had overreacted, but if she was leaving him, coming
to me . .."
She watched him.
He looked at her, smiled. "I firmly believe that
the rumor was true," he said. "Please don't tell me
if you hear anything to the contrary."
She smiled. "Mum's the word," she said.

172 IRA LEVIN
"Packed for warm weather . . ."
"Bathing suits and summer dresses."
"Now I owe you for two favors," he said.
She asked him where he had traveled; while they
finished their coffee he told her about a commune
in New Mexico he had lived in for four years; he
was thinking about doing a chapter on it. He hadn't
yet found a title for the book.
"Listen," he said when they got up, "I'm throw-
ing a party a week from Friday, the twenty-second.
Would you like to come? Stuart's going to be
there."
"I'm going home on the twenty-third," she said,
"early, but I'm sure I can stop in for an hour or
so."
"Good," he said as they walked toward the door.
"From eight o'clock on. Bring your friend if you
want." He smiled at her. "I saw you smooching on
the corner a while back. Give me a third-floor win-
dow and I become a real Nosy Parker."
"Who doesn't?" she said.
"Tell him for me I admire his taste. What a pity
that was about Naomi—what was it, Singer?"
She stopped by the doorway, looking at him.
"The girl who jumped," he said. "Woman, I
mean."
She looked at him.
"Oops," he said. "Have I spilled some beans? I
only saw them together once. Eating, not smooch-
ing. In Jackson Hole."

SLIVER 173
He took his coat from the rack, said good-bye to
Sara.
Turned to her. "See you on the twenty-second,"
he said, shaking her hand. "Very informal. Unem-
ployed actors."
"I'm sure it'll be fun," she said, smiling.
She looked at the videocamera. Turned her
head and stood looking at Diane's chestnut hair
and its dark brown roots, at the changing number
above the door. Rode up to twenty.
The phone rang as she hung her coat away. She
picked Felice up and put her on her shoulder, kissed
and stroked her; switched the kitchen light on,
caught the phone before the third ring could start
the machine. "Hello," she said.
"Hi, honey, is something wrong?"
"You tell me," she said. "About Naomi Singer,
for instance." Felice purred; she petted her, kissed
her furred flank.
"I'm not sure what you mean. . . ."
"Naomi Singer," she said. "You can't have for-
gotten her. She was around thirty, I think. Worked
for Channel Thirteen." She petted Felice.
"Kay, what's this about?"
"Sam was in today," she said. "He asked me to
tell you he admires your taste in women." She

174 IRA LEVIN
crouched, hitched her shoulder; Felice jumped off
behind her. "He saw you with her," she said, stand-
ing. "In Jackson Hole." Switched the phone to her
left ear.
"Oh. Yes, that could be, I was there with her
once. . . . We went to one of those Sunday-after-
noon jazz concerts at the Church of the Heavenly
Rest and stopped in on the way back. You think it
was some big affair I've been keeping secret? It
wasn't, honey. I went out with her two times alto-
gether, that and once before. The chemistry was
wrong."
"Then why didn't you ever tell me?" she asked.
"There was nothing to tell. Did you tell me
about every guy you had a hamburger with? She
was my type physically, two on a scale of you, and
she was in television, so I spoke to her in the mail
room and took her to Hanratty's for a couple of
drinks. But the chemistry was wrong. She was very
down and uncommunicative."
"Vida said she was bubbly." She watched Felice
on her hind legs scratching at the cork doughnuts.
"Maybe she was bubbly with Vida but she was
down and uncommunicative with me. Then a few
weeks later she called on a Sunday and asked me to
the concert, and I figured why not; it was a nice day
and I might as well get out. She was still down and
uncommunicative. That's the whole story. A few
weeks later . . ."

SLIVER 175
She said, "You ought to have told me. I can't un-
derstand why you didn't at least mention it."
"It isn't as if I lied. You didn't ask. Look, Kay,
it's not one of my favorite topics. I felt I could have
listened more closely to her, noticed some signs,
maybe reached out somehow."
She sighed. "You can't reproach yourself for
something like that...."
"I know, but that's how I felt. So I guess I don't
like to stir it up. If Sam wants to talk about who
did what with whom, I can tell you about some
acting lessons where the scenes—" "Don't, Pete,"
she said, "I really don't want to know." She
pounced and grabbed the water bowl as Felice bent
to it; brought it to the sink and spilled the water
out.
"I'm just pissed off at him for trying to make
trouble between us."
She backhanded the lever. "That wasn't the case
at all," she said, rinsing the bowl under the flow.
"It sounds like just what you warned me about,
an old man being jealous and hostile."
"He was inviting us to a party," she said, filling
the bowl. "He saw us 'smooching' on the corner.
Stuart is signing him."
"Did you tell him who I am?"
"No, of course not," she said, lowering the bowl,
"but he's probably going to find out. As soon as he
turns in something about your mother, Stuart or
Norman or someone will tell him I'm going with

176 IRA LEVIN
her son. Why don't you tell him? He won't neces-
sarily catch on about the foundation." She petted
Felice's head as she lapped the water. "And if he
does," she said, "well, maybe it wouldn't be bad for
him to know about that too."
"Come on down, we'll talk about it. Vida's
back, she had the operation, and Liz is setting up
for her rap group."
"Oh darn," she said. Stood, turned the water
off. "I can't watch tonight," she said, "I've got to
catch up on my reading."
"You're not still sore at me, are you?"
"No, no," she said, toeing her shoes off. "Really,
baby. I'm so far behind it's pathetic. I had to bull
my way through a conference today and I didn't
enjoy it one bit. Come up later. Will you?"
"Sure. Love you."
"I love you," she said. "Do you have something
to eat?"
"Plenty. See you later."
They kissed, hung up.
She sat looking at words on paper, wondering
if he had lied to her again. He had certainly proved
he was aces at it, fluent, convincing. . . .
What if the chemistry had been right or not so
wrong, if he'd had an affair with Naomi Singer?

SLIVER 177
Had he taken her into 13B? Had she too gotten
hooked on watching? Yes, hooked was the word for
it, hooked—on that God's-eye view of life, a sliver
of it.
Was he watching her, now, as she sat there look-
ing at words on paper? To see whether she was
reading or wondering? Had he clicked the switches,
touched the buttons, put her on 1 or 2?
She turned the page. . . .
Turning paranoid.
Except that, thanks to the video wizardry of
Takai or Sakai or Banzai, he really could be watch-
ing her, could be practically reading over her shoul-
der. No wonder Hubert Sheer had been going to
Japan to do his research. .. .
She focused on the words. So far behind it was
pathetic...
Another serial killer. Come on, guys, give us a
break.
She read a dozen pages of the manuscript. Blue-
penciled the Diadem form on the agency binder,
Not for us. Put it aside.
Felt an urge to look up at the light. Scratched her
neck instead as she took the next manuscript.
Domestic conflict. Not as hairy as the Hoffmans
and the McAuliffs but credible, well written, quite
interesting. The phone rang.
She looked at it. Picked up on the second ring.
"Hello?" she said.

178 IRA LEVIN
"You mean it's not the machine? Ye gods, I can't
believe it."
"Hi, Roxie," she said. "I'm sorry, I've been up
to my ears."
"I can imagine. How is Young Blue-Eyes?"
"Dandy," she said. Was he listening?
"Guess who's having an exhibit at the Greene
Street Gallery come April."
"Oh God, Roxie," she said, "that's terrific! Con-
gratulations! Tell me all about it!"
Roxie did, and about Fletcher's mother's acci-
dent, and their Christmas plans, and a movie they
had seen. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," she said. "Just a light-year behind in my
reading."
"Why didn't you say something? Good-bye,
good-bye. We're going ice-skating Sunday, want to
come?"
"I'll speak to Pete and call you. Good-bye. Love
to Fletcher." She hung up.
Sat reading.
Scratched her neck.
Took a shower.
Saw movement beyond the steamy glass. The
door opened and he came in naked, smiling. "Sur-
prise," he said, hugging her in the downpour, winc-
ing at its heat, dancing against her—"Owwweee ..."
She caught her breath. "I could do without Psy-
choshe said.
"I'm sorry." He hugged her tighter, kissing her

SLIVER 179
cheek. "I took a couple of peeks at you. When I
saw you go in, I thought, 'Jeez, I can actually go up
and get in with her.' I couldn't resist."
She said, "I knew you were watching me. . . ."
"I knew you knew," he said. Smiled. "It was sort
of a turn-on. ..." She looked away; he took her jaw
and turned her face to him, looked at her. "I wasn't
lying, honey," he said. "Really. I took her out twice
and that was it. If it had been a big thing I would
have told you. I don't blame you for wondering;
look how much I've lied to you before. But it's the
truth. I swear." He kissed her, hugging her.
She tongued with him in the downpour.
She hadn't known he had a passkey, though she
ought to have guessed he would. Even where people
had changed their locks, there would be duplicate
keys in Dmitri's office that he could have access to.
First thing next morning she called the public-
ity department. Tamiko was there. "Hi dear, I need
a favor," she said. "Could you get me newspaper
clippings about those deaths in my building? I
might as well be fully informed on the subject. The
last one was near the end of October, Hubert Sheer
with a double E."
"One of the databases we subscribe to ought to
cover that. Did you check?"

180 IRA LEVIN
"I didn't think of it," she said. "I never do."
"It's Thirteen Hundred Madison, right?"
"Yes."
"I'll check. If there's nothing there I'll call some-
one at the Times. No sweat either way."
"Thank you, bless you," she said.
"What's this I hear about you and a Prince
Charming?"
"We're friends," she said.
When her ten-thirty appointment left the office,
Sara brought in a nine-by-twelve envelope from
publicity.
A computer printout, accordion-folded, half an
inch thick.
She skimmed over accounts of community op-
position to plans filed by Barry Beck for a 21-story
sliver building at 1300 Madison Avenue; of Civitas
and Carnegie Hill Neighbors up in arms, rallies at
the Brick Church, a three-year battle lost in court—
half of the half an inch.
She read about the death, believed to be drug-
related, of William G. Webber, securities analyst,
27, of 1300 Madison Avenue.
Yes, the follow-ups reported, William G. Web-
ber's death had been drug-related, a massive co-
caine overdose. He had been a dealer as well as a
user; apparently he had confused his cut and uncut
merchandise. Fortunately his two female compan-
ions had taken less than he.
She hurried to an eleven o'clock marketing meet-

SLIVER 181
ing—a love-in, what with four books on next Sun-
day's list, two fiction, two non. June invited her to
dinner, "and Peter too, or anyone else, of course,"
on Saturday, January sixth. She thanked her, said it
would be Pete more than likely.
She lunched a British agent at Perigord East.
Told Sara to hold all calls.
Read about Naomi Singer's suicidal plunge from
her fifteenth-floor apartment at 1300 Madison Av-
enue. The account mentioned the fatal heart attack
a year earlier of another of the building's tenants,
Brendan Connahay, 54, and the cocaine-overdose
death before that of a third tenant, William G.
Webber, 27.
Naomi Singer had been 31, a production assis-
tant at WNET-TV. She had called in sick on a
Thursday morning and jumped from her living-
room window shortly before noon. A native of
Boston and a Wellesley graduate, she had moved to
New York three months earlier. She left a page-
long handwritten letter "expressing depression
about world and personal affairs and apologizing
to her family and friends." She had no history of
mental illness or drug use.
The friends and co-workers of Naomi Singer,
31, who threw herself from a window at 1300
Madison Avenue, were shocked. A Barbara Ann
Avakian was quoted: "Though Naomi was deeply
concerned about environmental issues and human
rights, she was basically a very affirmative person.

