Andrew Klavan - True Crime

Unfortunately, in my case, it was total bullshit. It never happened. Alan just made it up because he knew it would gall Bob to think of me like that, like some kind of movie hero. He knew it would make Bob squirm.

Bob squirmed, standing there before the desk, his round, pink face a blank. Smart as he was, articulate as he was, he did love the movies, and that heroic image of me hit him hard, ate at him, left him speechless. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki slacks. Alan really could be a bastard sometimes.

“All right,” Bob said after a while-and Alan nearly cracked up watching him choke on it. “All right. Whatever you want. I’ll try and reach Everett at home.”

As it happened, however, I wasn’t at home. As it happened, I was at Bob’s home. I was in Bob’s bed, in fact. I was smoking a cigarette and considering his wife’s naked backside.

Her name was Patricia. She had a nice backside too. Round and pink. Same as Bob’s face, come to think of it. Just now, I was noticing a long oval bruise at the base of its right globe. I guess I had put it there when I slapped her. I felt bad about it now. I hadn’t slapped her in anger, after all. She’d wanted me to do it. She liked it when I swatted her and pulled on her hair while we were having sex. It wasn’t my sort of thing, to be honest, but it was exciting enough and it made a change from the wife. That bruise, though. I guess I’d just gotten carried away, and now I felt bad.

She rolled over. My breath stuck. After only six weeks with her, the sight of her body still did that to me. Sturdy and long and tinted rose, with flaring hips and big breasts that spilled wide when she was on her back. Cool as a statue, as her face was statue-cool: framed in auburn hair, chiseled, distant, inquiring, a little mocking too. An all-around cool customer Patricia was.

She blinked sleepily across the bed at me. “Do you really like it?” she asked.

“Your body?” I said. “Yeah, I’d give it a nine-seven, sure.”

She smiled and brushed her hair back with her hand. “Sorry. I guess I fell asleep for a minute. Is it late?”

“No. It was just a minute. We’re still all right.”

She stretched, and let her hand come down softly on my chest. She let her fingers trail over the black hair to the spade-shaped patch of raw tissue just under the sternum. She played with it.

“What is this anyway?” she murmured.

“I don’t know. I’ve always had it.”

“It’s some kind of scar. Something must’ve happened to you.”

“I guess.”

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you?”

“No. My adopted parents-they didn’t know. It was there before I came to them.” I watched her fingers, the port-red polish on her nails. “It’s always been there.”

She withdrew, and stretched again, both arms sweeping up gracefully until her clasped hands touched the headboard behind her. She yawned. “I meant the newspaper.”

“What?”

“When I asked if you really liked it? We were talking about the newspaper before I fell asleep. Weren’t we?”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess we were.”

Her arms came down. “I mean, do you? Do you really like working there?” She rolled toward me, propping her head on one hand. “The whole thing just seems so-repetitive to me somehow. After a while, I mean. It’s just the same stories over and over, isn’t it? How many times can a train wreck or a murder or an election or something be interesting?”

It was about Bob really, see. When she was with me, it was always really about Bob.

I lay there awhile without answering. I watched the wavering smoke of my cigarette rise toward the ceiling. The loud rhythms of cicadas in the heavy-laden trees outside drifted in to me through the open window. So did the warmth of July and the smell of the maples and the sycamores. Patricia, naked, next to me, the shadowy bedroom with our clothes thrown around it, the whole scene, softened and blurred without my glasses on: it made me hanker for something, I don’t know what. It was a sweet nostalgic feeling, sad and good. I didn’t want to talk about Bob.

“I have a bachelor’s degree in English literature,” I said finally. “I’m not qualified to do anything else.”

She laughed, not really a laugh, a sort of “Hmmm,” always cool. “Bob takes it all so seriously,” she said.

“Well. Bob is a pretty serious guy.”

I saw her lips arch mischievously. “Do you know what he says about you?”

“Yeah. More or less.”

“He says you’re just in it for some kind of sick thrill. He says you get some kind of ugly … kick out of watching people suffer: murder trials and fires and scandals and things. He says even if you see some woman screaming while her children die in a burning building, it just turns you on. It’s just a story to you.”

“Me and the readers both,” I said. “That’s what sells those papers.”

“He says you don’t care about the human suffering involved. You don’t care about the real issues.”

I smiled into the shadows. “Issues,” I said.

“He complains about you a lot, you know. He doesn’t like you. He says Alan Mann just hired you because you were his friend.”

My smile faded away. So did my nostalgic hankering. That was about all the Bob I could take for now. I turned over, reached over slowly and cupped my hand on his wife’s breast. I felt the calming movement of the liquid flesh again. “Maybe we oughta wash out the ashtray,” I told her softly. “Air out the room too, or he’ll smell the smoke when he comes home.”

She lifted her chin haughtily. “Oh ho. What’s all this?”

“Nothing. You gotta get to work. I gotta get home. To my wife and kid.”

“You’re not going to tell me how awful we’re being, are you?”

“I don’t know. I might. Bob is a decent guy, Patricia.”

“Oh, please, Ev! Don’t. I know he’s a decent guy. Why do you think I married him?”

I drew my hand down from her breast, circled it over her belly. “He’s a good newspaperman too,” I said. “He’s gonna be a big deal someday. We just see things differently, that’s all.”

She frowned. Her lips trembled as if she were about to burst into tears. But she didn’t. I think she just thought she was supposed to.

“All right,” she said. “So this all just stinks, right? What we’re doing.”

I smiled dreamily, mesmerized by the downward spiral of my hand. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “We’re just two simple people swept away in a whirlwind of passion.”

Patricia went Hmmm again.

“Something like that,” I said.

She took my hand, stopped it as it touched the first curlicues of red hair. She met my eyes. “Look. It’s all right. It’s not like I love you or anything.”

I smiled. “Thanks. I don’t love you too.”

She kept my hand, held it in both of hers. She toyed with the fingers thoughtfully and I saw all her attempts to be conscience-stricken pass away. That mocking, wicked look came back over her, the corners of her mouth uplifting. “Why did you leave New York anyway?”

“Christ,” I said. I laughed. Bob again. I dropped, sighing, onto my back. I resigned myself to the game.

“Really,” Patricia said. “Why did you? Bob’s always wondering.”

“Oh, well, if Bob is wondering …”

“He heard you were fired off your paper. He says no one else in the whole city would hire you.”

“I was. No one would.”

“So how come?”

“All right. You’re not gonna tell him though?”

She giggled, nibbling on my fingertips. “No. How could I?” Then she rolled into me. And I could feel her cheek against my chest and her breasts against me. I could smell her hair and I wished … I don’t know what I wished. I wished something. “So tell,” she said.