Lawrence Block - Enough Rope

She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, first asking him to order another round of drinks. When she returned they were already on the table. “Scotch and water,” he said. “I decided to switch to something less toxic and I thought you might be inclined to keep me company.”

“Meaning don’t let the lady get smashed. For which I’ll surely thank you later. This is a nice place, although I don’t see how they can afford to stay open. How come you never brought me here?”

“I only bring married ladies here.”

“Is that the truth? It’s a good answer, anyway. David, I think I need an affair. But I hate keeping secrets from him. I know I’d have the urge to tell him.”

“Well, then, let me just tell you something.” He leaned forward. “Every time you get that urge, you just step on it full force. You squelch it. If you absolutely can’t help yourself, write it out on a sheet of paper and burn it and flush the ashes down the toilet. Because all you can accomplish by telling him is to create purposeless headaches for two people and possibly three. Or four, if the guy you pick is married. And he should be.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because, my dear, cheating is safer when there are two of you doing it. You’ve both got the same thing to lose. And it’s more comfortable, it puts you both on common ground.” He laughed shortly. “In other words, when you want to have an affair go pick out a married man, and there’s something Dear Abby’ll never tell you.”

“Wherever would I find one?”

“Oh, that wouldn’t be a problem. Married men are looking for it a lot more earnestly than single ones. With your looks you wouldn’t have any trouble.” Lightly he said, “You could always pick an old flame. For nostalgia, if nothing else.”

“You’re a very sweet man, David.”

There was an awkward moment which they both attempted to cover by reaching for their drinks. Then she said, “He’s not married.”

“Who’s not?”

“The man I’m sleeping with.”

“Oh. Then this should-I-or-shouldn’t-I wasn’t as hypothetical as it sounded.”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t going to tell you but it doesn’t make much sense not to. It’s been going on for a little over a month. He’s eight years younger than I am, he’s not married, and the two of us have nothing whatsoever in common. His only strong point is that he makes me feel excited and exciting.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I don’t love him. I’m in bed next to him afterward and look at him and wish it was Bert next to me.”

“Where did you find him? I’m assuming it’s no one I know.”

“It’s not. I met him at Berlitz. He’s my instructor.”

“Berlitz? Oh, you’re taking Spanish or something. I think Marjorie mentioned it.”

“German. He was born in Germany and he looks like the really vicious blond captain in all the war movies. And I’m the girl who wouldn’t buy a Volkswagen. Oh, hell. For the past month I haven’t been able to figure out whether I’m wildly happy or wildly miserable. I don’t know why I dragged you here, David, but I guess I just had to talk to someone. And you were elected.”

They continued talking through another round of drinks. Then he put her in a cab, returned to the bar for one last drink, and took a cab of his own to Grand Central and caught the 4:17. “It was one of those endless lunches,” he told Marjorie, “and I don’t think it accomplished a thing. I behaved like a Dale Carnegie dropout.”

He called his agent, catching her just before she left the office. He said, “Mary, I think we can forget all about Mr. Simon and Mr. Schuster.” He gave her a brief version of the lunch, omitting mention of the reasons for his inattentiveness.

“Well, I always knew you were a bad judge of your own work, Dave. I thought it just applied to fiction, but evidently it’s the same in other areas. Penny Tobias thinks you’re sensational.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She called me around one-thirty. She said now she knows why your books are so perceptive, you’re the most sensitive person she ever met and she really hopes we can work something out because she personally would be so proud to publish you.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I’m going to dine out on this story, Dave.”

“Change one thing when you do, huh? Penny called you at four -thirty, right after she got back from lunch.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mary Fradin. “Davey was a bad boy.”

Something was botheringhim, and it was several days before he managed to figure out what it was. Then he waited until Marjorie was out of the house and dialed the Kilberg apartment. When Ellie answered he said, “This is David, but if you’re not alone I’ll be a wrong number.”

“I’m alone. What is it?”

“Well, a couple of things. First of all, it’s occurred to me that you might be having second thoughts about telling me as much as you did, and I hope you won’t. Nothing we talked about will ever go any further.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“The other thing is silly but I’m going to mention it anyway because it’s been bothering me. It occurs to me that this kraut might get to be a problem. This is probably not going to happen, and you can chalk it up to an overactive imagination, but just promise me one thing. If it looks as though he’s going to cause you any trouble at all I want you to call me. Don’t go to Bert and don’t try to handle things yourself. Just call me.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Any kind.”

“You’re very sweet, but nothing like that is going to happen.”

“I know it isn’t. Now say you promise.”

“It’s silly. All right. I promise.”

During the nexttwo months David Barr saw Bert Kilberg twice on business matters and spoke to him perhaps a half dozen times over the telephone. He had wondered how this new knowledge of his friend would affect their relationship, and he was pleased to discover that it made no difference.

One Saturday evening he and Marjorie drove into New York to have dinner and see a show with Bert and Ellie. The secret he and Ellie shared did not seem to have changed the dynamics of the relationship among the four of them. He felt somewhat closer to Ellie for it, but he didn’t think any of that showed on the surface.

Bert did not know that he and Ellie had been lovers years before she married Bert. It was possible that Marjorie had inferred as much, but if so she had kept her thoughts to herself.

Then one afternoon the telephone rang while he was working in his study. A little later Marjorie told him it had been Ellie. “I’m supposed to give you her fondest regards,” she said. “She said it twice, as a matter of fact, so I suppose she really means it. It’s funny.”

“What is?”

“She called for my Stroganoff recipe, and I’m positive I gave it to her when they were here in December.”

Within the hour he invented a pretext to drive into town. He called her from the drugstore.

He said, “Was that a signal? Or have I been reading too many spy novels?”

“I’m just keeping a promise.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. How bad is it?”

“Oh, it’s pretty bad, David. I guess my judgment leaves something to be desired. From now on I’ll ask you to pick my lovers for me.”

“There’s a title that goes with the duty and I’m not crazy about it. But tell me what he’s pulled.”

“Well, he’s a bastard. He got very possessive for a starter. A lot of romantic nonsense, and I swear I did nothing to encourage it. He wanted me to leave Bert and run off with him. The fool. As if I would.”

“And?”

“And then he turned on me. He started calling me at home, which I’d told him several times he was absolutely never to do. Then he, uh, began asking for small loans. Ten dollars, twenty dollars. Then he said he needed five hundred dollars, and of course I told him no, and I also told him I didn’t think we should see each other anymore.”