182 IRA LEVIN
She made numerous friends in the short time she
was here at Thirteen, and she was enthusiastic
about the project she was working on, a documen-
tary on the homeless. It's difficult to understand
how she could do such a terrible thing."
She read about the death of Rafael Ortiz, 30, the
superintendent at 1300 Madison Avenue, whose
head and left arm had been partially severed in an
elevator motor. He had been performing routine
maintenance, early on a Tuesday morning. Such ac-
cidents, while not unheard of, were rare and almost
invariably associated with drug or alcohol use, ac-
cording to a spokesperson for the elevator's manu-
facturer. Mr. Ortiz's death was the fourth in the
building in slightly over two years. He left a preg-
nant wife and two children.
The autopsy on Rafael Ortiz, 30, partially de-
capitated in the elevator machinery at 1300 Madi-
son Avenue, revealed no signs of recent drug or al-
cohol use.
Edgar P. Voorhees, an attorney representing the
1300 Madison Avenue Corporation, declined to
comment on the rapid out-of-court settlement of
the $10,000,000 lawsuit brought by the widow of
the late Rafael Ortiz, 30, against the owners of the
ill-starred Upper East Side sliver building. . . .
She read about the death of Hubert Sheer, 43,
found in his shower at 1300 Madison Avenue.
Read again about The Worm in the Apple, mag-

SLIVER 183
azine articles, teaching at Columbia, Vietnam, the
U. of Chicago, the surviving parents and brothers.
Read again Martin Sugarman's comment: "He
was working on what surely would have been a
magnum opus, an overview and analysis of televi-
sion's past, present, and future. His death is a loss
not only for everyone who knew him but for all of
society, which undoubtedly would have benefited
from his insights."
The autopsy on Hubert Sheer, 43, indicated that
he had drowned on the floor of his shower while
unconscious as the result of a blow to the head suf-
fered in a fall. He had taped a plastic bag around a
cast on his right foot, the result of a bicycle mishap
the week before. His death occurred sometime dur-
ing the night of October 23-24 and was the fifth in
three years at 1300 Madison Avenue, the so-called
"Horror High-Rise."
She closed the printout and put her hands on it,
flat, side by side. Drummed to a slow beat.
She had edited dozens of Gothics and thrillers,
she reminded herself.
Fatal falls in real life were accidents more often
than not, especially in showers.
Naomi Singer's page-long handwritten letter
couldn't possibly have been a forgery.
Could it?
She sat watching her hands drumming on the flat
accordion of computer printout.

184 IRA LEVIN
She buzzed Sara and asked her to get Martin Su-
garman.
Sat thumbing the edges of the accordion folds.
Too many Gothics and thrillers . ..
"Hello, Kay!"
"Hello, Martin," she said. "How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. Congratulations, you people
must be walking on air over there!"
"Thanks," she said. "I haven't noticed anyone
complaining. Martin, I've just reread the accounts
of Hubert Sheer's death. . . ."
"Oh?"
"Do you happen to know," she asked, "whether
he was planning to visit a Japanese manufacturer
named Takai or Sakai? Of surveillance cameras.
They're supposed to be top of the line."
"I have his list of appointments. I have all his
papers relating to the book, I'm getting another
writer on it. Why do you ask?"
She drew a breath. "I'm researching the five
deaths in the building," she said. "There may be a
book there. Could you possibly check that list for
me? I'd appreciate it."
"Certainly, of course. Hold on."
She sat back, turned. Watched lights going on in
the glass-walled offices across the street.
Too many Gothics and thrillers . . .
"My secretary's getting it. Kay, when I think of
some of the books you've edited, it wouldn't sur-
prise me if you thought foul play might be involved.

SLIVER 185
I can tell you right now you'd be barking up the
wrong tree, at least as far as Rocky's death was
concerned."
"Why is that?" she asked.
"What happened is, when he slipped, he hit the
side of his head against the handle of the shower,
hard enough to knock him unconscious; and then,
when he fell to the floor, he was sort of hunched
over, on his knees, with his face down, and he
breathed water into his lungs and drowned. There's
no question that that's what happened; the bruise
on his head matched the handle exactly. That's a
very distinctive piece of hardware—you must
know, you must have the same one—and there's no
way in the world anyone could have pushed his head
down against it hard enough to knock him out; he
was a strong, healthy man despite the injured ankle.
And nobody else was there, he had no visitors that
night and there was no forced entry." Paper rus-
tled. "I have the list now. What was that name
again?"
She said, "Takai or Sakai. Or something like it."
"Takai or Sakai.,. Yes, the Takai Company—T,
A, K, A, I—in Osaka. He was going to see them on
Tuesday, October thirty-first, eight a.m. Eight—no
wonder they get so much done. He has a little note
here, 'High rez cams'—high-resolution cameras,
that would be. 'Cust, H, S, G, S . . .' "
She said, "Custom housings . . ."

186 IRA LEVIN
"Yes, that would fit. Why do you ask about this
one company?"
She sat silent.
"Kay?"
"It's too complicated to go into," she said.
"Thank you, Martin."
"You heard what I said? It was a tragic accident,
it couldn't possibly have been anything else."
She said, "I heard."
"Will you congratulate Norman and June for
me?"
"Yes, I will," she said. "Thanks again, Martin.
Good-bye."
She hung up.
Leaving him wondering, no doubt, about her
mental health.
She wondered about it too.
Thinking that someone could take the chrome
Art Deco handle from any shower in 1300 Madison
Avenue, could take it off with a screwdriver prob-
ably, and—wire it or tape it or something—to a
piece of two-by-four or a baseball bat or some-
thing. . . .
Pete? Petey? Her baby? Her love?
No, never, he couldn't.
He could lie, yes—small wonder, with an actress
for a mother and a corporate exec for a father. But
lying was a far, far cry from killing. Killing was—
Killing was a major event. . . .

They watched the Wagnalls, the Bakers. The Os
trows, the week's man from the Yoshiwara Com
pany and his guests.
She watched him watching.
He glanced at her.
10

188 IRA LEVIN
She smiled. Said, "You know what I wouldn't
mind taking a look at?"
"What?" he asked.
"Us," she said.
He grinned. "Thought you'd never ask." He
leaned to her; they kissed. "Don't go way," he said.
He swiveled, got up, went to the foyer.
She swiveled and rolled sideward, her chair
bumping his; watched him walk through the foyer
and into the back room. Light went on as he went
in among the cartons and what-all. He turned to
the left, went from sight.
She swiveled, reaching; touched the 13A middle
button, the 2 button.
Watched him on 2 moving through darkness
down to the lower right of the screen. He switched
the light on in his messy Conran's bedroom, closed
the door. Turned to the wall and crouched down
between the door and the first section of accordion-
folded closet door, made a lifting movement.
His head and shoulders blocked and shadowed
what he did.
He stood and turned, a dark cassette-shape in
his hand.
She touched another button and the 2 button,
her hand shaking. She gripped it with her left.
Watched the Gruens playing bridge with two men.
She scanned the monitors. Saw Denise arguing

SLIVER 189
with Kim in the 5B living room, put them on 1.
"—job, I'm not going to jeopardize it for a measly
five hundred dollars!" Denise said, throwing her
napkin on the table, getting up and going to the
window. "Do you think I'm an idiot?" "Now
comes the good stuff," he said, coming in. She put
a hand up.
"Will you for once use your head, Denise?" Kim
said, pouring cream into her coffee.
He sat, swiveled, taking a cassette from its black
slipcase.
"You could wind up making four or five thou-
sand," Kim said. "Even more. And no taxes. May I
please smoke one effing cigarette?"
They watched Denise and Kim.
The Bakers, the Coles.
She watched him press a button on the right-
hand VCR, feed the cassette into the opening and
home it, press other buttons, click a switch in the
center bank.
They watched themselves on 2.
"Jesus, I'm fat," she said.
"You are not," he said, "you're gorgeous. . . ."
"Oh God, baby, that feels good," she said, lying
back across the bed, his hand caressing her right
breast, his head over the other.
He took her arm; she got up, watching; moved
over, sat in his lap.
They watched Kay and Pete.

ISO IRA LEVIN
She decided to make the next day, Friday, an at-
home day. She hadn't planned to but she was too
tired to get up early.
"I have to go out this afternoon," he said, lean-
ing over an elbow on the counter, watching a muf-
fin in the microwave, Felice standing on his back
sniffing at the cabinets.
"Just as well," she said, pouring the coffee. "I've
really really got to do some work. Where are you
going?"
"Ohh ... downtown," he said, smiling. "Christ-
massy stuff. Nothing involving anybody you
know."
He helped her clean up. They kissed at the door.
"Call before you go," she said.
He smiled at her. "Love you," he said.
"I love you, Pete," she said, looking into his eyes.
They kissed.
She called Sara and asked her to make cancella-
tions and apologies, new appointments.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine," she said. "Just farther behind than I re-
alized."
Not to mention turning paranoid.
With no Christmas shopping done yet either.
She read at the desk. Felice slept on the bed.

SLIVER 191
He called at 1:37. "How you doing?"
"Okay," she said. "I've really made some head-
way."
"Bad news. Allan got the ax."
"Damn," she said. "Those bastards ..."
"The whole department practically."
"How's he taking it?" she asked.
"He's fine; Babette is having hysterics. I'm leav-
ing now. I should be back around five."
She said, "I was just thinking about maybe com-
ing down and watching while I eat a yogurt. . . ."
"Do you want to? I'll leave the key for you, be-
hind the mirror."
"Would you?" she said. "I think I will."
"You know how to start up, don't you?"
"Yes," she said.
"See you later." A kiss.
She kissed. "Love you," she said.
"Me too." Kiss, kiss.
She hung up.
Sat looking at the page before her.
Tried again to think of a present for him. Maybe
something for those bare walls.
She read a few minutes, then turned the lamp
off, the machine on. Got up, went to the bathroom,
washed. Got her keys.
Told Felice she'd be back in a while.
Took the stairs down to thirteen.
She didn't look too bad, all things considered.
She drew a bottom corner of the mirror's gilt frame

192 IRA LEVIN
farther from the black-and-white-checked wall. The
key missed her cupped fingers, bounced on the ta-
ble, a tiny crescent gouged in the tan lacquer by the
cylindrical tip. She fingertipped her tongue, rubbed
the lacquer. The nick stayed.
She unlocked 13B, went in.
Switched on the foyer light as she closed the
door; pocketed the key. Looked at the gray screens
gleaming in the living room, at the kitchen, the half-
open doors to the dark bathroom and dim back
room.
She went to the back-room door and opened it.
The blind's narrow slats were edged with sunshine,
lighting the workbench and its tools and disman-
tled monitors, the transformer's metal doghouse in
the corner by the window, the rowing machine, car-
tons, odds and ends of scrap lumber. . . .
She went to the center closet, drew the accordion
doors apart. Reached in and pulled the plywood
door open. Ducked and went through—parting
clothes and accordion doors—into the sunny blue-
and-tan Conran's bedroom. The blind was up most
of the way, the window open an inch or so at either
side.
She surveyed the clothes-strewn room. "Pete?"
she called.
She went to the door.
Looked out across the foyer into the living
room—the side of the tan leather sofa, blue sky
above a building over on Park.

SLIVER 193
She closed the door. Turned to the wall and
crouched.
Felt the parquet floor before her. The wood
pieces were smooth, tight-fitting. She pushed,
pressed; nothing slid or yielded.
She tried the baseboard—three or four inches
high, some thirty inches long—grasped at it and
pulled. It held firm, though a hairline crack divided
it from the white wall. She pressed an end of the
board, pressed the other end.
Remembered his movement. Lifted.
The board came up and off, grooves at either
end sliding on metal tongues in the door and
closet-door frames.
She put the board down beside her and raised a
gray metal handle in the opening, drew out a wide
shallow gray-metal drawer. Hundred- and five-hun-
dred-dollar bills lay in it, five paper-banded
sheaves—three of one hundreds, two of fives. A ma-
roon leather box the size of a cigar box, manila
envelopes. Cassettes.
Three black slipcases lying side by side on oth-
ers.
She picked one up; a K was penned on the label
on the spine.
The next cassette, labeled K2, was the one they
had watched the night before; she picked it up. The
next cassette was labeled R. Rocky?
Four cassettes were in the lower layer: N, N2,
N3, and B.

