Dave Zeltserman - Fast Lane

“If I got any lower,” I said, “the two of us could shake hands.”

The next two days were rough ones. I couldn’t just go and tell Mary I’d found her daddy. Coming right after her ultimatum, she was bound to be suspicious. I had to drop a few hints first. Every time she called-and she wasn’t shy about it-I let on that something new had broken.

Even though I knew everything was going to work itself out, I couldn’t help feeling as if I were walking around on eggshells. But I guess it was normal to be anxious. I couldn’t help worrying Bry would screw up, and none of us could afford that.

* * * * *

After my meeting with Bry, I went back to the office and tried getting some work done. After a while I gave up. As I was getting ready to leave, Eddie Braggs called.

“Tell me it’s true,” he said.

“Tell you what’s true?”

“That you were hired by Ekleberg’s lawyer.”

“You heard about that, huh?”

“It is true, then? Damn, that’s good news. You got anything yet?”

“No, not yet, but I should have something for next month’s column.”

“This is good, Johnny, real good. I knew I could count on you for another big story. And don’t worry about this month’s ‘Fast Lane’. It’s already been taken care of.”

“How’s that?”

“You can read it Sunday like everyone else. When are you going to get yourself on the radio and help me sell a few papers?”

I told him it was under control and hung up. Morton must’ve called Braggs. I could tell from his tone that he already knew I had the Ekleberg case, but I guess he wanted to make sure I was going to use it for my column. Knowing that Braggs was on my side again should have helped my state of mind, but it didn’t. For a long moment I thought about Bry and Mary and what was going to happen next. After a few shots of rye, I called the general manager of a local radio station. We talked a little, and arranged an hour spot on one of his talk shows. He wanted me on air that afternoon, but I was feeling too jumpy to agree. We settled for Thursday afternoon and he promised he’d run promos for it.

I tried again to get some work done. I took out my business receipts and tried balancing the books, but I couldn’t concentrate enough to play with the numbers. I put the receipts down and picked up some outstanding case reports. After a while it was like I was staring into thin air.

The phone started ringing. I reached for it, stopped myself, got up and walked out the door.

Outside it was as if the world had been slightly twisted out of its norm. As if folks passing by were, well, were able to look inside me. I knew the problem was I was strung out from worry. I knew they weren’t really staring at me. I knew they weren’t whispering those things about me. But, I’ll tell you, it sure seemed as if they were.

I stopped at a used bookstore. An uncomfortable feeling had been working its way from my stomach to my chest and I needed to give it a chance to pass. As I was thumbing through a stack of paperbacks I found one from an author I liked. On the inside cover, scribbled in pen, was the inscription:

Dear Mark, I hope you enjoy this book-good, late night reading to scare the pants off ya!! Happy Birthday! Lots of love, Tricia

There were a bunch of hearts drawn around the inscription, and, well, I just started laughing. I don’t know why, because it wasn’t funny, at least, not exactly. But it sure was something. All that hope and expectation traded away for half a buck at a used bookstore. As good as that writer was, nothing in any of his stories could have been more tragic.

I took some loose change from my pocket and bought the book.

That night Marge called me. I told her I had a toothache and hung up on her. About an hour later the doorbell rang, and there she was.

“Look,” I growled at her. “I told you-”

“Shuddup,” she snapped, and she slipped under my arm and squeezed past me. In the middle of the room she undid the belt of her overcoat, letting it slip off. As it slid to the floor, I realized that was all she was wearing, unless you wanted to count her cowboy boots.

Her glistening eyes challenged me to say something. Then she stuck her tongue out at me and marched into the bedroom.

When we were finished, she climbed on top of me and asked which tooth was bothering me. I pointed to a corner of my mouth, and she reached down and gave me a hard peck where I pointed.

She beamed. “There. I kissed it and made it better.”

Even though we both knew I didn’t have a toothache it was still a dirty trick. I had to carry on as if I was in agony. I said, “I should put you on my knee and paddle your ass off.”

I wanted to do more than that. As she looked at me, her eyes widened in an exaggerated display of terror. She said, “Oh, you look like you want to kill your poor little Margo.” Then she giggled and moved down a little. “I bet you wouldn’t want to do that if I kissed you over here.” And then she moved down a little more. “Or here.” And after a while she was right.

When she was done, she propped herself up on her elbow and asked for a drink. I brought her the whole bottle. By the time she passed out, it was half empty. I took the bottle with me and went back downstairs. I knew I had no chance of getting her to go home but that didn’t mean I had to stay with her. I settled down on the sofa with the bottle and a glass in front of me. I had too much nervous energy to sleep, and neither the booze nor my tumble with Marge had helped any. I poured myself drinks until the bottle was empty. Then I found another bottle.

* * * * *

The next day started off bad and only got worse. It wasn’t that anything really terrible happened, it was just the way I was feeling.

Marge woke me early that morning and yelled at me for falling asleep downstairs. I was feeling too low to argue with her so I just sat there and took it. After a while she calmed down and tried pouring on the sweet stuff again. That was worse than the bawling out she gave me (as I said, things only got worse). Well, eventually she pulled herself together and headed home, but not without first putting me through the wringer.

Right before she left, she reached over and planted a big kiss on me. “There,” she said, pulling away, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve put my mark on you. You’re mine forever. And lover, you better not forget it.”

After she’d gone, I looked in the mirror and saw that the kiss had left a red blotch of lipstick on my forehead. I washed it off.

Not much else happened that day. Other than the fact my stomach was doing somersaults and my nerves were screaming bloody murder, the only thing worth writing about was that I talked with Mary a few times, hinting to her that I was close to a discovery. After the last call I went out shopping. When I returned home, I brought a couple of bottles of booze to the sofa and waited for the darkness.

Everything seemed to happen on Thursday. I came within a whisker of killing Max Roth. Mary found out about Jerry Bry. I discovered who had been sending those anonymous letters. Mary and I-let me start from the beginning.

* * * * *

When I woke up Thursday, my head felt as if it was going to split in two. For a few moments I didn’t know who or where I was. But for the first time in days, even with the headache, I felt at peace. Slowly, memories started seeping in, though. Before long, I remembered all of it.

I knew I couldn’t continue the way I was going. I couldn’t go on the radio under the weight of all that worry. I called Mary and told her I had good news. We arranged to meet at my office in an hour.