David Martin - Loaned wife

He found Gilson in the lobby of his hotel, big as nil Texas and twice as Texan. As soon as Gilson took his hand in one big paw, pumping it and drawling away, Tom found himself annoyed by the man's appearance and mannerisms. Gilson wore cowboy boots, a ten-gallon hat, a flashy suit and was barely understandable when he spoke. Tom was bothered by the way Gilson made himself a caricature of Texans. Tom had known and worked with a lot of Texans, including quite a number from Dallas. But none of them ever behaved like a cowboy, and, none of them acted like a comedian imitating a Texan.

They ate in a small restaurant on Fifty-Sixth, a place that was up a flight of ornate, wrought hut steps and had only nine tables.

It was usually a great place to talk business. But not with a man whose vocal volume seemed intended to override the thundering hoofbeats of a herd of longhorns.

Tom was easily able to tell that Gilson wasn't nearly as crude and unrefined as he tried to be. When he chose his selections from the menu, his pronunciation of the French words was impeccable, and never did he ask for the contents of any of the dishes.

Tom selected one of the pastries from the cart brought to their table and at last opened the discussion of business.

He was a skilled and experienced salesman and realized that without his years of experience on the road dealing with sharp-witted New Englanders and frugal owners of back-road stations in the forests of Washington, he wouldn't have had a chance. Gilson had a terrific way of weaving and bobbing around commitments. But Tom wore him down with persistence, unwaveringly boring in on the basic terms that his company was offering until Gilson finally leaned back in his chair, holding up both hands as if surrendering to the marshall and said, "Tom, boy, let's hold off here a bit. Let me think over what you've been saying to me, sort of mull it over like a cow with a good cud, and see how good it tastes after a night's sleep. You know, I never offered a thing in my stations except gas. This tire business is sort of a test for us – if it works out right, we'll be bringing in a complete service department. That means – well, hell, Tom, boy, you know what all goes into that."

"I sure do," Tom said calmly. But his mind was running amuck. If he could bring in the tire account and then reel in the entire service department contract trough it, it could be his ticket to the top.

"And naturally, I plan to see how well things go with the tires first, and if they do alright, well, Tom, that's one hell of a step in the right direction for the service line."

"You're a businessman," Tom said easily. "You know how these things work and the fact that you're on top shows it."

Gilson laughed loudly. Very loudly, drawing reproving glances from all about the little restaurant. "Well, Tom, boy, what do you say you and me get a move on and have ourselves a little fun and relaxation. Any ideas where I can find that poker game?"

The game was in a comfortable townhouse on Riverside Drive. Tom had played there a few times before, but usually stayed away, from it. For one thing, the stakes had a habit of going out of sight in a hurry. For another, the players there were usually too sharp for him.

But he was, at least, well enough known there and among the regular players to be able to gain admittance and bring a friend. And it was a gentleman's game. No chips were purchased. It was simply understood that you paid up either afterwards or within twenty-four hours. No one welshed. It would be suicide.

Gilson's eyes gleamed as the first hand was dealt. And as Tom had expected, once he settled down, Gilson was a hell of a poker player. Most of the players lost fifty or sixty.

Except Tom. He lost two hundred and twenty dollars.

By next morning, the full impact of what he was into hit Tom – hit him hard.

His legal credit was at its limit. He had a debt to a loan shark. He'd last another two hundred plus – on credit – to the shark's organization's card pine. And then there was the phone he'd promised Penny.

The only positive thing pending was that it looked like he'd successfully gotten Gilson's account sewed up.

"Are you all right?"

The change in Allison's attitude from haughty coolness to overt solicitousness was obvious. Perhaps, he thought, I should fuck hell out of her once a week.

He snapped his mind back to his troubles, scheming. He needed to make a payment to the shark – soon. How to raise. He had it. First, he called his friends and persuaded them to move the poker game up to that very night. Then he had a bouquet of apology – for his lack of consideration – sent to his wife. Then he started to leave, to go to the bank for a loan against his house and soon-to-be-increased income.

Gilson called just as he was leaving. He was going out of New York for two days, and was favorably inclined on the deal.

It was starting to look like he'd made it. Until about six-thirty. Then Janet dropped her little bomb. The bank had sent an updated credit statement.

Tom had no choice but tell her the whole story, except about the loan shark and the debts owed there. And he pointed out what was happening with the Gilson account, finishing by saying, "And if it works out – and I've got that gut feeling it will – salesman's instinct – this could put me over the top at the company."

Janet wanted to believe him, wanted to understand, wanted to hear that it was exactly what it was a major problem to come between them, because nothing else could. She seemed eager to help.

So he decided to drop hip little bomb about the game he'd moved up to that night.

Her face was blank with amazement for a moment.

"Call it off, Tom. Call them and cancel it."

"No," he said decisively. "I have to bring some of that money back so I can keep my promise to Penny."

"Tom, I don't want any gambling in my house!"

"It's our house," he said firmly. "After tonight, no more. But tonight I have to play – for Penny."

"Tom," she said coldly, "if you play tonight, so will I!"

He chuckled. "You don't know a damn thing about cards. And besides, what will you use for money?"

She stood, eyes flashing. "I'll think of something!" And stalked out of the room.

Tom stopped her with the tone of his voice, a tone she had never heard used before, at least not with her as the object. "You push it, Janet," he said coldly, angrily, "and I'll make you regret it like you've never regretted anything in you life."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" she snapped, whirling on him with bands on hips. Her breasts heaved out towards him, taunting him with the reminder of his neglect of her youthful passions and succulent flesh.

But Tom was angry. What the hell did she want of him? He'd already confessed everything to her – everything he dared – and humiliated himself for her? Just what more did she expect.

"I don't think you'd enjoy finding out," he said and picked up a newspaper.

Janet stared at him, eyes flashing for a moment, ten turned and stalked up the stain to the bedroom.

For some reason, everyone drank more than usual that night. Maybe it was the suddenly oppressive June heat. Maybe it was the change from the regular night. Maybe it was merely that Tom drank two beers in a hurry and the others picked up on it.

But whatever it was, by ten-thirty, everyone was a little high.

It was then that Sid Koenig rubbed his balding head and asked the question all had been soiling about in their beery heads.

"Hey, where's Janet tonight, Tom?"

The others mumbled similar sentiments.

And at that moment, as if on cue, Janet appeared. And if the eyes of the men usually followed her hungrily, tonight there was downright lust in their expressions.