Irwin Shaw - Nightwork

He shook his head gently on the pillow. “Who knows? Instinct? My better judgment blunted by drink? Maybe it was just a little bit of old Lowell, Massachusetts, sticking out.”

“I guess that’s as good an explanation as any,” I said. “While we’re on the subject, the doctor says you have a great big scar on your abdomen and chest. Where did you get that?” “A souvenir of a previous engagement,” he said. “I’d prefer not to talk about it right now, if you don’t mind. Could you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Will you call Lily and ask her if she could possibly come over for a few days? I think old Lily would do me a lot of good.”

“I’ll call her today,” I said.

“That’s a good fellow.” He sighed. “That was a nice evening, last night. All those polite people. You ought to cable Quinn and congratulate him.”

“Evelyn is doing it this morning,” I said.

“Thoughtful woman. She looked beautiful last night.” I started to get up. “Don’t go quite yet,” he said. “I believe there’s a pad and a pen in that drawer. Will you give it to me, please?”

I opened the drawer and gave him the pad and the pen. He wrote slowly and with difficulty. He tore the top sheet off the pad and gave it to me. “There’s no telling what’s going to happen, Douglas,” he said, “so I…” He stopped, as though he was having difficulty choosing his words. “That note you have in your hand is to the private bank in Zurich. I have an account of my own there, as well as our joint one. The number’s on there. And my signature. What I’m trying to tell you is that from time to time I … I. well – siphoned off a not inconsiderable sum. To put it plainly, Douglas, I was cheating you. That note will restore the money to you.”

“Oh, Christ,” I said.

“I warned you in the beginning,” he said, “I was not running as an admirable man.” I patted his head gently. “It’s only money, friend,” I said.

“The ride was worth it.”

There were tears in his eyes. “Only money,” he said. Then he laughed. “I was just thinking – it was a lucky thing I got shot. Otherwise nobody would have believed that it was anything but a publicity stunt to promote Priscilla Dean.”

The nurse came in and looked at me sternly, so I got up to go. “Don’t neglect the shop,” Fabian said as I left the room.

Lily arrived the next afternoon. I met her at Kennedy to drive her out to the hospital. She was handsomely dressed for traveling, in the same brown coat I remembered from Florence. She was composed and quiet as we sped east down the highway. But she smoked cigarette after cigarette. I had to stop at a diner to get her two fresh packs. I had told her that the doctor believed that there was a good chance that Fabian would pull through. She had merely nodded.

“The doctor also said” – I broke the silence as we passed Riverhead – “that Miles has an enormous scar running down his chest and abdomen. He said it looked like shrapnel. Do you know anything about that? I asked Miles, but he said he preferred not to talk about it.”

“I saw it, of course,” Lily said. “The first time we went to bed together. He seemed almost ashamed of it. As though it somehow lessened him. He’s vain about his body, you know. That’s why he’d never go swimming and always wore a shirt and tie. I didn’t press him about it, but after a while he told me. He was a fighter pilot – I suppose he told you that…”

“No,” I said.

She smiled gently through the cigarette smoke. “He’s a great one for selective information to selected people, our Miles. Well, he was a pilot. He must have been a very good one. I found out from older American friends of mine who had known him that he had almost every medal a grateful government could hand out.” Her mouth twisted ironically. “In the winter of nineteen forty-four, he was sent on a mission over France. It was a ridiculous, hopeless mission in impossible weather, he told me. I wouldn’t know anything about that, of course, but on something like that I tend to believe him. He said his wing commander was a stupid, murderous glory hunter. I’m not up on wars, but I have some idea what that means. Anyway, he and his best friend were shot down over the Pas de Calais. His friend was killed. Miles was taken by the Germans. They took care of him – in a nice, German way. That’s where the scar came from. When the hospital he was in was finally overrun, he weighed a hundred pounds. That big man.” She smoked in silence for a while. “That’s when he decided, he told me, that he had done his last deed for humanity. That explains something of the way he lived. Or does it?”

“Something,” I said. “Did you believe that English act?”

“Of course not. We laughed about it, I coached him on Britishisms. You were involved in quite a bit of business with him, weren’t you?”

“A bit,” I said.

“You remember I warned you about him when it came to money?”

“I remember.” “Did he cheat you?”

“A bit.”

She chuckled. “Me, too,” she said. “Dear old Miles. He’s not an honest man, but he’s a joyous one. And he gives joy to others. I’m not the one to say, but maybe one is more important than the other.” She lit a fresh cigarette. “It’s hard to think of his dying.”

“Maybe he won’t die,” I said.

“Maybe.”

We said no more until we reached the hospital. “I think I’d like to see him alone,” Lily said, as we drove up to the door of the handsome red-brick building.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll drop your bags at the hotel. And I’ll be home if you need me.” I kissed her and watched her go into the hospital, in her smart brown coat.

It was dark by the time I got home. There was a car I didn’t recognize standing in front of the house. More reporters, I thought disgustedly, as I walked up the gravel path. Evelyn’s car wasn’t in the garage and I guessed that Anna had let whoever it was into the house. I opened the door with my key. A man was sitting in the living room, reading a newspaper.

He stood up when I came in.

“Mr Grimes…?” “Yes.”

“I took the liberty of coming in and waiting for you here,” he said politely. He was a thin, studious-looking man with sandy hair. He was neatly dressed in a lightweight, dark-gray summer suit with a white shirt and dark tie. He didn’t look like a reporter. “My name is Vance,” he said. “I’m a lawyer. I’m here on behalf of a client. I came for a hundred thousand dollars.”

I went over to the sideboard where the whiskey was and poured myself a drink. “Would you like a Scotch?” I asked the man.

“No, thank you.”

I carried my drink with me and sat down in an easy chair, facing Vance. He remained standing, a neat, small-boned, unmenacing, indoor type of man. “I was wondering when you’d come,” I said.

“It took some time,” he said. His voice was dry, low, and educated. It would bore a listener in a short while. “You were not easy to follow. Fortunately …” He made a little movement with the newspaper. “You’ve made yourself into quite a hero out here.”

“So it seems,” I said. “There’s nothing like a good deed for hilling in a naughty world.”

“Exactly,” he said.

He glanced around at the room. From the nursery came the sound of the baby crying. “A nice place you’ve got here. I admired the view.”

“Yes,” I said. I felt very tired.

“My client has instructed me to tell you that you have three days to deliver the money. He does not want to be unreasonable.”

I nodded. Even that was an effort.

“I will be at the Blackstone Hotel. Unless you prefer the St Augustine.” He smiled, skull-like.