194 IRA LEVIN
Which puzzled her till she remembered that Wil-
liam G. Webber, 27, was Billy Webber.
She crouched there, looking at the cassettes in
her hands.
Afraid she hadn't been paranoid at all.
He should have allowed longer than twenty
minutes, a Friday a little over a week before Christ-
mas; they were rolling past Seventy-second Street
and the watch said 1:55 already.
But hey, it was a Checker cab, a relic from the
past, with plenty of space and a pulled-down jump
seat to put the feet on. Easy listening on the radio.
So he'd be late; they would wait for him. .. .
He was on his way to the Pace Gallery to choose
between two Hoppers. Then Tiffany's.
He smiled, his feet up, his hands folded.
Lovely to think of her back there watching on
her own. His love enjoying his other love . . .
Who would ever have thought he'd have a
woman he could share it with, could actually en-
trust it to for a while? A woman so perfect, so lov-
ing. How right he had been to risk showing it to
her. He breathed a sigh. Was anyone luckier?
And just the other night, thanks to Sam that bas-
tard, he'd been shivering on the precipice. What a
moment that had been, when she asked him out of
nowhere to tell her about Naomi. Yeow!

SLIVER 195
Thank God he'd been able to convince her he
wasn't hiding anything. Last night clinched it, the
way she'd been so open and into everything, want-
ing to watch them, so with it when they did. . . .
Two firsts for her: watching them, and watching
alone now . . .
He took his feet off the jump seat.
Sat up, cold inside.
Turned and looked out. A Doberman eyed him
from the open window of a limo alongside, paws
resting on gleaming black.
He turned the other way. Watched the Frick Mu-
seum sliding by . . .
Could she have watched him when he was getting
the cassette?
Of course she could have, dummy.
Was that why she had asked to see the tape? Had
she somehow guessed the truth about Naomi, all of
it? Guessed too—so goddamn smart she was—that
he had taped it, and stashed the tape of them in the
same place?
She was watching alone on a Friday at-home day,
another first—and it was on the clipboard: the ad-
dress, the day, the time. He hadn't written Pace Gal-
lery precisely because she would be able to see it
and maybe guess what he was getting her.
Shit. Top of the world two seconds ago and
whammo, paranoid again.
He faced front, leaned forward. Squinted
through the smoggy plastic barrier and the wind-

196 IRA LEVIN
shield beyond at the four-lane lava flow of cabs and
buses oozing down Fifth Avenue. "Jesus," he said,
"what a goddamn fucking mess."
"It's a gridlock alert day," the driver said.
He drew breath and hissed it out, shaking his
head. "This goddamn city," he said.
Sat back.
Stuck his feet up on the jump seat.
Studied the Reeboks this way and that.
Played with the muffler's woolly fringe, listened
to the easy listening.
Icy inside.
The way she'd watched his hands when he put
the cassette in and switched over ...
Was she putting a cassette in right that moment?
N3?
Horns honked. Traffic was frozen.
"You want to cut over to Park?" the driver
asked.
She fast-forwarded; the bathroom stayed
empty behind white streaks, the cane leaning by the
shower door. At the top of the screen someone
there and gone.
She stopped, rewound.
Played.
The bathroom was empty, the cane leaning by

SLIVER 197
the shower door, the sound of the shower vibrant.
Legs in jeans and sneakers passed outside the foyer
doorway, from right to left.
Returned, crouched.
She froze Pete.
Crouching in the doorway in a striped rugby
shirt, a hand low before him as if to pitch a coin.
She watched him—and let him move. He
pitched, stood. Stepped aside and was gone.
She watched the empty bathroom. Couldn't
make out the tiny something he had pitched onto
the black floor a few feet in from the door, by the
bath mat. Whatever it was, he was there in Hubert
"Rocky" Sheer's apartment. About to kill him.
Pete. Her baby, her love.
She closed her eyes.
Opened them. Watched the shower door open,
Sheer's hand take the towel from the hook.
She fast-forwarded—till he hobbled out with the
towel around him, lifting his glare-wrapped foot
over the sill, taking the cane, shifting it to his right
hand. He stepped forward and stopped on the mat,
head down. Bent over the cane and his left leg, the
glary foot rising behind him, his left hand reaching
down. His head turned toward the doorway as Pete,
with both hands, slashed down a glinting club. She
killed the sound, shut her eyes, rolled away swivel-
ing.
Sat holding her fist, biting her thumb knuckle.
He had killed the others too, he must have; had

198 IRA LEVIN
been afraid that Sheer, who made connections . . .
would make connections.
She opened her eyes to the blue-white brightness
of the left-hand monitors. Chris and Sally, Pam,
Jay, Lauren. A man she hadn't seen before on Dr.
Palme's couch.
She drew a breath.
Looked over at 2. He was leaning over Sheer's
head and shoulders, astride his back as he lay
sprawled on the floor. A halo shone in flashes
around Sheer's head—a metal-foil pan beneath it.
He was drowning him. . . .
She rolled, reached, stopped the tape, sprang the
VCR's opening.
Took the cassette out and put it down by its
case.
Looked at the half dozen other cassettes on the
console.
The blue digits said 2:06. Plenty of time to look
at some of N3 and B; he'd barely have gotten to
wherever he was going on Fifty-seventh Street.
But no, he might come back early and surprise
her in the act, as in too many Gothics and thrill-
ers—his appointment cut short for some reason,
another part of the infrastructure crumbled. Let the
police look at N3 and B later; now was the time to
get out, taking the tapes with her, out of there and
out of the building. Leaving an ordinary everyday
note so he wouldn't panic and run, or do some-
thing worse.

SLIVER 199
He was mad. Had to be. A sociopath despite his
charm, his humor, the love he'd given her—and he
did love her, she was sure of that. The killings must
have all sprung from the need to keep the cameras
secret. Protecting his six-million-dollar toy—his
baby—that she had been so quick to share.
She bowed her head, rubbing it.
Sat up, combed her hair back with both hands,
drew a breath.
Looked at the cassettes.
Rolling to the right, she bumped his chair away;
opened a bottom drawer, gathered slipcased cas-
settes, seven, from the rows inside.
She exchanged the cassettes in the two sets of
cases, trying to think about what to put in the note
and where the police station was, not about his ar-
rest and the media onslaught that would follow, the
headlines, the microphones, the public exposure.
She double-checked the labels on the K and K2 cas-
settes; those weren't going to the police, those she
would hide upstairs and break open later and de-
stroy. She took the pen, marked their new cases.
She brought the stack of wrong-cassettes-in-
right-cases through the foyer and into the back
room; through the closets, into his bedroom.
Crouching, she stocked the shallow gray drawer
the way she had found it, the N's and B on the bot-
tom, the K's and R above—alongside the maroon
leather box, the envelopes, the sheaves of one-
hundred- and five-hundred-dollar bills.

200 IRA LEVIN
She peeked into the box—gold coins, mounted
sets. She closed it, pushed the drawer into its recess.
Replaced the baseboard, slid it down tight to the
floor.
She stood and opened the door, swung it to the
wall, wondering how much his money, his never-
mentioned money, had softened her judgment,
blinded her to things she might otherwise have
picked up on.
She backed through the closets, drawing closed
the accordion doors to the bedroom, swinging
closed the plywood door, drawing closed the accor-
dion doors in the back room.
She went through the foyer into the living room,
to the console. Stacked up the right-cassettes-in-
wrong-cases. Drew the clipboard to her, turned
back the top yellow sheet, took the pen. Stood
leaning over the console, frowning at the pad. A
meeting, suddenly called, at which her presence
was urgently required? Fishy ...
She looked up, squinted for something better—
at him in the number-two elevator in his coat and
striped muffler, a woman with him. She stared. Put
it on 2; it stayed blank, she found the switch.
He stood in the elevator, looking pained, rub-
bing behind his neck, the overcoat open. The Stan-
gersons' maid moved forward, ready to step off.
On ten.
She dropped the pen, opened the bottom drawer
on the right, grabbed the stacked cassettes and put

SLIVER 201
them down in with the others. Closed the drawer,
fixed the chairs, the clipboard, put Dr. Palme on 1,
switched the sound on, made for the foyer; turned
back, leaned, slapped shut the VCR and turned it
off, hurried to the foyer; opened the door as he
came out of the elevator. "What's wrong?" she
asked.
He winced at her, rubbing behind his neck. "My
cab was in an accident," he said, his voice shaky.
"Oh Lord," she said. "Are you all right?"
Stepped forward.
"I don't know." He moved to her as the elevator
door slid closed. "I think so. I got thrown around
and I was seeing double for a while but it's clearing
up now." He blinked a few times.
"Did you hurt your neck?" she asked.
"Yeah, a little," he said.
She turned him around. He pulled the muffler
off as she patted at the back of his neck.
"Your hands are shaking."
She said, "I could see in the elevator something
was wrong. Just the fact you were back so soon.
What happened?"
"A guy pulled out of a parking space without
looking; we ran into him. On Fifth, near Seventy-
ninth Street. A New Jersey driver, of course. It was
a Checker cab, so I really got thrown around." He
shook a leg, drew breath hissingly.
"Gee whiz . . ." she said, pressing at his neck,
rubbing it.

202 IRA LEVIN
"The car was a brand-new Mercedes."
"Was anyone badly hurt?" she asked.
"The passenger in the car. A woman. Her leg
was crushed."
"You ought to go to a doctor and get checked
over," she said.
He turned around. "If anything hurts tomorrow,
I will," he said.
"Do you have someone here?" she asked.
He nodded.
They looked at each other. She touched the edge
of his open coat. "Poor Pete," she said. Smiled at
him. Took him in her arms.
He hugged her. "I should have just gone in some-
place and sat awhile," he said. "It was dumb to
come back."
"No," she said, "you were right to."
They smiled at each other.
Kissed.
They went into 13B. He closed the door. "Have
you had your yogurt yet?" he asked, getting out of
the coat. Winced.
"Ooh," she said. Helped him from behind. "No,
I just got down here," she said. "Norman called
after you did. I have to go in in a little while."
"You do?" he said, turning, taking the coat.

SLIVER 203
"I was going to leave you a note," she said. "He's
got Anne Tyler coming in at four and he wants me
to be there. She isn't happy where she is now."
"It would be nice having her on the list," he said,
rubbing his sweatered shoulder.
"Wouldn't it though," she said. "He feels there's
a good chance. He and June have known her for
years." She went into the kitchen.
"Let me have one too, hon."
She looked into the refrigerator. "Lemon or
blueberry?" she asked.
"Blueberry. New patient with Dr. Palme."
"I know." She took out two yogurts, elbowed
the door, got spoons, napkins.
He was in his chair, the phone at his cheek, when
she came in.
He smiled at her as she put a cup, spoon, and
napkin before him. "This is Peter Henderson," he
said. "I had an appointment for two o'clock. . . .
Right."
She sat, putting her spoon and napkin down,
watching the masters.
"I was in an accident just now," he said, tucking
the phone in his shoulder. "On the way down there.
I got a little shaken up. Could we make it Monday,
the same time?"
They opened their cups, watching the masters.
Dr. Palme said, "If it's so inconsequential, why are
you here?"
"It's Linda's kieai," the man on the couch said.

