Роберт Паркер - Double Play

“Have you ever been able to talk about it?” she said.

“The war?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we talk about it some,” he said. “You know, me and the other boys.”

“But then you have to pretend about it,” she said. “Have you ever had the chance to really talk about it, all of it, no need for pretense.”

“I guess not.”

“It’s hard for men,” she said. “To talk about feelings.”

She was pressing close to him. He could smell her perfume. He put his arm around her. She put her hand on his thigh.

“Has it been a long time?” she said softly.

She rubbed his thigh gently.

“Long time?” he said.

“Since you’ve made love.”

He laughed.

“Mademoiselle from Armentiers,” he sang. “Parlez vous?”

She laughed too.

“I’ll bet there wasn’t much conversation,” she said.

“Not much more than combien,” he said.

“Have you ever made love with a woman who actually cared about you?” she said.

“Not yet.”

“Well,” she said, “then it’s time.”

She pressed her lips hard against his and opened her mouth.

They were together every night. He was not inept. He’d learned from French professionals. But he insisted that she teach him, and she did show nuance and invention to him. At the most intimate of moments she urged him to let go, to talk about the war, about his wound, about himself.

“Let it all come out,” she said, “let it go.”

He did his best. He wasn’t sure he had that much to say. He told her all the things he could think of.

“Everything,” she would moan, “everything.”

“Carole,” he would say, “that is everything.”

She would shake her head and kiss him and whisper that a woman knew. And she knew. There was more. One night he told her he had to report back.

“Did you know I was married?” she said.

“No. Where’s your husband?”

“Naval Hospital,” she said. “He was wounded in Guadalcanal.”

“Marine?”

“Yes.”

“So I guess that means that we’ll be saying goodbye to each other,” he said.

“No,” she said.

He looked at her without saying anything.

“I’ll go with you,” she said.

“What about your husband?”

“It was a two-week romance, you know, boys going off to war, maybe they won’t come back.”

“How bad is he shot up?”

“Bad. They’re not sure about him.”

“And you want to divorce him?”

“Yes. I’ll divorce him and go with you.”

“I’m not ready to get married,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll go with you. I love my Little Mr. Jump.”

“What will you tell your husband?”

“Something,” she said.

Had it happened that way? Burke no longer knew. Fact and anguish had blended so fully and for so long that whatever was factual, this, for Burke, was the truth.

Julius Roach sat in the den of his penthouse with Central Park behind him through the picture window. His forearms rested on his thighs. He turned a brandy snifter slowly in his big soft hands.

“I’m not blaming you,” he said to Burke. “I hired you. You did what you thought needed to be done.”

Sitting opposite, on the leather couch, Burke waited without speaking. He too had a brandy snifter. It sat on the end table next to him.

“And there won’t be any police trouble. Frank and I have already seen to that.”

Burke waited.

“But I’ve known Frank Boucicault for a long time,” Julius said.

He stopped for a moment and sipped his brandy.

“God, that’s good,” he said. “Money can buy you a lot.”

“I hear,” Burke said.

“Frank and I go way back,” Julius said. “And, damn it, Burke, I can’t have some guy working for me shooting up some guys working for Frank.”

“Because?”

“Because business doesn’t work that way.”

“Which means?”

“Which means I’m going to have to let you go.”

“Lauren?”

“Frank has promised to control his son.”

“Why didn’t he do that a year ago? Save everybody a lot of trouble.”

Julius smiled and swirled his brandy, watching the liquid move in the glass.

“You don’t have children, Mr. Burke?”

“No.”

Julius nodded.

“Children are difficult, Mr. Burke, and it is often easier, except in extremis, to give them their head.”

“But now it’s extremis?”

“Yes,” Julius said. “I will give you two weeks’ pay, and I have put in a word for you with a number of people I know who might wish to employ you.”

“Thanks,” Burke said.

Julius stood. Holding the brandy in his left hand, he put out his right.

“There’s no animosity,” he said. “You did a good job, but circumstances...” He shrugged.

Burke didn’t stand.

“One more thing,” Burke said.

“Which is?”

“We need Lauren in here to let her know what’s going on.”

“I’ll inform her,” Julius said.

Burke shook his head.

“She and I need to say goodbye,” he said.

“You may write her a letter,” Julius said.

Burke shook his head.

“I can have you removed,” Julius said.

Burke sat motionless on the couch. His expression didn’t change. Julius looked at him for a time.

“But not easily,” Julius said finally.

He went to his desk and picked up the phone and dialed. He spoke into the phone briefly and hung up. In a moment Lauren came into the den. She was smoking a cigarette, and wearing white silk lounging pajamas under a white silk robe.

“The men in my life,” she said and sat on the big leather couch beside Burke and curled her legs under her.

Burke said nothing. Lauren took a drag on her cigarette.

Julius said, “Mr. Burke is leaving us.”

Lauren froze, her forefingers touching her lips, the thoughtless cigarette smoke exhaling gently.

“No,” she said.

Julius nodded yes. Burke said nothing.

“You can’t go,” she said to him.

Burke shrugged. Lauren took the cigarette away from her mouth.

“You can’t,” she said again, leaning toward him.

Julius said, “It is not up to him, Lauren.”

Lauren ignored Julius.

“Without you, he’ll get me.”

“Frank Boucicault has promised to contain Louis,” Julius said.

“You are the thing I hang onto,” Lauren said. “You keep me from sliding into the mess.”

“Lauren,” Julius said, “please, stop the dramatics. I hired Burke when he was needed. I can fire him when he’s not needed.”

Still leaning toward Burke, with her eyes fixed on his face, Lauren said, “I need him.”

“You don’t,” Julius said. “Frank and I have spoken. Louis will not trouble you further.”

“Burke,” Lauren said.

“I don’t make the rules,” Burke said.

“Please,” Lauren said.

Burke didn’t answer.

“He’s a sickness,” Lauren said. “You’re the cure.”

“Enough,” Julius said. “It is time to bid Mr. Burke goodbye.”

For the first time, she looked at her father.

“You miserable prick,” she said. “You don’t care what happens to me.”

“Enough of that language, Lauren,” Julius said.

“Fuck you, enough,” Lauren said. “Burke’s the only stable thing in my whole sick life. Ever. My mother’s a drunk, my father’s a crook, and all the men I ever meet are degenerates. Don’t you dare tell me, enough.”

Julius folded his arms across his chest and said nothing. Burke stood suddenly and walked to the window and looked out down at the park.

“I’ll go with you,” Lauren said to Burke. “I’ll go where you go, anywhere, just so I’m with you.”