Дональд Уэстлейк - Baby, Would I Lie?

“Oh, it’s done, Binx,” Boy said, and showed his awful rotting teeth. “What I’ll want you to do, gather so much of your team as is not in durance vile—”

“Nobody’s in jail now.”

“Praise heaven for small favors. I’ll want to see them all this afternoon, in my digs at the Palace, at fourteen hundred hours.”

Binx added and subtracted: “Two o’clock, in Two-two-two.”

“Felicitously phrased.” Boy yawned, a dreadful sight, and stretched his diseased soft body. “I take it you’ve breakfasted.”

“Or whatever it was.”

“Such a long drive,” Boy said. “I believe I’ll nappy-doo. Ta ta till two, in Two-two-two.”

“Ta ta,” Binx said, smiling on the outside, gnashing his teeth to slivers on the inside. He stood in the street while Boy clambered into the anonymous gray Galaxy sedan he’d driven all the way from central Florida, then drove off one-handed, ignoring the road to consult his map of Branson. His wobbling departure did not hit any parked cars, but it came close.

Binx remained where he was, like Lot’s wife, until Boy and his gray chariot disappeared. Outside, there appeared to be no change in him, but within, Binx had annealed. A particular fantasy that had always been too terrifying to consider transmuting into the real world had now become marginally less terrifying than reality. Action, daring action, had suddenly become possible.

With a firmness of step and a clarity of eye that would have astounded anyone who knew him, Binx turned and marched back into the house and over to the phone farthest from prying ears. He dialed the Lodge of the Ozarks, folded his shoulder down between his mouth and the rest of the room, and said, “Jack Ingersoll, please.”

It was Sara’s voice that answered, warm and sleepy from bed. “Mmm? Yes?”

Binx’s resolve stumbled. If only I had a Sara, he thought in a regression to the former self, as sexual arousal worked through him like hot-pepper sauce in his blood, then I wouldn’t have to do what I have to do. Voice trembling with more emotions than he understood, he said, “Sara, it’s me. Binx.”

“Oh, Binx, hi.” Rustling sounds in the background. She’s sitting up, the covers falling from her breasts. Binx managed not to moan. “What can I do for you?”

Many answers swirled in his head. He said, “Is Jack there?”

“Sure. You want to talk to him?” Off, she said, “Jack, wake up. It’s Binx.” Muffled mumbling. “He says, ‘What’s it about?’ ”

“I have to talk to him, Sara.”

More muffled conversation, then Sara back. “He has to drive to Springfield this morning, fly back to New York. He says why not call him at Trend ?”

Panic and dread. “ No . Back to New York? I have to see him now . It’s important.”

Mutter, mutter. Sara: “Important to who? Whom?”

“All of us. I’m not kidding.”

Mutter, mutter. Sara: “How about the coffee shop here in twenty minutes? But he can’t stay long.”

“He shouldn’t stay,” the new Binx said, “any longer than he’s interested. When I’m boring him, he should go away.”

Surprised, Sara said, “Why, Binx. What’s gotten into you?”

“It isn’t in, Sara,” Binx told her. “It’s out.”

And he hung up, went to the bedroom, got out the attaché case with his project in it, and carried it with him out of the house, into a Galaxy car, and through the Sunday-morning traffic jams of Branson to the Lodge of the Ozarks, where Jack — without Sara, damn it — lounged over muffins and coffee. From somewhere, he’d obtained a Sunday New York Times , but to show he was still a regular guy, it was the sports section he was reading.

Binx slid into the booth across from Jack and ordered from the nice waitress three glasses of grapefruit juice. Jack raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to do?”

“Increase my acid.”

Jack closed up Sports and gave Binx his attention. “What’s going on, Binx? You’re looking clear-eyed.”

“Boy arrived this morning,” Binx said. “To assist me.”

“Boy? That guano dweller?”

“He’s going to live in the Palace now.”

“I’m sorry, Binx.”

“Two of my people spent Thursday night in the Branson jail.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“They didn’t say it yet, but they’re going to fire me again.”

“Sooner or later,” Jack said, “they fire everybody.”

Binx’s upper lip curled. “I’m not everybody, Jack,” he said. “I’m me . They’re going to fire me .”

“Your problem is,” Jack said, “you take things too personally. Besides, maybe they won’t.”

“You’re going to do us in Trend .”

Jack looked away, shrugged, crumbled a muffin. “Maybe, maybe not. Nobody’s sure yet.”

“If I’m not fired already, I will be then.”

“Well, you know, Binx,” Jack said, “every once in a while in life, there comes this opportunity for a career change.”

“That’s right,” Binx said.

Jack peered at him. “It is?”

Binx said, “The last time I was fired, I had time on my hands, you know.”

“That’s what happens, when you’re fired.”

“I thought I’d do a Galaxy exposé myself,” Binx said.

“I bet you’d do a good one, too,” Jack assured him.

“It’s hard, though,” Binx said, “without something to drive you. The paycheck, the boss, all that.” Sure.

“Still, I did some. I kept it up, too, ever since.”

“Good for you.”

“And the approach I took, I focused on the different editors.”

“That’s one way to do it, I suppose.”

“The things they did, the reasons. I’ve got a lot of it done. I thought maybe you—”

“I do my own pieces, Binx,” Jack said. “And my own research.”

“Still,” Binx said, and opened the attaché case on the bench beside himself. Leafing through the sets of typescript, each set with its own paper clip, he chose one and brought it out. “You might find some of this useful,” he said, and handed that set to Jack, who reluctantly took it. “That one’s you,” Binx said.

Jack frowned. He looked at the top page, scanning, skimming, then began to read more slowly. The waitress brought Binx his three grapefruit juices. He drank the first one down at a gulp, the cold sharpness a pleasure on his tongue, in his mouth, in his throat. “Did I really do all this?” Jack said mildly.

“Afraid so.”

“Some of it’s quite outrageous, isn’t it?”

“Some of it’s felonious.”

“But not very provable, Binx.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Binx said. “I know where the witnesses are, and I know how to get them to talk.”

Jack hefted the thin manuscript. “What do you want to do with this?”

“I thought I’d send it to Trend. ”

“Not interested. Wouldn’t publish it.”

“That’s all right. I’ll make multiple submissions. The New Yorker, Vanity Fair, GQ, New York , the Times .”

Jack disdainfully dropped the manuscript onto the table. “Don’t be stupid. Nobody’s going to want to publish this parochial crap.”

“But they’ll all read it,” Binx said. “They’ll make copies and pass them around the office. There’s great anecdotes in there, Jack. You were quite a scamp.”

Jack was clearly controlling fury, with some difficulty. “What would you get out of it?”

“Everybody gets fired. Jack, isn’t that it? Sooner or later. What happens when you get fired? Time for a career change?”

Jack thought that over, then looked at Binx with something different in his eyes, something Binx didn’t recognize. “Binx,” he said, “you’re a changed man.”