Джон Макдональд - All These Condemned

I went into the small bathroom off my office and turned on the fluorescent lights on either side of the mirror. It is not a kind light. If I squinted a little, blurring my image, I was still Steve Winsan, that fabricated product, that All-American tailback type, bluff and hearty and confident as all getout. The man to see. But with my eyes wide open, my face under the naked lights looked like the face of a tired character actor. That was it, maybe. I’d been playing the part of Steve Winsan so damn long it was going stale on me. I was sick of Steve Winsan and of a world full of things that didn’t work quite right any more because they weren’t making good products any more. They were fudging. Filling the armpit salve with air bubbles. Making nail polish guaranteed to flake off in twenty-four hours. Publishing books guaranteed to stand only two readings before the pages started to fall out. Putting fenders on cars you could dent with the heel of your hand. Make them stand still for the upkeep. Put crumby steel in their razors, weak thread on their buttons, waterbase paint on their walls. Keep them coming back. Hooray for enterprise. Hooray for Stephan Winsan Associates, which vends a product nobody ever heard of thirty years ago, and practically anybody can do without right now. There was nothing wrong with me that a double orchidectomy couldn’t cure.

So I went home and changed clothes and went out on the town and I was gay as hell and got home earlier than usual and quite alone and set the alarm, and by eleven o’clock I was being a Fancy Dan in the parkway traffic, tooling the MG in and out of the lanes and wondering why the hell I owned a car when I used it not more than three times a month and why I had three suits ordered and why I’d given Dotty a raise, and why Jennifer couldn’t fall off one of those New Mexican cliffs, and what the hell I was going to say to Wilma that would make her pat me on the head and call me back into the fold. And I wished that I had never clambered into that nine-foot bed of hers, because all it had done was use up a weapon that might have come in handy this week end. Wilma is the sort you do not gain ascendancy over by pouncing on. Her only involvement, ept though it may be, is physical. All you lose is your dignity, and all you gain is the responsibility of coming on the run should she crook her finger again. Much the same loss that Dotty had suffered with me.

I ate a late lunch on the road, a heavy lunch to put a good base under the drinks that would be flowing. I arrived a bit early and thought I might be the first. But the Hesses’ car was there, between Wilma’s and the station wagon. Just as I got out of my car, Judy Jonah came boiling down the drive in that Jag of hers. She swung in beside me.

She got out of the car and put her fists on her hips and stared at the house. “Wow!” she said.

“First time you’ve seen it?”

“Uh-huh. Looks edible, doesn’t it? How are you doing, Steve?”

“Medium. Did Willy say anything to you yet about that Millison thing?”

“It sounds great,” she said with a look of disgust. “He’ll have something real gay lined up. Like catching a custard pie in the puss. Something subtle like that.”

“A thousand-dollar pie, my lamb.”

“Not by the time I get it, it isn’t.”

“He’s a replacement. They’ve got the hell budgeted out of him. That’s all he can do.”

José carne out to get our luggage. For once he seemed almost mildly glad to see me.

“Don’t think I’m not grateful, Steve. Willy told me that you found out about it and sicked him onto it.” She smiled at me but there was a little bit of frost behind it. We used to get along a lot better. And then I made a mistake. One of those things. It wasn’t even very important to me. All she had to do was say no. But she said no and, at the same time, gave me a wicked smack across the mouth. It cut my lip and I came within a tenth of a second of really hanging one on her, I was so mad. She told me she would stay on as a client merely because she thought I knew my business, but my professional services were the only ones she required, or would ever require. Hence the little suggestion of coolness.

“Where is Willy, by the way? Come on, we go around this way.”

“Absent by request. Wilma says this is social.”

“Wilma says.”

She gave me an oblique look, a quick flash of those expressive blue eyes. “I should have at least brought a writer, I guess.”

“I’ll feed you some lines.”

“Brother, this is really a place.”

Wilma and the Hesses and Gilman Hayes were on the big terrace just outside the lounge. Hayes was dressed for the water, standing, talking to them, and I wondered why he didn’t have spangles on his trunks. He said hello to Judy in a bored way and gave me the shallowest possible nod. Wilma did her normal amount of gushing. Randy gave me a nervous cold hand and Noel smiled. Judy was in a rush to get her suit on while there was still sunshine. I was in a rush to get Randy off in a corner somehow, but I couldn’t be obvious about it. Wilma said she’d given me the same room as last time. I told José what I wanted as soon as he came out to the terrace bar again. Hayes went down the steps and out onto the big dock. I hate the big arrogant muscular son-of-a-bitch. I made him and I hate him. I would like to unmake him. Do a reverse PR job on him. But he’s Wilma’s playmate, and if I want to cut my throat I can borrow a straight razor someplace.

Judy came hurrying out in her yalla swimsuit and went running down and out the left-hand side of the dock and off in a flat dive. The next time I looked down they were both spread out in the late sun. I didn’t get my chance to cut Randy out of the herd until after the Dockertys arrived and Wilma took them in to show them their room.

“Let’s take us a walk, kid,” I said to Randy.

He looked uneasy, “Sure, Steve. Sure.”

We went around the wing of the house and out to the tables near that croquet layout. We sat down there and I rapped a cigarette on the tin tabletop and lighted it. “Wilma gave me some yak over the phone Wednesday, Randy. Something about saving money.”

“My God, she has to, Steve. She had to borrow to pay taxes. This thing put her in the hole when she built it, and she’s never got well since she built it. I’ve been after her and after her. Now, for the first time, she’s beginning to listen.”

“I’d hate to think for even one minute, Randy, that you’d want to do any cuts in my direction.”

“Now, don’t try to get hard with me, Steve.”

“Look, you call yourself her business manager. You’re more of a personal secretary, aren’t you?”

“I manage all her affairs.”

“It looks to me more like she does the managing. Now, how about that profile thing? Happen to remember that?”

“I certainly do. You did a good job there, Steve.”

I knew I’d done a good job. I’d happened to have a friend on a magazine. He let me get a look at a piece they were considering. It was an article on Wilma Ferris. A girl had done it. It was good work. She was a couple of years out of Columbia, free-lancing. It was one of those snide jobs. The magazine wanted a fairly extensive rewrite on it, but the top editorial brains were excited about it. And well they should have been. Nothing libelous, but very, very tongue in cheek. And it would have done quite a job of blowing the Wilma Ferris myth sky high, the mythology I had created. My friend wasn’t placed high enough to clobber it. It was one very hot item indeed. The girl had all the dope. And our Wilma, on her way up the cosmetic ladder, had been one very rough girl.

I had to move on it. I went to a friend on another magazine. I did him a favor once. I had something coming. And he was placed high enough. He gave the freelancer a staff job. She withdrew the article from the first magazine. He lined up a tame seal to do the rewrite, and between us we took all the sting out of it and stuck in some of the usual glop. The deal was that he would fire the girl after the article was published. But as it turned out, she began to work out pretty well on the staff, so they kept her. So nobody was hurt.