204 IRA LEVIN
"Even better," he said. "I'm sorry about today.
Good-bye." He hung up. Made a note on the clip-
board. "A place that sells paintings on velvet," he
said.
She whistled.
They ate their yogurt, watching Dr. Palme, Lau-
ren, Jay, the Hoffmans.
"I've got to get moving," she said, standing up.
She gathered the cups with the spoons and napkins
in them, the lids. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Fine," he said, taking his hand from the back
of his neck, watching.
"Your eyes are okay?"
He nodded.
"I'll be back by six," she said, "unless we go for
drinks." She bent, kissed his head. He turned his
face up to her. They kissed lips.
She went into the kitchen, put the cups and nap-
kins in the garbage, rinsed the spoons, put them in
the rack. Went into the foyer, opened the door.
"Oh, the key," she said.
"Keep it, honey," he said, swiveling. "It's a spare
one."
Her hand in her pocket, she looked at him sitting
dark before the blue-white screens, the hanging
sea-green lamp. "Merci," she said. "Fair enough,
since you've got one to my place."
"That's what I was thinking," he said. Kissed at
her. "I hope it goes well."
"Thanks." She kissed at him. "You ought to take

SLIVER 205
a hot bath," she said. "A long one, otherwise you're
really going to be sore later on."
"You're right," he said. "I will, I just want to see
Jay's reaction."
They smiled at each other. She opened the door
and went out.
Closed the door.
Moved to the elevators, touched the up button.
Drew a breath.
Was he lying again? Had he come back because
he'd been afraid of her being there alone? But then
he wouldn't have left the key, or given it to her now.
Easy enough for the champion liar to invent ex-
cuses . . .
He had seemed shaken up. And coming back
home to Mommy fit psychologically. Thank God
she hadn't watched the tapes longer, had closed the
baseboard drawer. The cassettes, the right ones,
would be safe enough where they were; he was
hardly likely to play one.
He probably had been on his way to an art gal-
lery; Fifty-seventh Street was loaded with them.
Buying her a Hopper or a Magritte, no doubt. She
sighed, shook her head.
Gave the camera in the elevator a smile.
The thing to do was stay calm and act the way
she would if she were going to meet with Norman
and Anne Tyler, if only. Nothing to make him un-
easy if he was watching. Calling 911 was out; he

206 IRA LEVIN
could be up there before they answered. A confron-
tation was the last thing she wanted.
Felice rubbed against her ankle as she turned the
door bolt. "Hi, sweets," she said, picking her up;
kissed her nose and put her on her shoulder,
stroked her as she went into the bedroom. The
machine's red light sparked—visible on the mas-
ters. If he was watching.
She spilled Felice onto the bed and went to the
desk. One message, the machine's indicator said.
She touched the playback button, praying it
wouldn't be Sara saying the wrong thing.
A woman from Bloomingdale's told her that the
coffee table would be delayed two more weeks;
they were sorry.
She turned the radio on, went to the window.
Eyed the gray sky above the brown park. Felice, on
the windowsill, nuzzled her knee; she scratched Fel-
ice's head. A newscaster told about a shooting in
the subway. She went to the closets, unbuttoning
her shirt. Opened accordion doors.
She chose the blue wool dress—okay for Anne
Tyler, fine for the police. Laid it out on the bed,
pushing Felice away. Got panty hose from the
dresser, a half-slip, a bra.
Shower?
Would he notice if she didn't? Think it odd?
Wonder why she was suddenly skipping the god-
damn shower?
If he was watching . . .

SLIVER 207
Would he wonder enough to go check his cas-
settes? The cassettes, not the cases? Unlikely. But if
he did, he could stop the elevator at thirteen when
she was leaving. . . .
She undressed. The newscaster talked about
snow on its way from western Pennsylvania, four
to eight inches. She turned the radio off.
Went into the bathroom. Put the shower cap on.
Felice scratched in the litter box.
She leaned in at the shower door, grasped the
chrome Art Deco handle, turned it. Its twin from
13 A or B had surely been the glint on that slashing
club or bat or whatever. The police would probably
still be able to find marks on it, microscopic
scratches.
She felt the water, turned it hotter.
Stepped into the black glass stall, drew the door
closed.
Made it a quickie. Marveled as she scrubbed that
the Pete she had loved—still loved, hated, pitied—
could be the same Pete who had swung that brutal
blow, had drowned Sheer there on the floor. . . .
He must have spent hours fixing things right and
cleaning up—all of it on tape. A major event—on
the night before that glorious morning when she
had circled the reservoir and bumped into Sam, and
would he be astounded when he heard the whole
story. A change in the light outside the steamy
door?

208 IRA LEVIN
She wiped a hand across it, peered out—at the
empty bathroom.
Her imagination.
She rinsed off. Calmly. Going to meet with Nor-
man and Anne Tyler. June too, of course.
She opened the door, took the towel from the
hook.
Dried herself, took off the shower cap, hung it
on the handle; went out. Nothing on the floor by
the bath mat.
She finished drying at the sink, looking in the
mirror at herself, not at the light up behind her.
She went into the bedroom, sat on the bed and
put on the panty hose; stood, worked them up,
snugged them. Put on the bra, caught her breasts in
it; went to the window, hooking the strap behind
her.
She stood looking at the gray sky, adjusting the
bra. Snow on the way, all right. The reservoir was
wind-ruffled, a few joggers on the track beyond it.
She moved to the end of the window, drew the
draperies. The green-and-white chintz panels swept
together, brushing against the edge of the window-
sill, bare except for the telescope.
She went into the bathroom, put on minimal
makeup. Should have said she was going to help
Roxie move furniture . . .
She thought about the chaos ahead, the trial, the
media piranhas in a feeding frenzy, biting not only
at Pete but at her too, the older woman taken in by

SLIVER 209
the so-much-younger man. Sweet Jesus, the hypo-
critical sympathy she'd be getting from men and
women, the smirks behind her back. She longed to
talk with Roxie ("Got a problem, Rox, Pete's a
murderer"). Sirens far away screamed louder, com-
ing up Madison.
Screamed louder, klaxons barking, screamed
right outside; whooped and moaned low, engines
throbbing.
She went into the living room, brushing at her
hair. Went to the window, stood close against the
sill, a hand to the upright bronze framing at its
middle; leaned her forehead to the glass.
Red lights spun far below, fire engines in front
of the Wales, tiny figures scurrying into its base.
She scanned the red-swept front of the hotel, its
roof—no smoke or flames.
A false alarm, she hoped. Fine, it would distract
him.
She moved to the end of the window, drew the
draperies. The white silk panels swept together,
brushing against the edge of the windowsill.
She went back through the living room, detoured
into the kitchen to shut the faucet tight, went into
the bathroom.
Realized, finishing her hair, that books were go-
ing to be written about the case —and Diadem
without a true-crime writer, more the pity. Al-
though ... whether she wanted it or not, as a major
participant she was going to be in a fantastic bar-

210 IRA LEVIN
gaining position. If one of the big names was ame-
nable to moving . ..
Talk about looking on the bright side . . .
She went into the bedroom, picked up the slip.
The phone rang. She caught the night table's hand-
set. "Hello?" she said, ready to cut Sara short.
"Hi."
She said, "Hi. Excitement across the street."
"It was a false alarm."
"What's up?" she asked.
"Kay ... I can't let you go out, or call anyone."
She stood holding the phone. Said, "What are
you talking about?"
"Oh honey, please . . . You know. The cassettes.
Listen."
She listened.
Heard purring.
Stared at the draperies, the door.
Hadn't seen Felice since—before the shower—
She drew breath. Turned, sat on the side of the
bed. "Pete, don't hurt her," she said.
"She's lying here in my lap and I'm tickling her
ears with an X-acto knife. You know what that is,
don't you? Like a pen, but with a pointy razor at
the tip; I used it on the labels. The orange ear,
twitch . . . The white ear, twitch . . ."

"Pete, please . . ." she said.
"I don't want to use it on her but if you don't do
exactly what I tell you, I will. I need some time. To
think things out."
"Fine," she said. "You can have all the time you
want." She turned around, looked up toward the
light beyond the foot of the bed. "Just don't hurt
her," she said. "I know you won't, you love her."
She looked at the light's chrome iris, at her upside-
down self sitting stuck to the upside-down bed,
holding the white speck of phone.
"I'll do it if you make me, Kay, I promise you."
"You can have all the time you want," she said
to the light.
"You were going to the police. If I'd gotten back
five minutes later those would have been their sirens
before."
"No, I don't know what I was going to do," she
said. "I wanted to get out somewhere and do some
thinking myself, without being watched."
"Don't shit me, Kay. You were going to take the
tapes to the police, that's why you switched them."
"I was going to hide them up here," she said. "I
didn't know what to do. I wanted to talk with you,
to hear—why you did what you did, to try to un-
derstand, but I was afraid. I thought having the
tapes would give me some security. That's why I
was taking them."
"You're going to do what I tell you, otherwise
Felice gets it. I know which tape you watched and

21? IRA LEVIN
how much, you didn't rewind, so you know I'll re-
ally do it if I have to, don't you?"
"Yes," she said to the light. "I do."
"I need time to think. You can put some clothes
on and you can work if you want—on the bed, I
can see you better. If the phone rings, don't touch
it, let the machine take it. And you only pick up if
it's me. Got it?"
"Yes," she said.
"Is the machine set right, so you can hear who's
calling?"
"Yes," she said.
"We'll talk later. I want to. Put your jeans on, or
whatever you want."
"Were you really in an accident?" she asked.
"No. It dawned on me what you were up to. Do
you know where I was going? To buy you a Hop-
per. Now look at us."
"Don't blame me," she said to the light.
"Why not, you invaded my privacy, didn't you?
It's ironic, isn't it? I guess it makes us even, more
or less. Go on, get dressed. And remember, don't
touch the phone unless it's me. And don't get up
without asking. Don't do anything that'll—rock
the boat. I'll be watching you every second."

SLIVER 213
Even, more or less ...
Except for a few murders on his part, and men-
acing Felice with a razor knife—if he wasn't lying
again.
Probably wasn't, having done what he'd done to
Sheer.
She shivered. Hoped it looked like a reaction
to the book she was holding open before her.
Calm . . .
As long as he was willing to talk, as long as he
was thinking things out, everything could end
peacefully with nobody hurt—not Felice, not her,
not him either. He couldn't hope to kill her and
pass it off as an accident or suicide, not so soon
after Sheer's death. And once murder was sus-
pected, he, her lover, was bound to be the leading
suspect. His owning the building would be discov-
ered, and the screens in 13B, the cameras; all the
deaths would be reinvestigated. Surely he would see
it, or could be made to see it. His best bet, his only
bet, was to turn himself in, hire one of the superstar
lawyers, plead insanity. . . .
But what if, being insane, he didn't see it?
If she ran, he could cut her off, on the stairs or
in the elevators. If she called the police or threw a
chair through the window, he'd be the first one up
there, with his passkey. . . .
Felice purring in his lap .. .

214 IRA LEVIN
Damn him. There bad to be a way to outwit him
if he wouldn't see reason. . . .
Think Gothic. . . .
He watched her pretending to read.
She was thinking, bet your bippy, about how to
get him to go to the Nineteenth Precinct with her
and turn himself in. Plead insanity.
Why the hell had she had to go snooping where
she didn't belong? They'd had it all, or could have,
and zap—nothing.
No question about what he had to do now,
whether he wanted to or not.
She'd really left him no choice.
But how?
Not a chance in a million of getting away with
another fake accident or suicide, not so soon after
Rocky. And the minute the cops started thinking
murder, he would be the number-one suspect,
the boyfriend or husband always was (and rightly
so, eh Dad?). Everything would unravel, every-
thing. . . .
Unless ...
The cops thought somebody else had murdered
her . . . Were sure somebody else had. . . .
He looked to the left.
Touched the 3B top button, the 1 button.

