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“What does Carrie think about the theft?” asked Pam.”She’s mystified.”"There was more money in the office than people think.”Uh-oh, thought Milly, pop goes the random burglar theory.Pam and Milly strolled down the rows of glass cases, Pam pausing occasionally to admire a face or dress.”I raise money for the Governor and there was a little cache I left with Arthur.”The room is sterile, thought Pam. Relics live here, avatars, painted images, whiletheir human counterparts moulder in a forgotten grave. The children who playedwith these dolls, the adults who admired the clothes they wore, every single one of them is dust. Pam saw the dolls reach for lovers they’d never see, touch,embrace. “What does triste bebe mean?” she asked.

“Sad,” said Milly. “Sad baby. It means the doll isn’t smiling.”Pam nodded. What illusion of Milly’s would it shatter to recognize that happinessdidn’t belong here? Girls played with dolls, but their role in this room was oddlyreversed. Dolls weren’t handled. They made the rules, and chief among themwere separation, isolation, prison in perpetuity. An odd immortality, thought Pam,to be caged forever behind glass, while the world tosses and turns outside.”There won’t be fingerprints,” she said of the burglary.
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The women coolly appraised each other. Milly summarized to herself what sheknew about Pam. The world obviously approved of her occupation, heapingsuccess on her in spades. Pam had made her first fortune in New York’sconstruction industry. This was a man’s world and Pam had learned to walkquietly, but brook no opposition. Pam’s husband ran a pharmaceutical company,which itself grew by leaps and bounds if the business section of the newspaperswere any guide. Pam wielded political clout through the Governor. Assuming Albert Brull became President, she could hope for a cabinet post orambassadorship. This was her second fortune, albeit prospective; she belongedto the inner circle of the next President. Her third was, Milly had to assume, anillicit drugs network. Pam wouldn’t describe the Resurrection and White Goldopportunities unless she controlled them. She was a boss and loved everyminute of it. She’d be the boss wherever she went. So why was she talking toMilly? It astonished Milly that she’d talked freely. In relative terms. Milly didn’tbelieve that Pam ever talked without calculation. Pam put her guard up in themorning and didn’t take it down till last thing at night. Possibly, but only remotely,Pam had guessed that Milly could multiply her revenue. But Milly supposed thisonly because she knew it was true. Pam herself couldn’t be aware of Milly’sprivate dealings and double life. Curiously like Milly, Pam had her feet firmlyplanted in the legal and illegal worlds. And she had the money to find outanyone’s secrets. Milly hesitated. Should she consider the possibility that hercover was blown?
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Pam’s cell rang. She placed a plug in her ear for privacy. Pam’s end of theconversation went something like this: “There’s nothing wrong with theconstruction schedule…. It’s still early days. Be late tomorrow, Ed, that’s OK. Butcatch up by the weekend….Find a workaround. That’s your job.…Don’t makeenemies on either side.… Because I say so. Give me good news by nineSaturday.” She hung up.

Milly laughed. She used the same attitude with Arthur and her drug distributors.Cajole, a bit of goodwill, responsibility, then tighten the leash. It left no badfeelings. “We talk the same language,” Milly said.

Pam: “There’s probably a business book recommending it.”

Until I want to teach someone a serious lesson, Milly thought. Then the issue iswhere to bury the body. Try to find that in the self-improvement section ofbookstores.
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Pam nodded. “What does Carrie know and why haven’t you called me?”

“Stop striking attitudes.”

They sat in Milly’s living room. Pam watched Milly fuss with a bottle of red wine.Pam’s questions remained unanswered. When a glass stood before each ofthem, Milly said “That’s what I like about you, no smiles, gestures, phatic chat tooil the social machine. And that’s what I don’t like about you. Rituals are all thatseparate us from hyenas. Dialogue taught our ancestors the secrets of fire thatfought the glaciers to a standstill. You call it bluntness. I say it’s politeconversation and without it we’re howling in the dark.”

“Come off the mountain, preacher. Are you manic? If you want a conventionalfantasy, here’s one: loyalty is forever. Or another: love lasts. Had enough?”
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Carrie is a fool, Milly thought, driving home. The more she thought, the moreirritated she became. Irritation transformed itself to self-righteous anger and aheavy foot on the gas pedal. She was driving too fast on slippery pavement.Disapproval of Carrie was no reason to commit suicide. And if she intended to killherself, this was no reason to take innocent others with her. The idea that therewere innocent people in the world made her smile.

