William McGivern - Very Cold for May

Jake saw with relief that May was coming toward him, but sighed as she was intercepted by Mike Francesca.

Mike Francesca was a small, thickly built man with curly gray hair and mild, twinkling blue eyes. His skin was deeply tanned and wrinkled, and when he smiled his face wreathed into a surprising criss-cross of lines and creases. He smiled a lot, and was unfailingly gentle and amiable in manner, even when forced by the demands of his profession to drop a cement-coated competitor into the Chicago River.

“We have not seen each other in much too long a time,” Mike was saying.

“Well, whose fault is that?” May said.

Rengale was still pouring out his troubles, but Jake could hear the conversation between May and Mike Francesca quite clearly.

“Ah, my fault,” Mike said, with an apologetic little bob of his head. “Today I lead a quiet, simple life out on my farm. I grow vegetables like my father did in Sicily, and my back has an ache in it that is very good. I dig in the ground, and drink a little wine, and go to bed early. It is very nice.”

“My God, you sound like a bad story in the Saroyan manner,” May said. “All this digging in the good clean earth, and drinking the clear red vino, and everything being so damn good. Really, Mike, it’s ghastly.”

Mike smiled without understanding. “I think you are not being very nice to an old man,” he said.

“I’m a bitch, Mike. But I’m going to square myself with you when I write my book.”

Mike continued to smile, but the warm, mobile good humor in his blunt brown features had disappeared. “Ah, I heard of this book, May. You will write about me, eh?”

“Mike, you’re my star character. Everybody is dying to get the inside story on you.”

“We had fun in the old days, eh, May? We talked a lot together, and no secrets between us, eh? Plenty of wine, plenty of talk. Maybe a little too much of both, I think.”

“Are you trying in your tactful fashion to tell me something?” May said, laughing.

“Only this, because we are friends. Write your book, but don’t hurt your old friends.” Mike smiled gently. “I am an old man now, May. I want to live on my farm and enjoy everything in peace.”

“You make it sound fetching.”

Mike put a broad, leather-skinned hand on May’s bare shoulder, and shook her slightly. “I am not one to go around saying woof! woof! to people. But I must ask you, please, to forget some of our talk, eh?”

“Okay, I’ll forget some of it,” May grinned. “But not all of it, Mike. Now you’ll have to excuse me.”

Turning quickly from him she waved at Jake. “Come on, I’m ready, lover.”

Jake excused himself from Rengale and joined May. He nodded to Mike, whom he’d known for many years, and followed May through the archway and up the stairs to the second floor.

Reaching the landing Jake looked back down and saw Mike Francesca getting slowly into his coat in the foyer. The old man was alone and there was a distressed, thoughtful expression on his face. Jake was thinking as he followed May into her bedroom that he would not like to be the cause of that particular expression on Mike Francesca’s face.

May settled herself comfortably on a chaise longue covered with pink brocade and crossed her slim legs at the ankles.

“Drink?” she said, nodding at a bottle-laden table beside the longue.

Jake sat down on a dainty three-legged chair and built two drinks. May sipped hers approvingly, and said, “Don’t you like the Walden simplicity I’ve created up here?”

Glancing around, Jake grinned. The high-ceilinged bedroom faced east, but thick pink drapes were pulled together now shutting off the view of the park and the lake. White fur rugs were scattered about the polished floor, and the immense four-poster bed, covered with fat pink pillows, stood imposingly in the middle of the room. The light was soft, and there was a fireplace and bookshelves. May’s dressing table was impressive as a tribal altar, with its flesh-toned mirrors, and the banks of crystal jars that contained hand lotions, cold creams, powders and colognes.

“You need a couple of blackamoors with ostrich fans,” Jake said. “Outside of that you didn’t miss a trick.”

“It’s cozy,” May smiled.

“The very word for it.” Jake lit a cigarette. “I managed to eavesdrop on your conversation with Francesca. Sounded grim. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing at all,” May said. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

“I hear you’re writing a book.”

“Ah, fame,” May said, and smiled at the ceiling.

“My interest, as usual, is completely selfish. Dan Riordan has hired us to handle his press relations. He’s worried about your book.”

“He’s got no reason to worry. Unless his heart isn’t pure.”

“He’s got reason to worry then, I suppose.”

“Jake, Riordan is somewhat of a bastard. I’m a little surprised that you’re mixed up with him.”

Jake smiled. “You’re out of character. Let’s go back a bit. Do you have anything on Riordan?”

“Assuming I have. What then?”

“Are you going to use it?”

“I will if it adds to the story.”

“The book is no gag, then? You’re going ahead with it?”

“Nothing will stop me from writing this book,” May said quietly.

Jake shook his head. “I don’t get it, frankly. You’re going out of your way to stick your chin out. I yield to no one in my admiration for good, clean fun, but irritating men like Mike Francesca and Dan Riordan comes under another heading. Why are you doing it?”

“The usual, shoddy reasons,” May said coolly. “Money, prestige, and so forth. You’re being a bore, Jake.”

“Okay. Tell me something about the book then.”

May smiled dreamily. “Jake, it’s going to be a classic. It will be autobiography in the grand French manner.” She widened her eyes innocently, and said, “That’s why I can’t be too concerned with the personal feelings of the people involved, even if one of them happens to be your client.”

Jake grinned at her. “Don’t give me that ‘grand French tradition’ business. I knew you when you thought Hemingway played third for the Cubs.”

May laughed good-naturedly. “You’re the one person I can’t impress.”

“Where and how did you get the information on people like Riordan?”

May sat up, and lifted a foot-square, black lacquered box from the coffee table. She opened it and removed a thick, leather-bound book. “Here’s where the bodies are buried.”

“Well, well. The good, old-fashioned diary with all the shoddy dope. I haven’t seen one since I stopped covering murders. They’re awfully old hat now.”

“Oh, this one just covers the war years. I’ve gone modem since then. Anyway, I have all the little tidbits I need right here.”

“Well, good luck,” Jake sighed. He saw no point in talking with her now. Perhaps later he could point out to her that she was making a mistake, at least, he thought cynically, so far as Riordan was concerned.

May put the diary away and went downstairs where she was reclaimed by the jockey, who led her aggressively to the bar.

Jake stood by himself, smoking a cigarette, and gradually he began to sense a curious feeling in the air. He saw that most of the men, and several of the women, had turned when May entered the room, and were watching her now as she walked to the bar with the jockey.

They made a comical picture. The jockey was two inches shorter than May, but his body was like something made of leather and wire. May’s Alice-in-Wonderland hair, and her absurdly simple clothes, made her look like a cheerful, innocent child walking with the toughest boy in the neighborhood.

For some reason no one seemed amused by May at the moment, and in the strange silence that followed her entrance, Jake noticed definite tension in the room.