SLIVER 215
Felice squirmed in his lap; he raised his hand.
She jumped to the floor, prowled away sniffing.
He put the X-acto knife on the console. Took
some jelly beans.
Leaned back, chewing, watching the masters.
Sam on 1, her on 2 .. .
It took him a minute or so to work it out. The
shape, not the details.
Two big questions: could he leave her unwatched
for fifteen or twenty minutes tonight while Sam
was out seeing Candace's play? And could he keep
her quiet and under control till tomorrow night,
the soonest he could hope to set it up for?
Salvation if he could swing it. Neat too—in both
senses, neat-cool and neat-neat. Two birds with
one stone . . .
He watched them.
Sam on 1, jabbing away at the old portable. Kay
on 2, turning pages . . .

THREE

11
Q
Uhe closed the book. Took her glasses off, looked
up at the light. Said, "I'd like to go in the kitchen
and get a cup of coffee."
She sat looking at the light.
At the book, front and back.

220 IRA LEVIN
The phone rang.
She turned to the night table—4:22 on the clock.
The phone rang.
She put the glasses on the table, the book on the
stack beneath, sat up. The phone rang; the machine
atop the desk clicked. She combed her hands
through her hair. "Hello," her voice said. "I can't
come to the phone right now, but if you'll leave
your message when the beep sounds, I'll return
your call as soon as possible. Thank you."
The machine beeped.
"It's me," his voice said.
She picked up the phone. "May I?" she said.
"Let's wait till the machine cuts off."
She sighed. Sat looking at the draperies, the desk,
the light. At Tiny holding the phone . . .
Beep.
"Yes, you can get coffee. Don't hang up, leave
the phone on the bed. I won't be able to see you in
there but I've got an eye on the lobby. If you pick
up the house phone, I'll see Terry go over and an-
swer it; the instant he says 'Yes, Miss Norris,' Felice
gets a cut, and if he—" "Forget it," she said, "I'll
get water from the bathroom. I assume that's per-
mitted."
"If you want coffee, you can have coffee, just
don't touch the house phone, that's all."
"I wasn't planning to," she said.
"Go ahead."
She put the phone down, got up from the bed.

SLIVER 221
Went to the kitchen, switched the light on.
Looked, as the fluorescents pinged to brightness, at
the food and water bowls on the floor in the corner,
the scratching post on the wall.
The wall phone, the house phone . . .
She ran water into the teakettle, set it on a
burner, turned the flame wide beneath it. Spooned
instant coffee into the mug with the big brown K
on it.
Stood watching the humming kettle. Glanced at
the knife rack.
She brought the mug into the bedroom. Picked
the phone up, sat on the side of the bed, put the
phone to her ear.
"I made some too."
"Isn't that nice," she said. "We'll have a kaffee-
klatsch." She sipped.
"Honey, I'm sorry, I need some time. I don't
know what the hell to do. . . ."
She shifted around, putting a folded leg onto the
bed; looked up at the light. Shook her head. Sighed.
"Oh God, Pete . . ." she said. "Was it because you
were afraid he was going to find out about the cam-
eras? Sheer?"
She sat looking at the light. "Was that why, Pe-
tey?" she asked.
A sigh. "Yes ... He was going to go to the Takai
showroom. He'd have seen one of the lights there,
or a picture, blown the whistle. . . ."

21? IRA LEVIN
She said, "And then the other deaths would have
been reexamined. ..."
She sat looking at the light, holding the mug, the
phone.
"I don't think I should be talking any more
about this. You're liable to wind up repeating it in
court."
She drank. Looked at the light. "Petey," she said,
"you know you can't go on—doing what you've
done. You'll get caught sooner or later, and the
later it is, the worse it's going to be."
"You want me to turn myself in. . . ."
"Yes, I think it would make sense," she said. "It
would count in your favor—strongly, I'm sure—
and you can afford to get one of the top trial law-
yers. They'll be fighting to represent you, they're all
such publicity hounds."
"Oh yeah, there would be publicity, all right.
Can you imagine how it would be?"
She sighed, shrugged a shoulder. "I still think it's
the best thing for you to do," she said. "The only
thing." She sipped, looking at the light.
"I could jump."
"Oh don't say that, baby, no," she said, leaning
forward, shaking her head. "If everything you did
was done because of the cameras—and it was, ul-
timately, wasn't it?" She looked at the light.
"Wasn't it?"
"Yes ..."
She said, "Baby, I'm sure, in light of who your

SLIVER 223
mother was and all, a good lawyer could . . . make
a convincing case for ... a plea of insanity. . . ."
"You mean I could get to spend my life in a hos-
pital? Be Hinckley's roommate?"
"Not your life," she said. "Maybe just a few
years if you turn yourself in. You're young, you'll
still have a future. And you'll be alive. Don't talk
about jumping, that would be really stupid."
"Oh . . . shit. I've got to think. It's a tough de-
cision. . . ."
"Of course it is," she said. "Take your time. I
wasn't planning on going out tonight." She smiled.
"Why don't you bring Felice back up now? She's
probably getting hungry." She sat smiling at the
light.
"No. I'm keeping her here. So you don't make
the decision for me. I want to make my own deci-
sions."
"All right," she said. "I can understand that."
"There's stuff here she can eat. She's having a
ball, sniffing all over the place. I put some paper in
the shower for her."
"She could get in trouble in the back room."
"I closed the door. She's fine—as long as you
don't push me, Kay. I mean it."
"Okay," she said to the light. Nodded.
"You don't have to stay on the bed. Just keep
away from the phones and the windows and the
door. I'll call later. Wait till you know it's me." A
click. The dial tone.

224 IRA LEVIN
She turned, hung up.
Sat looking at the mug.
The snow had started. People were coming into
the lobby brushing it from their shoulders.
He watched Sam getting into his duffel coat.
Kay, sitting against the right end of the sofa, hug-
ging her jeaned knees, bare feet up on the cushion.
She nibbled at a sidepiece of her glasses, the manu-
script she'd been reading tucked down at her side.
He broke a fortune cookie open, pulled out the
paper strip, held it toward the blue-white light. The
greater part of inspiration is perspiration.
Right again, Jolly Chan. He crushed it, tossed it
on the plate.
Ate a piece of the cookie, watching Sam come
out of the stairway door and walk the path of dark
floor mat across the lobby, saying something to
Walt by the front door.
Kay reached, put the glasses on the coffee table.
Looked up at him, hugging her knees. Breathed a
sigh. "Call me, will you?" she said. "I think you
know the number."
He watched her looking at him. Picked the
phone up, touched the auto-dial button and 1.
Heard the beeps, got a busy signal. Her phone
rang. She reached, stayed her hand, looking at him.

SLIVER 225
He drew a breath. Hung up, switched her phone
link on.
She sat back as the phone rang. Played with a
shirt button. Good angle for the cleavage . . .
"Hello. I can't come to the phone right now, but if
you'll leave your message . . ." Good light too.
Beep.
"Hi, it's Roxie. You there?"
She sat up, holding the sofa's back, leaning her
head toward the foyer.
"The skating is off, Fletcher has to go to Atlanta.
Unless you guys want to anyway. If you wanted to
originally. Let me know. 'Bye." A kiss. The mach-
ine's click.
She looked up at him. "Pete?" she said.
He picked up the phone, touched the redial but-
ton.
She lowered her head, sat still.
The phone rang.
She sat back against the sofa arm. Stretched her
legs out, crossed them at the ankles. Played with the
shirt button while the phone rang, the message
played. The jeans molded her hips and thighs, the
V between ...
Beep.
"It's me," he called.
She reached, picked up the phone, leaned back.
They waited. She played with the shirt button,
lying there on the Cupid's-bow sofa with her legs
crossed at the ankles, holding the phone... .

226 IRA LEVIN
Beep.
"Hi," she said, looking at him.
"Hi," he said, watching her.
She sighed. "I've been thinking about what it's
going to be like," she said. "The publicity. The pir-
anhas. For months, through a long trial, and after...
The smirks I'll be getting behind my back from
everyone in the office, everyone I know. The years
out of your life, more than likely . . ." She sighed.
"The more I think about it, the worse it all seems."
She looked at him.
He watched her.
"Baby," she said, "I have an idea that may be a
much happier way out of this."
"What's that?" he asked.
"Brace yourself," she said. "It's going to surprise
you, but I think we ought to give it some serious
thought."
"I'm braced," he said.
"What if we got married?" she said.
He looked at her looking at him. "You're right,"
he said, "it's a surprise."
"What it would do for me," she said, "among
other things, is relieve me of the feeling that I have
to tell. As long as spouses don't have to testify
against each other, then they shouldn't be expected
to blow the whistle on each other either, should
they? It's not as if you're some crazy serial killer
who did it for kicks or because of a compulsion,
and might do it again. You were threatened, you

SLIVER 227
were defending yourself, you had rational motives.
At least that's what I'm assuming was—always the
case. Correct me if I'm wrong."
Watching her, he said, "Go on . . ."
"Naturally," she said, "there would have to be
some very definite preconditions, number one be-
ing an absolute shutting down of the system, at
once, with no waffling about it—on my part either.
We've got to recognize that someone will always be
finding out or becoming a threat in one way or an-
other."
He watched her. "Number two?" he said.
"I don't know," she said. "I haven't thought it all
out yet. But Jesus, Pete, is either one of us ever
likely to find anyone else so right? The fun we have
together, the fantastic sex . . . You're still you, re-
gardless; I can't switch off my feelings just like that.
And I've been doing some soul-searching. Don't
think I'm totally blind to the money, because I'm
not, believe me. Condition Two will probably be
that we get a big apartment on Park and a staff of
three." She smiled. "What do you think?"
He said, "It sounds great	But how do I know
you mean it? You could be conning me. Maybe the
minute we step outside you'll start screaming for
the police."
She sighed, playing with the shirt button. "I sup-
pose you've got to consider the possibility," she
said. "Frankly my first reaction was to—try to
think of a ploy of some kind. But Pete, the more I

228 IRA LEVIN
think about the media, and the trial—my God, it
would be the biggest in years—and the piece out of
your life . . . What for? What's done is done, it's
not going to be wrcdone. If I didn't feel obliged to
tell . . ." She sighed, shook her head. "No, I'm not
conning you, baby," she said. "All women aren't
actresses. Will you please give it some serious
thought? On the down side it means you'd proba-
bly have to settle for cats instead of children. ..."
"That's a plus," he said.
She uncrossed her ankles, lifted a knee, looked
at him, the phone to her cheek. "What were you
going to get?" she asked. "A sketch?"
"A painting," he said, watching her. "They have
two for me to look at."
She sighed, shook her head. "I was going to get
you a painting," she said, playing with the shirt
button. "Or some super photograph . . ."
He watched her. "Do you have enough to eat?"
he asked.
"Mm-hmm," she said. "I'm dieting."
"Felice had shrimp with lobster sauce."
"Great, you're going to spoil her. . .."
"She's sleeping under the console," he said.
"With the pig."
She smiled. Rubbed at the side of her neck.
Winced. "Ooch . . ." she said. "All this has got me
so goddamn tight. . . ."
He said, "Why don't you take a bath?"

