Ed McBain - The Con Man

“Of course, what an idiot I am! Of course, we’ve got to find a place of our own. My apartment is much too small, especially if we plan on a family later on.” He looked at her as if he’d made a faux pas . “I...I remember your letter...the first one. You don’t like children.”

“Oh, I’d love your children,” she said.

He smiled tremulously. “Well, I...I just wasn’t sure. I...” He cocked his head to one side, as if his emotions were too much for him to bear, as if the pressure of his emotions had forced the movement of his head, the way a tidal wave causes a buoy to bob. “In any case, we’ve still got my ten thousand. That should furnish an apartment, all right.”

“And my money,” she added quietly.

“Your what?”

“The money I brought with me,” she said.

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten completely about it.” He smiled indulgently. “What is it, darling, something like five hundred dollars?”

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “You know very well it’s closer to five thousand dollars,” she said.

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not. I’m serious.” She grinned, enjoying his boyish surprise, feeling as if she had given him an unexpected present.

“You took...You carried so much cash with you?”

“Of course not. Don’t you remember, darling? In one of my letters, I told you I would be closing out my bank account, and you suggested I carry it in traveler’s checks.”

“Yes, but I had no idea...five thousand dollars.”

“It’s really about forty-seven hundred,” she said.

“Still...Honey, you’ve got to put that in the bank right away.”

“Why?”

“So that it can start collecting interest. For God’s sake, why do you need forty-seven hundred dollars in traveler’s checks?”

“You’re right,” she said.

“Tomorrow, early in the morning,” he said, “before the wedding, we’ll open an account for you at my bank.”

“A separate account, do you mean?” she asked.

“Naturally. It’s your money, isn’t it?”

“A little while ago, you said...you said when we were married everything you had was mine.”

“Of course it is. You know that, darling. I meant every word I said.”

“Then aren’t you being a bit unfair?” she asked.

“Unfair? How?” He seemed very troubled. “What have I done, Pris? Have I said something wrong?”

“You said separate account.”

“I don’t understand.”

She leaned across the table, and her eyes held his in a steady gaze. “Tomorrow,” she said, “we’ll be married. I’ll go wherever you want to go and do whatever you want to do. I’ll be yours — forever. And that means completely. No games, no kidding. Forever. I’ve waited a long time for you, darling, and I expect this to be for keeps. Tomorrow morning, we'll go to your bank. I’ll endorse the traveler’s checks and deposit the forty-seven hundred dollars in your account.”

He was already shaking his head.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

“I can’t allow you to do that,” he told her. “I’m sorry, Pris. I want you, not a dowry.”

“But it isn’t a dowry,” she said. “It’s simply a stake in our future together. Don’t you think I have a right to invest in our future?”

“Well—”

“You mustn’t be stubborn about this, darling, really. It’s the least I can bring to you. Besides, I’ll feel as if all those lonely years of working and saving haven’t gone for nothing. They’ll have been worthwhile; they’ll have been building for you...and for me.”

“Well talk about it in the morning,” he said.

“It’s settled, as far as I’m concerned. That’s the first thing we’ll do, before we do anything else.”

He seemed very worried about something.

She squeezed his hand and said, “What is it, darling?”

“I feel like a positive...I don’t know...a...a moneylender or something!” he said vehemently.

“How silly you are,” she said gently.

“To go into a bank with you and stand by while you endorse those checks and then deposit them in my account.” He shook his head. “I’d feel like a...like a gigolo! No, I won’t do it, Pris.”

“Would it embarrass you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll cash them at the hotel, then.”

“I don’t want you to cash them at all,” he said. “But I suppose I’d feel a lot easier if you cashed them there.”

“All right, I’ll have them cashed at the hotel. I’ll have the money in good American currency when you come to call for me. To take me to my wedding.”

He grinned. “I suppose I am being foolish. All right, cash them at the hotel. Then we’ll go to the bank, deposit the money, and away we go. To our wedding.”

“There’s a waiting period in this state, isn’t there?” she asked.

“Yes. We’ll drive out of the state. Look, let’s do it right. I’ll call for you at about ten. You’ll have the checks cashed by then?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll go to the bank and deposit them in my account, if that’s what you want, and then we’ll make a day of it. We’ll have lunch downtown someplace — I know some very nice places — and then we’ll drive out of the state. We’ll just take our honeymoon as it comes, shall we? We’ll stop wherever we feel like stopping.”

“It sounds wonderful,” she said.

“Good. Let’s have another drink to it, shall we?”

He snapped his fingers for the waiter, and while they waited for him to come to their table, she leaned over and whispered the three most expensive words in the English language.

“I love you.”

And he looked at her with tender guile and answered with the three cheapest words in the English language.

“I love you.”

There was, in Teddy Carella, the constant fear that she didn’t do enough for her husband.

Perhaps it was because she lacked the power of speech. She could not whisper the expensive words or the cheap words or any words. She could only show him how much she loved him, could only invent for him a thousand and one ways to show that she was his. She felt, you see, that she would eventually bore him. She felt that he would eventually seek a woman who could tell him the things his ears undoubtedly longed to hear — and she couldn’t have been more wrong. Her face told him all he had to know.

Her devotion to invention, however, made her an excellent wife, a wife full of surprises, a wife who constantly delighted Carella and diverted Carella and made his life a day-by-day birthday party. In all truth, Teddy Carella would have been that kind of a wife even if she could speak. She was simply that kind of a person. Her ancestry was part Irish and part Scotch, but there was something of the Oriental philosophy in her attitude toward her husband. She wanted to please him. If he were pleased, she in turn would be pleased. She didn’t have to read a book to know that love was a many-splendored thing.

And since her attitude was definitely Oriental, it was not surprising that her mind often returned to the jovial Charlie Chen and to the cherished butterfly design that adorned the wall of his shop.

What would Steve’s reactions be if he came to her one night, found her in a flimsy nightgown, and upon lowering one of the delicate straps to kiss her shoulder, discovered there a lacy, black butterfly?

The prospect delighted her imagination.

The more she thought of it, the better the idea seemed. She was sure that Steve would be pleased. And, too, she was sure that Charlie Chen would be pleased. And, without a doubt, she herself would be pleased. There was something terribly risky and ridiculous about having a butterfly tattoo put on your shoulder. The idea was exciting. Even thinking about it, she could hardly contain her excitement.