Richard Greener - The Lacey confession

“Okay,” said Walter. “I’ll take…”

“Hey, you guys, what about Marilyn Monroe? Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller?”

“Who’s he, Helen?” said Billy. “Arthur who?”

“Playwright, Billy,” Tucker said, reaching over and taking a sip of Walter’s drink. “The Misfits. We’ve all got a bit of misfit in us, don’t we?”

Billy mumbled something none of them could understand and then Walter spoke up again. “Okay, I’m taking Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart. What the hell was she doing with him? You ever look closely at Bogart? Acne.”

“Great,” said Billy. Quickly, he moved toward the blank chalkboard. He seemed in a hurry to get this done. “You got Bergman amp; Bogart, and I got Sonny amp; Cher.” And that’s just how he wrote it.

“Ike and Tina?” offered a giggling Tucker.

“That’s not so funny,” Helen said. “That woman had a devil of a time, and came out on top too, God bless her.”

“We need one more. We do, don’t we?” Billy spoke tentatively, again looking around for help. Arched eyebrows and arms outstretched, he looked to Tucker Poesy.

“No, no,” she said. Then she locked one arm around Walter’s, patted him on the shoulder and gently snuggled against him. “I’m with him,” she laughed.

“You are?” he asked, quite understandably amazed.

“Just kidding,” Tucker whispered. “I haven’t made up my mind. I might fuck you. I might kill you. I might do both. By the way, Walter, where’s the Lacey Confession?”

“Is that what you want? I could tell you that,” he whispered back, smiling all the while. He kissed her on her cheek. “But I’d have to kill you then, wouldn’t I?”

“Helen?” said Billy. “You got one? Or should we just go with two from now on?”

“Hold your horses, Billy boy,” Helen said. “We’re not finished yet.”