Arthur Hailey - Overload

"What?"

"That penile prosthesis isn't only for people like me, people who got injured. It's for others-older men usually, who are normal except they've run out of steam and can't make it with a woman anymore. What it does is give them a whole new lease on life. How about you, Nim? Do you need help?"

"Not that kind. Not yet, thank God!"

"But you might someday. Just think of it No sexual hangup-ever. You could go to your grave with an erection."

Nim grinned. "And what would I do with it there?"

"Hey, there's Mary!" Wally exclaimed. "She came to pick me up. Can't drive a car myself yet."

Across the lobby Nim could see Mary Talbot, Wally's wife. She had spotted them and was coming over. Beside her, Nim saw with some concern, was Ardythe Talbot. He had neither seen nor heard from Ardythe since their encounter at the hospital when she hysterically blamed her own and Nim's "sin" for Wally's troubles. Nim wondered if she had modified her religious fervor.

The signs of strain were on both women. It was, after all, only seven months since Walter Talbot's tragic death during the bombing at La Mission plant, and Wally Jr.'s accident had happened just a few weeks later. Mary, who had been slim for as long as Nim remembered her, had noticeably put on weight; worry and unhappiness could account for that, of course. And her gamine look had modified, making her seem older. Nim found himself hoping that what Wally had just told him worked. It if did, it should help them both.

Ardythe appeared to be a little better than when he had last seen her, but not much. In contrast to the way she had been immediately before Walter's death-handsome, stylish, athletic-she was now just another elderly woman. But she smiled at Nim, and greeted him with friendliness, which relieved him. They chatted. Nim expressed pleasure once more at seeing Wally mobile. Mary said someone had told her, on her way in, about Nim's speech and she congratulated him. Ardythe reported that she had found some more of Walter's old files and wanted GSP & L to have them. Nim offered to collect them if she wished.

“There's no need for that," Ardythe said bastily. "I can send them to you. There aren't as many as last time and ..."

She stopped. "Nim, what's wrong?"

He was staring at her, startled, his mouth agape.

"Last time. . ." Walter Talbot's files!

"Nim," Ardythe repeated, "is anything the matter?" Mary and Wally were looking at him curiously too.

"No," be managed to say, "No, it's just that I remembered something."

Now he knew. Knew what that missing piece of information was which had nagged at his mind, yet eluded him, since that day in Eric Humphrey's office with the chairman, Harry London, and Mr. Justice Yale. It was in Walter Talbot's old files, the files Ardythe had given Nim, in several cardboard cartons, shortly after Walter's death. At the time Nim had gone through them briefly; now they were stored at GSP & L.

"I guess we'd better go," Wally said. "It was nice seeing you, Nim."

”The same here," Nim responded, "and, Wally-good luck in everything]"

When all three had gone, Nim stood rooted, thinking. He knew what was there now, in those files. He knew, too, what had to be done. But he must verify, authenticate his memory, first.

In another three days. Immediately after the convention.

Rush, rush, rush! That was always the way it was, Nancy Molineaux thought as she pushed her Mercedes well past the speed limit, taking chances in the traffic, keeping a wary eye on the rear view mirror for any cruising cops.

The pressures of life never seemed to let up for a single goddam day.

She had hurriedly phoned in her story on Goldman, which would appear in this afternoon's edition, and now-already ten minutes late was on the way to meet Yvette. Nancy hoped the girl would have sense enough to wait.

This afternoon Nancy had some loose ends of other work to clear up, for which she would need to return to the Examiner office. Ob yes, and somehow she had to sandwich in time to get to the bank because she needed money. She had a dentist appointment at four. Then, this evening she had promised to go to two parties, one a "drop in," early, and another which would groove on for sure until well past midnight.

But she liked a fast tempo, at work and play, though there were days like this one-when a bit too much happened.

While she drove, Nancy smiled as she thought of her report of Goldman's speech. It would probably surprise him because it was a straightforward, no-slant job, as she had intended.

Several hundred leaders of America's electric power industry today gave a standing ovation to Nimrod Goldman, a Golden State Power & Light vice president, who declared that politically dominated regulatory agencies are abusing public trust and "compete brazenly with each other in establishing power bases."

He was addressing the National Electric Institute convention, meeting in this city.

Earlier, Goldman criticized some environmentalists who, he said, oppose everything. "There is nothing, absolutely nothing, we of the power industry can propose ...

Etcetera, et cetera.

She had quoted some of his statements, also, about that electric power famine he claimed was coming, so if Goldman had any beef this time it would have to do with what he had said himself, not the reporting.

Jesus! How did some of those slow-thinking freaks who had cars ever get drivers' licenses? She was second in line at a traffic light which had gone to green, but the guy in front hadn't moved yet. Was be asleep? She sounded her horn impatiently. Shit! the traffic light winked to amber, then red as Nancy reached it. But the cross street seemed clear so she took a chance and ran the red. After a few more minutes she could see that crummy bar ahead, where she had been last week. How late was she? As she came level with the bar, Nancy glanced at her Piaget watch. Eighteen minutes. And wouldn't you know!-there was no parking space today. She found a spot two blocks away and, after locking the Mercedes, hurried back.

Inside the bar it was dark and mildewy, as before. As Nancy paused, letting her eyes adjust, she had the impression that nothing had changed in seven days, not even the customers.

Yvette had waited, Nancy saw. She was seated alone, a beer in front of her, at the same corner table they had occupied previously. She glanced up as Nancy approached, but gave no sign of interest or recognition.

"Hi!” Nancy greeted her. "Sorry I'm late."

Yvette shrugged slightly, but said nothing.

Nancy signaled a waiter. "Another beer." She waited until it came, in the meantime covertly inspecting the girl, who had still said nothing. She appeared to be in even worse shape than a week ago-her skin blotchy, hair a mess. The same clothes were dirty and looked as if they had been slept in for a month. On her right band was the improvised glove, presumably shielding a deformity, which Nancy had noticed at their first encounter.

Nancy took a swig of her beer, which tasted good, then decided to come to the point. "You said you'd tell me today what goes on in that house on Crocker Street, and what Davey Birdsong does there."

Yvette looked up. "No, I didn't. You just hoped I would."

"Okay, well I'm still hoping. Why don't you start by telling me what it is you're afraid of?"

“I'm not afraid anymore." the girl made the statement in a flat, dull voice, her face expressionless. Nancy thought: She wasn't getting anywhere and maybe it had been a waste of time coming. Trying again, she asked, "So what happened between last week and this to make the difference?"

Yvette didn't answer. Instead she seemed to be considering, weighing something in her mind. While she did, as if instinctively and unaware of what she was doing, she used her left hand to rub the right. First with the glove on, then she slipped it off.