Irwin Shaw - Rich Man, Poor Man. Beggarman, Thief

“One guess,” she said, smiling up at Rudolph for the photograph.

Rudolph went to the bar and saw Donnelly hunched over it gloomily, a glass of whiskey in front of him.

“Enjoying the fun and frolic of the famous festival?” Rudolph asked.

Donnelly scowled at him. “I’ll add another f. I shouldn’t have fucking come,” he said.

“Why not?” Rudolph asked, surprised.

“That kid,” Donnelly said. “Her son, Billy. He gave me the old cold eye at the airport.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“I didn’t imagine this. I’m afraid he’s going to make Gretchen’s life miserable on account of me. What is he—jealous?”

“No,” Rudolph said. “Maybe he’s worried that you’re so much younger than she and that she’ll get hurt.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No,” Rudolph admitted. “He didn’t say anything.”

“She’s told me about him.” Donnelly drank what was left in his glass and signaled for another. “He’s been a pain in the ass since he was a kid.”

“He’s turned over a new leaf, he told me.”

“He wasn’t turning over any new leaves at the Nice airport, I’ll tell you that. And where’s that other kid—Wesley? The two of them were supposed to drive up together from Spain, according to Gretchen.”

“He’s around,” Rudolph said vaguely.

“Where around?” Donnelly demanded. “He wasn’t around when we got in and he damn well should have been, after all Gretchen did for him.” He sipped thirstily from the second glass. “I’ll bet a dollar against a plugged nickel that son of hers has something to do with it.”

“Don’t be neurotic about one look at an airport,” Rudolph said. “I guarantee that everything will be all right.”

“It better be,” Donnelly said. “If that kid ruins these next two weeks for his mother, I’ll break his back for him. And you can tell him that for me. You can also tell him I’ve asked his mother to marry me.”

“What did she say?”

“She laughed.”

“Congratulations.”

“I’m just so crazy about her I can’t see straight,” Donnelly said gloomily.

“You’d see straighter …” Rudolph tapped the glass on the bar lightly, “if you laid off this stuff a bit.”

“Are you going to bitch about it, too?”

“I imagine Gretchen must have mentioned something of that nature in passing.”

“So she did. I promised her that if she married me I’d go the wine route only.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She laughed.”

Rudolph chuckled. “Have a good time in Cannes,” he said.

“I will,” Donnelly said, “but only if Gretchen does. By the way, the day before we left New York, our lawyer called and said that he thinks there’s a good chance we can settle the Connecticut business before the year’s out.”

“Everything’s going our way, lad,” Rudolph said. “Stop looking so darkly Irish.”

“The Celtic twilight on the Côte d’Azur,” Donnelly said, breaking into a smile. “I see demons in the Gallic dusk. Pay it no heed, man.”

Rudolph patted Donnelly’s arm in a comforting, friendly gesture and left the bar. In the hall he saw that the press conference was over, although the publicity man was still there, assembling papers. The publicity man was an American by the name of Simpson who worked out of Paris for various movie companies.

“How did it go?” Rudolph asked him.

“Fine,” the man said. “She knows how to use her charm with those guys. You know, I saw the picture at a screening in Paris and I think we’ve got a winner there.”

Rudolph nodded, although he’d never heard of a publicity man who said he had a loser the first week on the job. “I’d like you to make a special effort,” he said, “to get Wesley Jordan’s photograph spread around.”

“No sweat,” the man said. “The word’s out already that he’s something special. His looks won’t hurt, either.”

“He’s missing in action somewhere in the neighborhood,” Rudolph said, “and I want people to recognize him so that we can find him for background stories before the picture’s shown.”

“Will do,” the publicity man said. “I could use some personal stuff on him myself.”

“Thanks,” Rudolph said and went up to his room. The bag was where he had left it on a chair. He twirled the combination lock and opened it. The automatic was still there. What an ugly piece of furniture, he thought, as he closed and locked the bag again. He found himself going to his room and looking into the bag ten times a day.

He went into the bathroom and took two Miltowns. Ever since he had arrived in Paris he had been jittery and had developed the first tic of his life, a twitching of the right eyelid that he tried to hide when he was with anybody else by rubbing at the eye as though he had something caught in it. The Miltowns helped each time for an hour or two.

The phone was ringing when he went back into the bedroom. He picked it up and heard a woman’s voice saying, “Mr. Rudolph Jor-dache, please.”

“Speaking,” he said.

“You don’t know me,” the woman said. “I’m a friend of Wesley’s. My name is Alice Larkin.”

“Oh, yes,” Rudolph said. “Wesley’s spoken about you. Where’re you calling from?”

“New York,” Alice said. “Is Wesley with you?”

“No.”

“Do you know where I can reach him?”

“Not at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“He was supposed to call me last week,” Alice said. “I was trying to get my vacation moved up so that I could come over to Cannes for a few days. I think I can manage it. I’ll be told definitely tomorrow and I’d like to know if he still wants me to come.”

“I think you’d better wait before making any decision,” Rudolph said. “To be honest with you, Wesley’s disappeared. If he turns up, I’ll tell him to call you.”

“Is he in trouble?” Alice asked anxiously.

“Not that I know of.” Rudolph spoke carefully. “Although it’s hard to tell with him. He’s an unpredictable boy.”

“You can say that again.” Now the girl sounded angry. “Anyway, if you do happen to see him, tell him that I wish him all sorts of success.”

“I’ll do that,” Rudolph said. He put the phone down slowly. He wished the Miltowns would start working quickly. The burden of Wesley’s obsession was wearing him down. Maybe, he thought, when I do find him I’ll give him the goddamn gun and wash my hands of the whole thing. He went over to the window and looked out at the sea, calm and blue, and the people walking below on the Croisette, enjoying the sunshine, with the flags above their heads snapping festively in the warm breeze. Momentarily he envied each and every stroller on the broad avenue below, just for not being him.

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Billy got back to his room at dusk. He had patrolled the old port all afternoon, peering at the boats and going into the bars and restaurants. Wesley had not been on any of the boats or in any of the bars or restaurants. He called his mother’s room, but the operator said that she was not taking any calls. Probably in the sack, he thought, with that fellow with the beard. Best not to think about it.

He undressed and took a shower. It had been a long hot day and he luxuriated under the needle-sharp cold spray, forgetting everything but the delicious tingling of his skin.

When he got out of the shower he heard a knock on the bedroom door. He wrapped a towel around his waist and, leaving wet footprints on the carpet, he went to the door and opened it. Monika stood there, smiling, in one of the pretty cotton gowns he had seen her wearing in Spain.

“Good Lord,” he said.

“I see you’re dressed to receive guests,” she said. “May I come in?”