SLIVER 229
She looked at him, smiled. "Good idea," she
said.
"We'll talk afterwards," he said.
"Okay," she said.
He watched her looking at him.
They hung up.
He got ready while she did.
Reread the note, changed lover to stud, folded it.
Stood, tucking it into his right hip pocket. She was
running the water, squeezing in the bubble bath.
He opened the bottom drawer on the left, found
the box of plastic gloves; tore two from the roll, put
them into his left side pocket. Checked his keys, the
change in his right side pocket.
She put a cassette in the bedroom player. Sego-
via's guitar struck a chord.
He watched her undress.
Not looking at him. Not a glance.
As if nobody could possibly be watching her,
there in her cozy bedroom.
Like in the old days. Only now she knew. . ..
A definite turn-on . . .
For her too?
Was she maybe, just maybe, not trying to con
him, she with those beautiful tits?
The media really would be rough on her because

230 IRA LEVIN
of the age difference. . . . And who wouldn't rather
be rich than not?
Come on, dummy.
He peeled the plastic from a cassette, put it in,
started taping—as she came to the doorway of the
bathroom, holding closed her short satin robe. She
stood looking at him, a hand at the switch. The
light faded low.
And came back up a little as she stood looking
at him. Smiling? She went to the foam-filled tub;
turned the water off. Moved to the sink, began pin-
ning up her back hair, the robe opening to the mir-
ror.
He checked the 3B monitors, and 3A. Crazy Su-
san was in the living room, eating from a lap tray,
watching the tube.
He scanned the blue-white rows. Nothing major.
Watched her drop the robe at her back, raise a
leg, put a foot into the foam.
He watched.. ..
Checked his watch and the clock—7:50. Turned,
went to the foyer. Peeped, opened the door, went
out; drew the door closed.
He opened the stairway door, went onto the
landing with its black 13 and white fluorescence.
Stood with a hand on the rail, looking up
through the cleft between the undersides of stairs.
She was trying to con him. No question about it.
He hurried down the zigzagging half-flights,
down the gray concrete well.

SLIVER 231
He opened all three pairs of accordion doors;
went to the other side of the room and stood sur-
veying the sparsely hung closets—shoes and suit-
cases on the floor, top shelves lined with boxes and
bags, stacks of paperbacks.
"I've got one in the closet myself," Sam had said,
dealing cards around the table a few weeks after he
moved in. "A jealous husband put out a contract
on me once. Really, no shit. A jealous widower; she
was dead. An actress I'd been boffing for ages. But
I'm still in favor of banning them."
He remembered it somehow.
He found it on the second try, in a zippered over-
night bag, wrapped in a white motel towel smelling
of oil—a blue-steel automatic, Beretta U.S.A. on
the side, the milled grip empty. Two clips of bullets
in the bag, one full, one with two spaces at the bot-
tom.
He hefted the gun in his plastic-gloved hand. An-
other bequest from the old man, in a way. He
tucked it into the waist of his jeans, pulled the
sweater down over it, patted it. Put the full clip of
bullets in his left side pocket.
He zipped the bag closed with the towel and the
other clip in it, put it back on the closet shelf; he
would unzip it when he came down afterward to
put the note by the typewriter.

232 IRA LEVIN
He closed the accordion doors, leaving the one
nearest the foyer partly open as he had found it.
Sitting at the table in the living room, he checked
his watch—7:57—and studied Sam's typing, the
last pages of it in the thick folder. The typing, not
the words. Thea lay among the words. Afterward
he would take those pages with him; no one would
miss them.
Some of the letters were darker than the others,
hit harder—B's, N's, and H's mostly. A few had
been X'ed over.
He got out the draft of the note. Rolled a sheet
of Sam's typing paper into the old Remington.
Jabbed Sam-style with plastic-gloved fingers at
the round black keys.
The fourth try looked good:
To Whom It May Concern,
Kay Norris made ceratain promises to me
which she has decided not to keep. I am going to
give her one more chance to give up her young
stud. If you are reaxding this, it means she re-
fused. I made a promise to her. I keep my prom-
ises.	—S.Y.
He brought it to the bookshelves, crouched,
drew out one of the large books stacked flat on the
bottom shelf — Classics of the Silent Screen; he put
the sheet of paper inside it, on a picture of Pauline

SLIVER 233
or whoever tied to the railroad tracks; put the book
in its place in the stack.
He brushed his hands, checked the watch—8:06.
Sixteen minutes since he'd left. No sweat. She'd be
half an hour at least—Segovia, the bubbles . . .
He folded the draft of the note and the first three
tries, put them in his pocket. Swung the hinged
cover down over the typewriter, put the dictionary
on the folder, the lamp and the chair the way they
had been, switched the lamp off.
He stood in the foyer doorway with a hand on
the switch and a hand on the sweater-covered gun
at his waist, taking a last look at the room—its
thrift-shop furnishings no better-looking live than
on the tube.
He switched the light off, moved to the door,
peeped out.
Waited while a man waited outside the door of
3A.
Waited while the door opened and Susan
counted out bills, said something, closed the door.
Waited while the man waited for the elevator.
Hurried down the stairs taking the gloves off—
8:11.
He pressed the elevator button in the basement
and went into the laundry room. Denise and Allan
turned from one of the washers. He nodded to
them, went to the machines.
Denise and Allan? God, he was out of touch.
They moved apart as he fed coins into slots. He

234 IRA LEVIN
bought potato chips and catnip; hurried out to the
opening number-two elevator.
Rode to thirteen.
Unlocked the door.
She was in the tub under islands of foam, her
head on the rim by the wall, her eyes closed.
He lowered himself into the chair, watching.
Took out the gun, put it on the console.
Sat watching.
Felice jumped up on the console. She sniffed the
gun. Stepped over it, sniffed the X-acto knife.
Pawed it; it rolled away. He picked it up. "Thanks,"
he said.
He put the bag of chips down and cut open the
catnip's plastic shell; took out the thumb-size sack,
held it toward Felice. She leaned, sniffed it. He
tossed it away over his shoulder, she leaped from
the console.
He turned the brightness up a little.
Watched, putting the knife in a drawer.
Sat back, watching; fished with a foot under the
console, hooked out the pig.
"It's me," he said.
She picked up the phone and tucked it against
her shoulder, sitting cross-legged on the bed in pale
pajamas. She scooped inside the container, brought

SLIVER 235
out a spoonful of dark ice cream. Held it toward
him, smiling.
Beep.
"No, thanks," he said. "I've got a vodka and
tonic." He shook the glass so the ice tinkled; sipped
from it.
She ate the spoonful of ice cream, looking at
him. Asked, "Are we celebrating?"
"I don't know," he said, watching her. "I need
more time to think. I'll tell you in the morning."
She scooped in the container. "Seems foolish to
waste a good night. . . ." She looked at him. Ate ice
cream.
He smiled and said, "I don't consider it wasted.
We'll talk in the morning."
She looked at him. "I love you, baby," she said.
"Don't do anything foolish."
"Don't you," he said.
In the morning he said he needed more time.
"I don't see why."
"Because I still think maybe you're conning me,
that's why."
"I'm not," she said, lying on her back, looking
at the light, fingering the phone wire between her
breasts.
"Then you trust me. Just till this evening. I'll

236 IRA LEVIN
bring Felice up then, I promise you, safe and sound.
I have to speak to my lawyer about certain things
and I'm having a hard time running him down.
He's in Vail, Colorado."
She said, "I want to go do some shopping."
"You can do it tomorrow. It's snowing anyway,
heavily. Nobody's going out."
"I want to call Roxie, Wendy . .."
"Just watch what you say."
"I don't want you listening!"
"Then wait till tomorrow!"
She hung up, sat up. Made a face at the light,
stuck her tongue out.
She got up and went to the window, tugged with
both hands at the drapery cord.
Stood with her arms folded, looking at whirling
white flakes, white park, a white-quilted pinnacled
roof, white gardens.
The barren windowsill, only the telescope on it.
"Hello, mr. yale," he said. "My name is Pete
Henderson. I'm a friend of Kay Norris's, we're
coming to your party next Friday. . .."
"Oh sure," Sam said on 1, standing by the liv-
ing-room table, the phone at his cheek. "We've
talked in the elevator."
"That's right, I'm in thirteen A," he said. "I'll

SLIVER 237
tell you why I'm calling. I just found out last night
that today is Kay's birthday."
"Oh?"
"Her friend Roxie and I are setting up a little
surprise party for her." He watched her vacuuming
in the bedroom on 2. "At nine o'clock tonight," he
said. "Her place. Kay's, I mean. Just a dozen or so
people. I know she'll be pleased if you're there	"
"I'd love to be," Sam said. "Thank you."
"It's apartment twenty B," he said. "And would
you please make it as close to nine as possible? The
logistics are kind of complicated."
"Nine on the button," Sam said.
"Thanks," he said. "See you then."
"Thank yow," Sam said. "It'll be nice to talk
about something besides the weather."
"You're right," he said, smiling. "Twenty B, nine
o'clock."
They hung up.
He drew a breath.
Caressed Felice sleeping in his lap.
Watched Sam picking up the phone.
The beep sounded. "Hi, Jerry, it's Sam," he
said. "I'm not going to be able to make it after all.
I hope it doesn't screw things up; maybe Milt can
sit in. Take care." He hung up.

238 IRA LEVIN
Went over to the window.
Stood watching a snowplow clanking up the av-
enue sweeping a rampart of snow against the cars
parked on the other side. Nice for the drivers when
they got back.
He tried to think of a present he could get her,
something that, while not too expensive or per-
sonal, would show wit and discernment far out-
shining anything young Pete Henderson had in that
department.
Why did that name ring a bell?
Of course . . . Henderson had been Thea's hus-
band's name. And hadn't her son's name been Pe-
ter? Yes...
Common enough, Peter Henderson . . .
This one looked to be about the right age. Had
the right coloring too — John Henderson's reddish-
brown hair and blue eyes . ..
What a coincidence that would be, Thea's son ...
Going, naturally, with women who looked like her,
Kay very much, Naomi Singer a little . . .
Could it be? And did Kay know? Was Pete Hen-
derson the one who had told her about the bathing
suits and summer dresses?
He would ask her, once the surprise part of the
party was over.

12
Q
Uhe stood by the coffee table, looked up at the
light. "Enough is enough," she said to her upside-
down self in sneakers and jeans and the burgundy
turtleneck. "It's eight-fucking-thirty. I've got cabin
fever. Let's go out and get burgers or something.

240 IRA LEVIN
Don't bother calling, just get your—" She turned as
the hall door unlocked, opened. He came in with
Felice looking around and meowing in his arm.
"Hi," he said. Dumped Felice to the foyer floor.
She closed her eyes, drew breath.
Opened her eyes as Felice went to the kitchen.
"Hey, stupid, wait up," she said, going after her.
Felice stopped and turned, looked at her. She
crouched, picked her up, stood cradling her on her
shoulder; nuzzled the calico fur, kissed it. Felice
squirmed.
She carried her into the kitchen, crouched, let her
jump off. "When did you feed her last?" she asked,
switching the light on.
"There was stuff out."
"What, an egg roll?" She opened the cabinet, got
out a can. Felice meowed at her. "Patience," she
said, getting the opener from the drawer. Glanced
at him as he came to the doorway. "Hi," she said.
"Hi." He smiled and looked around, his hands
in his jeans pockets, a bulky greenish-tweed jacket
buttoned at his waist over a light blue shirt. "It
looks like my kitchen," he said.
Dirty dishes lay in the sink, utensils and boxes
on the counters, a dish towel over the knife rack.
"Believe it or not," she said, working the can
opener, "I haven't been up to my personal best the
past thirty hours or so. That's nice tweed."
"Ancient," he said.
"Did you speak to your lawyer?" She crouched,

SLIVER 241
spooning food into the bowl while Felice stood
watching.
She glanced up at him. He shook his head.
She spooned the food. "What have you de-
cided?" she asked.
"Let's talk about it inside," he said.
She put the can in the garbage, the spoon in the
sink. "How about over burgers at Jackson Hole?"
she said. "I've got cabin fever."
He said, "Let's talk first, okay?"
She rinsed the water bowl and filled it, put it
down.
Went to him, smiled, kissed his lips. "Want a
drink?" she asked.
He shook his head. Kissed her lips.
They went into the living room, hooking fingers
on the way. Parted at the sofa, went around it. She
sat; he went to the window.
He split the white silk panels with a finger,
looked out between them. "It's starting again," he
said.
"I'd still like to go out," she said. Sat watching
him, sitting against the sofa's right arm, a folded
leg on the cushion, a hand on her denimed knee.
He went toward the other end of the sofa;
stopped beside the coffee table, stood looking at
her. Breathed a sigh. "Honey," he said, "I would
give anything if I could believe you. I mean it. But
I just can't see you forgetting about murders, espe-

242 IRA LEVIN
daily when one of them was someone you knew,
even if it was only slightly."
She said, looking at him, "You're underestimat-
ing how much you mean to me, and how appalled
I am when I think about the publicity. I'm not say-
ing I'm going to be blissfully happy, that I won't be
bothered sometimes." She shrugged. "It's the best
choice there is," she said. "From my selfish view-
point, and from yours too, I would think. Unless
you don't want to marry someone my age no mat-
ter what."
"Oh, come on," he said. He backed to the side
chair and sat on the edge of it, shook his head.
"No," he said, "you were afraid I'd jump, and you
wanted Felice back." Felice crossed the rug before
him, black-tipped tail swaying. "Good girl, right on
cue," he said. "I've been training her."
They watched as Felice sank down on the cush-
ion beneath the window, licked a paw, pawed her
face. "I really enjoyed having her," he said.
They looked at each other.
She said, "What can I do to convince you I mean
it?"
"You can't," he said. Unbuttoned his jacket,
folded his hands between his knees, sat looking at
her.
She said, "Are you going to turn yourself in?"
"And spend my life in a loony bin? If I'm
lucky?"
"It wouldn't be your life," she said.