She breathed deeply. I am not programmed, I am not a robot, Milly told herself.The lights beside the road, which had begun to fade and blur, reassertedthemselves. She could see lamp posts and billboards again. It was blood rushingto my head, she thought. Carrie expects me to share her wishes and carry themout. It’s better to ignore her presumption, pretend her fantasies don’t exist, decidefor myself what to do. Milly imagined a mannequin, one of the old Parisianmodels, taking an ax to Carrie while she, Milly, sang a love song in a smoky bar.The song relayed a legend of courtship and romance and fidelity, with none ofwhich Milly had great experience.
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Lin sauntered from the Excalibur Hotel and without difficulty found the gamier side of Albany, the combat zone. He’d dyed his hair and eyebrows for the visit.They were a dusty blonde, as though modelling for a shampoo. With his slim Asian facial features and pale complexion, the combination won him lots ofattention.

It took Lin an hour and visits to three clubs. He settled on a crowded upscale lounge with plenty of seating for conversation, dark to conceal detail, decibels for privacy, and a large dance floor for passion. He sat back and before long discovered what he was after.

He found Raylene and Sylvia, out for a good time. Raylene seemed early 20s going on 18, slim, pale with dark orbits about the eyes, overdressed – she’d no doubt say – in camisole and short skirt. Her bare shapely legs stretched to eternity and beyond. Sylvia, in contrast, presented a perfect hourglass figure. Her blonde locks tumbled across eyes green as the ocean. Blonde, yes, but with hints of red, she presented the unlined shining countenance of a waif of 15. She was innocence and tramp yoked together. Handsome men swarmed about them.It was the conversation of the principal competitors that drew Lin.
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While Rao, now Lin, was checking into the Excalibur Hotel in downtown Albany,Milly brought her red Carrera GT to a squealing stop outside the Quall Building.She sat in the car to think. She’d had enough of the quiet, decorous Milly. Moreexactly, the strain of maintaining two subservient lives was eroding her energyand confidence. But did she really want to enter the public eye? The centre ofattention attracted attack. It was a maelstrom of flesh and blood, and vulnerableto betrayal. Nor could she act as whistle-blower if she led a department or gang.As she was, low-lying and deferential, Arthur or Carrie could unwittingly act asher scapegoats. Even the Governor would serve that function, in a pinch sheadmitted, because she was fond of him. It was enough to drive her Porsche anddream. Milly would keep her head down. She’d drift among the shadows. Millymeek and mild was the safe bet.
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Rao began his training in western customs the next day. It was whirlwind and intense. GQ would have loved him. In fact, the magazine was key to his understanding of American culture. How casually Americans treat their possessions. Women reject last year’s fashion. Men toss clothes on the floor and expect them to reappear like magic, cleaned and pressed. People, however, were venerated. Fame appeared the highest goal. People fought for glory, struggled to emerge from the mass and become idolized. There was the cult of the individual: free speech, right to bear arms, one man one vote. And still, beneath the glitter, everyone seemed alike. Tedious, it all was. The unique individual, sanctimoniously worshiped, was a cog in a machine. The human being at the core of civil liberties was no more richly endowed than a computer part, to be replaced when a new model appeared. The subtext of this strange culture seemed to be the elevation of anxiety to an art form. If everyone was interchangeable, then no one had value. People were as unique as flickering shadows, as treasured as a hanged man twisting in the breeze. Everything was bought. Everything was for sale and might disappear in a moment. Rao’s tutor didn’t disagree.
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Nothing happened.

In love and war, Rao said to himself, doing nothing always triumphs in the end. He noticed a chair, obscured in the darkest corner of the room. It faced thick curtains. Rao peered intently, but couldn’t be sure the chair was empty. “You’re right, Rao Guang-Jun. You aren’t alone.” A man rose from the chair and walked toward Rao. “I can’t offer you a seat,” the man seemed apologetic. “We try to encourage brevity.” The man didn’t look directly at him. He’s blind, Rao thought.
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