SLIVER 243
"Watching network TV in the day room ..." He
smiled. "Arguing with the other loons about which
channel. No . . ." He shook his head and bent it,
rubbed at the reddish-brown hair.
She sat with her hand on her knee, watching
him. "You know, Pete," she said, "that if—any-
thing were to happen to me, even if it looked like
an accident or suicide, or a break-in or whatever—
now, so soon after Sheer died ..."
"I know," he said. "I'd be the number-one sus-
pect."
She leaned toward him. "Baby, listen to me," she
said. "With a good lawyer you could be out in a lot
less time than you think, and you can afford the
best, can't you? There's the good that you've done,
the money you sent to people, that'll be considered
too. And again, the fact that you turned yourself in,
that would be bound to be a big point in your fa-
vor, I know it would. Honestly, baby."
He raised his head, looked at her.
She said, "It won't be so terrible. . . ." Smiled at
him. "You'll get love letters from women of all
ages."
He said, "Sam is coming up."
She looked at him.
He reached inside his jacket. "This is his," he
said. "My father put out a contract on him after
my mother died. That's when he got it. It's a Ber-
etta, nine millimeter."
She looked at the blue-steel gun in his hand.

244 IRA LEVIN
"It's going to be a murder-suicide," he said.
"He's been making annoying phone calls. Nothing
major, I don't think you even mentioned them to
anyone except me." He rested his wrist on his
thigh, the gun in his hand tipped downward. "He
misinterpreted some things you said in the park a
while back. He was after you to stop seeing me—
you know how jealous old men can get. They're
going to find a note about it next to his typewriter.
I typed it last night while you were in the tub." He
smiled. "Not the whole time, the first twenty-five
minutes or so."
She said, "Why is he coming?"
"For a surprise party," he said. "It's your birth-
day." He glanced at his watch, put his hand to the
gun between his knees, fingers stroking the barrel.
"The funny thing is," he said, "he's the one I really
wanted to get all along. That's why I brought him
here, I was going to watch him and then do it when
I found a safe way. Thea—my mother was going to
him, to stay with him, when . . . They had a fight
about it before the party, she and my father. She
didn't fall down the stairs, he pushed her, I saw."
He drew a breath. "It was Sam's fault as much as
his," he said. "But then I—had to deal with Billy
Webber. And Brendan Connahay died right after.
So he got a new lease on life, Sam. On his apart-
ment too." He smiled. "He turned out to be pretty
interesting, with the acting lessons, the for-real
ones and the others. I won't tell you what the pro-

SLIVER 245
portion was." He raised the gun, slid back its top
and released it, aimed it at her, his finger on the
trigger. "Do you have a knife under the cushion?"
he asked.
She sat looking at him.
"Pretty cool," he said. "I didn't see you getting
it there. Take it out now. Slowly, just with two fin-
gers, not so you could throw it at me, and put it on
the coffee table. Right now."
She put her hand down in behind the cushion
and brought out—thumb and forefinger lifting the
black handle—a wide-heeled twelve-inch knife with
a pointed tip. She passed it to the thumb and fore-
finger of her other hand, reached, lowered it onto
the coffee table.
She sat straight, folded her arms. Sat looking at
him aiming the gun at her.
He lowered it. "It's you or me, Kay," he said.
Glanced at his watch.
"When's the party?" she asked.
"At nine," he said.
"What if he doesn't come?"
"He will," he said. "He dropped out of a string
quartet he plays in and he got you a present. When
I left he was pressing his pants."
"Why did you have to 'deal' with Billy Webber?"
she asked.
"He found out the phones were bugged," he
said. "He was blackmailing me."

246 IRA LEVIN
"How did he find out?" she asked. Unfolded her
arms.
He smiled. "He dealt drugs, he was paranoid
about security," he said. "He brought home a high-
tech bug detector one night and got a positive sig-
nal. I almost fell through the floor. It was only a
few weeks after people started moving in and I was
still kind of nervous and excited about everything."
"What did you do?" she asked.
"I ran right down there," he said. "He was in six
A. I told him I was the owner and I'd gotten a sig-
nal he used a detector. I said I'd bugged the phones
for kicks. We made a deal." His hands held the gun
between his knees, the muzzle down. "I gave him, I
think it was two thousand dollars the first time,"
he said. "I kept quiet about the drugs and he kept
quiet about the bugging. Then he wanted more
money, and more—much more, exactly the way
blackmailers are supposed to. So I went in one day
and switched some of his stuff around. It was such
an easy thing to do. . . ." He sighed, glanced at his
watch. Smiled at her. "Rafael, the super, was a
funny situation," he said. "It could have been a sit-
com. The Odd Couple. He got curious about thir-
teen B and picked the lock one day when I was out.
He didn't know I was involved, he just didn't want
me around to see him doing it. When I got back,
there he was at the console."
"More blackmail?" she said.
"A little," he said. "A couple of hundred a week.

SLIVER 247
The problem was he got into watching, like you. He
was in there four or five hours a day and at least
two nights a week, running everything himself most
of the time, neglecting his duties—and there was
nothing I could do about it. Then he wanted to
bring his wife. Next it would've been the kids. .. ."
He sighed, shrugged. "She got a big cash settle-
ment, Mrs. Ortiz," he said.
"I know," she said, watching him, sitting with
her hands on her knees.
He said, "What did you do, look things up?"
She nodded.
He nodded. "Sure," he said.
"Did Naomi get hooked too?" she asked.
He shook his head. Looked at her. "She wouldn't
let me turn it on," he said. "She was your standard
knee-jerk liberal, practically in tears about the civil-
rights violation. I didn't tell her, she figured things
out herself. Channel Thirteen had run a Nova on
electronic surveillance, and I made some dumb
mistakes"—he glanced at his watch—"little things
like knowing where she kept the place mats. Yes,
we had an affair, but we only got together every
week or so. She was uptight about it." He smiled.
"On account of our age difference—seven years. I
was twenty-four then, she was thirty-one."
She said, "She was going to tell?"
He nodded.
"You made her write the letter. . . ."
"No, I wrote it," he said, smiling. "I pasted it

248 IRA LEVIN
together out of lines from one of her notebooks
and then I made copies of it, good and dark, on a
machine. Then I traced it about fifty times, till I was
writing it, you know, with a flow. I had plenty of
time; I gave a hundred thousand dollars to Green-
peace and she gave me a month to get the monitors
out." He glanced at his watch.
She said, "I suppose in the beginning you—" He
stood up, pointing the gun at her. "We have to go
inside now," he said. "If you scream you'll be wast-
ing your breath, Vida is out and so is Phil." He
stamped on the rug. "And the Ostrows are really
having a party. That's why I made it this late."
She sat looking at him. "Please, baby . . ." she
said.
He leaned at her. "There's no other way,'''' he
said. "Believe me, I was up all night trying to think
of one. You're like Rocky. Sheer. Even if you swore
you would take a bribe I wouldn't believe you.
Come on. Now." He poked upward with the gun.
She drew breath, shifted around, got up catch-
ing and slinging the knife at his head; lunged at him
over the corner of the table as he ducked. They hit
the arm of the chair; it fell sideward, spilling them
to the rug; Felice meowed and ran.
They rolled, she on top grabbing at the wrist of
his gun hand. His other hand caught her throat,
pushed her back; she clutched his arm as he rolled
over her. He let go and got up, holding the gun;

SLIVER 249
stood panting as she climbed to her knees holding
on to the coffee table, rubbing her throat.
"I can do it in here too," he said. "I'm flexible."
She flung the Magritte book in his groin, grabbed
his wrist with both hands as he bent, twisted his
arm around over her shoulder, turning and hipping
up under him. He howled, punching her other
shoulder; she pulled the gun from his fingers,
ducked and turned, backed toward the window,
taking the gun in both hands, aiming it at him as
he crouched holding his shoulder, rubbing his arm,
blue eyes staring at her. Felice meowed, standing in
the pass-through.
They panted, watching each other.
"I fired a gun like this at a range in Syracuse,"
she said. "Get over by the wall there."
Watching her, he took a step to the side. "Kay..."
he said.
"Go on," she said, holding the gun with both
hands, her finger on the trigger. "Don't say any-
thing. I don't want to hear one more word out of
you."
He stood still. "How about good-bye?" he said.
Turned and ran.
She followed him with the gunsight, didn't
squeeze, watched him run—not to the hall but
through the foyer into the bedroom, slamming the
door.
She lowered the gun.
Stared at the closed door.

250 IRA LEVIN
Ran to it.
Stopped—cold circling her ankles.
A snowflake blew from under the door, became
a speck of wet on the wood.
She closed her eyes, drew breath.
Pushed the door against wind. Opened it to the
wall.
The draperies billowed and flapped in the lamp-
lit bedroom, the left side of the window open to
wind and snowflakes and darkness.
She stood staring. Swallowed.
Leaned against the door jamb, shut her eyes, the
gun at her side.
Drew breath.
Sighed it out. Went in, put the gun on the bed.
Stood hugging her sweatered arms, her eyes tearing.
She knuckled at the corners of them, went to the
window. Pushed billowing drapery aside, spread
her arms and grasped cold bronze framing with
both hands. Leaned into the wind and snowflakes,
looked down at white far below. The wind
dropped, accordion doors rolled. She spun around,
he came pushing at her middle; pushed her back-
ward out the window.

13
p
U loth brushed her hand, she clutched, it pulled her;
she grabbed with her other hand, swinging around;
hung from handfuls of chintz and muslin, kicking
air. Her shoulder hit brick, her sneakered foot slid
against glass. She stared up at him staring out the

252 IRA LEVIN
window at her. The drapery quivered; she stared up
at its top inside the window.
An end hook popped from the muslin header,
the next hook popped, the next, the row of hooks
popping as, hitching herself upward, she caught the
window track with one hand and the other; pulled,
hauling her knees up to the bricks; pushed with her
knees and thighs, pulled with her arms and fingers.
Wind hit her back, the drapery flapped into the
window, the door inside slammed.
"Shit," he said, shaking his head, grimacing
down at her. "Shit..."
She hung from the outer metal track, staring up
at him.
"I can'tl" he cried. "I've got to think of we!" He
went from the window.
Staring at dark wet bricks, her knees mashed
against a dent of mortar, arms and fingers aching,
she squirmed her left hand's fingers toward the win-
dow panel a few inches away. If she could get a
decent grip where it met the track, climb up the
bricks . . . And not think about hanging twenty
stories high in wind and snow from the back of a
sliver building .. . An icy trickle slithered down her
spine; she shivered. Hung by arms and fingers,
pushed with thighs and knees, squirmed fingers
leftward in the cold wet metal track, not looking
down. Just another invigorating workout. At the
Vertical Club . . .
"It's still going to work."

SLIVER 253
She looked up at him.
He sat sideways on the sill, squinting against
snowflakes, his hands shiny in plastic, wiping the
gun. "He's the one you fought with," he said, "then
he chased you in here, pushed you out, shot himself.
He'll be here in four minutes and I pray to God he
isn't late." He tucked the gun inside his jacket,
squinted into the wind, frowning. "Maybe I ought
to push him...."
She hooked her fingers in behind the panel,
pulled with both aching arms; worked her right
knee—getting numb, the denim wet through—up
to the next dent in the bricks; worked her left knee
up. Pushed with both knees, crept her right hand's
fingers into the inner track.
He stood up and picked up the telescope,
grasped its narrow end in his plastic-gloved hand.
Crouched and hooked the wide end's edge under
her two middle fingertips in the track. Lifted at
them. "I'm never going to forget you," he called
against the wind. "I've got the tapes. Last night,
and the night you moved in—that's pretty poor
quality though—and that Saturday night . . . Six
weeks ago, almost to the minute ..." He smiled,
crouching, lifting at her fingertips with the tele-
scope—gently, so as not to mark them. "We've cer-
tainly run the gamut, haven't we?" he called.
"God, I wish it didn't have to end this way. I'm
going to watch you as long as I live. Scoot, Felice."
Felice came walking along the windowsill.

254 IRA LEVIN
"Scoot," he said.
Felice stopped, looked at him—and walked on,
to the fingers hooked down around the corner of
the outer panel. Sniffed them.
She recoiled, hissing, her fur ruffling.
He stood up. "Scram," he said. "Mommy's busy
falling."
Felice leaned, sniffed the tight-pressed fingers,
hissed at them. She took another step, put her head
out around the panel, shied at the wind and snow-
flakes. Looked down at the face staring up at her.
Drew back, sniffed the fingers.
Turned, hissing. Reared back along the sill.
"Cool it," he said. "It's me. Daddy."
She snarled up at him, eyes narrowed; hissed,
showed her teeth, wriggled her haunches, tail
straight back.
"Fuck off, Felice," he said. Poked the telescope
at her. "Or would you rather—" She shot hissing
from his arm to his face, caught his nose in her
teeth, dug her claws through his eyelids. The tele-
scope flew as he clutched her, shiny hands sliding.
He screamed in her fur, falling backward.
Nary a soul in the twentieth-floor hallway. He
checked his watch as the elevator door slid closed
behind him: nine on the button, the hands at a per-
fect ninety-degree angle.

SLIVER 255
He wondered what exactly were Pete Hender-
son's complicated logistics. Checked himself in the
mirror—red-eyed, rotten-looking. Fixed the collar
of the jacket so the frayed place was hidden—for the
moment.
He moved to the 20B door. Listened. No sound
of people. He pressed the button; the bell ding-
donged.
He studied the beribboned little box from Doll-
house Antics. Hoped he hadn't gotten too cute. Too
late now ...
A cry from inside?
He tried the doorknob; it turned.
He opened the door a few inches. Lights were
on. "Hello?" he called toward the living room.
"Anybody home?"
A gargled moan from the bedroom.
He opened the door wider. The kitchen looked
messy; he'd figured her for neat. A soaring bird, a
knockout painting of a falcon or a hawk or some-
thing, hung between the kitchen and the bathroom.
The bedroom door was closed.
"Hello?" he called, going in. He put the box on
a Victorian coat rack, steadied the wobbly marble
shelf. Jumped aside as a knife fell from under it.
He looked at it lying on the floor—a pointed
kitchen knife seven or eight inches long, with a
black handle.
He picked it up, looked at it. Put it on the shelf
with the box.

256 IRA LEVIN
Went to the bedroom door. Coldness blew from
under it. He knocked. "Kay?" he called. "It's Sam
Yale. Are you all right?"
A moan.
He pushed the door against wind. A cat raced
out—orange, red, white —raced for the living
room, black-tipped tail fluffed.
He opened the door wider. Stared, his heart
sinking.
A blood-faced man sat on the floor against the
side of the bed by its foot, moaning, holding
cupped blood-lumped hands toward him. Pete
Henderson. With red-black hollows for eyes—like
an actor made up for Oedipus's final entrance. A
path of torn-down twisted drapery ran to the open
window where—Christ!—someone climbing in
lifted a dark head, looked at him— He rushed past
Henderson, got down on a knee by her, his heart
pounding. Grabbed the back of her belt, got an arm
beneath her—she was cold, shivering, in a wet dark
turtleneck—helped lift her up onto the sill. She
brought her legs up, rolling onto her side, wincing,
the frayed knees of her jeans bloodied. "My God\"
he said. A moan from Henderson.
He helped her sit un and swing her legs down;
pulled the window closed behind her, stood, closed
it all the way. Unbuttoned his jacket. "I'll call an
ambulance in a second!" he shouted.
"I can hear," Henderson said.
She sat panting on the sill, shivering, staring to-

SLIVER 257
ward Henderson, her arms folded tight, hands
tucked in armpits. Her hair was tangled, wet, her
lips bluish. She turned to him as he put his jacket
around her shoulders. "Felice?" she said. "My
cat?"
"It ran into the living room," he said.
She unfolded her arms, pushed against the sill.
"The shower," she said.
He helped her stand. "What in God's name?" he
asked. He walked with her on the drapery, steady-
ing her; watched her panting, shivering. Henderson
moaned. She kept close to the closets, looking
ahead. He held her at the waist and shoulder of his
jacket.
She said, "He was—going to—kill us both. . .."
"Why?" he asked.
"He killed the others," she said. "The building is
bugged. With videocameras."
"What?"
She took his jacket off at the door. "He owns it,"
she said. "There's the phone. Watch out, he has
your gun." She gave him the jacket, looked at him.
"He's Thea Marshall's son," she said.
"I thought he might be! Videocameras? Go, go,
I'm sorry."
She went into the bathroom, switching the light
on. Closed the door and locked it.
Toed her sneakers off. Went into the shower.
Grasped the chrome Art Deco handle. Turned
the water hot.

258 IRA LEVIN
She stripped in the downpour, examined her raw
knees, her hands and fingers, massaged her arms.
Turned the water hotter.
Stood hugging herself, weeping.
When they got out of the patrol car in front of
Horror High-Rise, at a little after two by Sam's
watch, halogen lights glared on tripods at both
sides of the canopy, vans were double-parked, an-
other van came skidding around the corner from
Ninety-second Street. Black cameras swooped at
them, riding men's shoulders; Sam warded them off
right and left with his raised finger; Walt bran-
dished a snow shovel.
They made it into the lobby, where twenty or
more of the tenants were huddled around radios
and agreements to join in class-action lawsuits.
"Is the building really bugged?" Vida asked.
"Yes," she said. Dmitri said, "He killed Rafael,
everybody?" "Not Brendan Connahay," she said.
"They took out tapes," Stefan said. "Were those of
us?" She nodded. "Is he blind?" someone asked.
"Yes," Sam said. "Folks," he said, standing with
his hands raised and his back to the elevators, "we
spoke to reporters at the police station; you can
read about it in the papers tomorrow. I don't want
to be unneighborly but we've had a rough night,

SLIVER 259
especially Ms. Norris. Peter Henderson is in Met-
ropolitan Hospital under police guard. He isn't
watching anything anymore. If you have questions,
the man to speak to is Detective Wright at the
Nineteenth Precinct. You'll find him very pleasant
and courteous. Thank you."
They rode up in the right-hand elevator.
She made real coffee. They drank it on the sofa,
Felice curled sleeping in her lap.
He said, "That's going to be the most famous cat
in the country. She's going to get a date with Mor-
ris from Nine Lives."
She sipped from her mug. "A lot of good it'll do
them both," she said.
He smiled, watching her. Sipped, looked at the
ceiling light. "Incredible," he said. "TV madness ...
I guess it was inevitable that someone would come
down with it sooner or later."
"He's not the first case," she said. "There's a
hotel that's bugged too, and a couple of other
apartment houses. At least that's what he said. Sam,
listen." She looked at him. "I want you to know, I
never watched you. It was a condition at the outset:
not you, not the bathrooms."
"Nice you were fastidious," he said.
"You have no idea how hypnotic it is," she said.

260 IRA LEVIN
"It's impossible to stop watching. There's always
something going on and even the prosaic things be-
come interesting, because it's real and you never
know what's going to happen next."
They sipped from their mugs.
She said, "I'm going down there. There are tapes
I don't think they found that I want to get rid of,
tapes of me; and the ones they're looking for could
be there too, though he may have erased them. But
I have a feeling he didn't, not if he was taping to-
night."
"You lost me," he said.
"Never mind," she said. "The point is I'm going
down to thirteen B, do you want to come?"
They looked at each other.
"I mean just to look," she said. "Not to watch."
He said, "Won't it be sealed?"
"With a strip of tape, I suppose," she said. "I
have a key. Don't worry, I'm going to tell Detective
Wright exactly what I did and why I did it, even if
I don't find the other tapes. I'm sure he'll under-
stand. If he doesn't, it'll be my responsibility."
He scratched his ear. "Well..." he said, "I guess
I ought to. Just on the off chance I wind up direct-
ing the miniseries."
"What do you mean, 'the off chance'?" she said,
leaning and putting her mug down. "We'll make it
part of the deal." She gathered Felice in her arms,
got up and turned; winced, raising a foot. "Ooh
Jesus, my knees," she said.

SLIVER 261
"Ahhh," he said, wincing, watching her as he got
up.
She put Felice down in the hollow in the cushion.
Bent, kissed her head. "Good cat," she said. "What
a cat." Kissed her nose. "Tuna steak from here on
in."
Felice hunkered down in the apricot velvet, purr-
ing, eyes closed. Her whiskers twitched.
They headed for the foyer. She said, "I'll bet
everybody in the building is still up talking about
everything."
He opened the hall door, held it for her. "I
wouldn't mind taking one little peek," he said, go-
ing out after her.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in New York City in 1929 and an
alumnus of New York University, Ira
Levin began his career in television's
"golden age," writing plays for Lights
Out and The United States Steel Hour.
Mr. Levin's earlier novels are A Kiss Be-
fore Dying, Rosemary's Baby, This Per-
fect Day, The Stepford Wives and The
Boys from Brazil. His plays include No
Time for Sergeants, Cantorial, and the
longest-running thriller in Broadway his-
tory, Deathtrap. He has won two Edgar
Allan Poe Awards, serves on the council
of the Dramatists Guild, and lives in the
Carnegie Hill district of Manhattan in
which Sliver is set. He has three sons.

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INT 6/89

Ira Levin's earlier novels are A Kiss Before Dying,
Rosemary's Baby, This Perfect Day, The Stepford Wives
and The Boys from Brazil. His plays include No
Time for Sergeants, Cantorial, and the longest-running
thriller in Broadway history, Deathtrap.
Born in New York City in 1929 and an alumnus of
New York University, Ira Levin began his career
n television's "golden age," writing plays for Lights Ou
and The United States Steel Hour. He has won two
Edgar Allan Poe Awards, serves on the council
of the Dramatists Guild, and lives in the Carnegie Hill
district of Manhattan in which Sliver is set.