Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

“I’m not getting sore.”

“You are, and I can tell it.”

“No, I’m not. Don’t try to tell me how I feel. It just strikes me as amusing, that’s all. You’re the guy who doesn’t tell plumbers how to fix pipes.”

“That’s right.”

“But you look at a set of rough sketches and deliver the exalted opinion that — What the hell makes you think you’re a competent judge?”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“How can anyone who doesn’t know architecture from a—’

“Larry—”

“You’re an egomaniac, Altar! You look at a set of rough sketches and tell me they stink. What do you think you’re doing, browsing through a light-love story in one of your slick-paper magazines? You’re looking at plans and perspectives! Do you know how to read a plan?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Where the hell did you learn to—”

“I once worked with a construction gang. Larry—”

“You’re a pretty successful hero, aren’t you?” Larry said, his anger rising. “What else have you done? Climbed an active volcano? Wrestled aligat—”

“You’re not sore, huh?”

“I am sore, and the hell with you!”

“Sit down. We’ll start from scratch.”

“I’m going home. You can start from scratch. You can design your own damn house.”

“Sit down,” Altar said firmly. “For Christ’s sake, sit down and stop behaving like—”

“Don’t order me around, Altar!” Larry snapped. “I don’t give a damn if you’ve sold ten million copies of your books.”

“All right,” Altar said, grinning. “ Please sit down. All right?”

Larry sat. Altar studied him. “The schmaltz,” he said, “begins this way—”

“Go to hell.”

“Dear Mr. Cole. Whereas your rough sketches for the Altar residence show technical knowledge—”

“All right,” Larry said.

“Do you want—”

“I said all right.” He sighed heavily. “I just don’t like being jumped on, Altar.”

“Who does? Once you commit something to paper, you’re open to attack. Want me to tell you why I don’t like the sketches?”

“I’d appreciate it. That is, if your omnipotent, omniscient—”

“You’re getting sore again.”

“Okay, okay, tell me. I’m listening.”

“We’re still in business?”

“It depends on what you have to say.”

“One: I don’t think you gave my house any more thought than you’d give a garbage-disposal unit.”

“I gave your house all my time for—”

“All your time, but none of your real thought, Larry. These sketches are routine, hack. I know what you can do. I’ve seen it.”

“Go on,” Larry said tightly.

“Two: I don’t think you designed this house for me . I think you simply culled a lot of clichéd crap that was left over in the basement of your mind from an Architecture One course.”

“Goddamnit, that’s not—”

“Three: I don’t think you want to design my house. I don’t know why. Maybe your mind is elsewhere. Maybe it isn’t a big enough challenge. But whatever—”

“This is all nonsense!”

“Is it? Look, Larry, you know me fairly well by now. You should have some inkling of the kind of house I’d want surrounding me. These sketches have nothing whatever to do with Roger Altar. He doesn’t enter into them at all.”

“They’re only exploratory. They’re supposed to—”

“What’s worse, you’re not in these sketches. There’s nothing of you here at all, and you’re the goddamn architect! Where’s your stamp? What are you trying to sell me?”

“I’m not trying to sell you any—”

“Are you trying to cheat me?”

“I’ve never cheated anyone in my life!” Larry said, beginning to rise again.

“Well, you’re cheating me here. And you’re cheating yourself, too!” He paused. “Don’t be a jerk. Sit down.”

“Why don’t you get yourself another architect?”

“I won’t need one unless you tell me flatly you’re finished.”

“You don’t like my sketches, you don’t like my—”

“Do you want to design my house, or don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Larry said harshly.

“Why do you resent me?”

“I don’t resent you.”

“Because I’m a success?”

“What!”

“If that’s it, say so. Lots of men do. I don’t hold it against them any more.”

“Don’t be absurd. We’re not in competition.”

“Then why? Because I’m a bachelor?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“How do I know? Why do you resent me?”

“I told you I don’t resent you. I think you’re marvelous. I think you’re the world’s greatest living author. I don’t know what literature would have done without you. I kiss your feet.”

Softly Altar said, “You’re just a kid, aren’t you?”

“Don’t start on me personally, Altar. Your ten per cent doesn’t buy my soul.”

“All I expect it to buy is your mind.”

“A part of it.”

“ All of it where it concerns architecture.”

“I could design a house you’d be afraid of.”

“Try me.”

“I could design a house you wouldn’t understand.”

“My stories are too good for the pulps,” Altar said.

“What?”

“A local bromide. Forget it.”

“What do I owe you, Altar? I could use one tenth of my brain power and still design a better house for you than any hundred architects in the country.”

“When do you stop talking the good game, Larry?”

“When do you stop talking like an old friend of mine? For Christ’s sake, I barely know you!”

“I’ll go you one further. I don’t think you want to know me.”

“Why does every tinhorn writer in the world consider himself a psychiatrist?”

“How many other writers do you know?” Altar asked.

“None, thank God. Wise up, Altar. Do a little self-analysis. You’re not attacking me. You’re attacking yourself !”

“That’s not true, Larry!”

Altar squashed his cigarette angrily into the ash tray on the coffee table. He swung upright at the same moment, as if he were buckling on his armour to do battle. His eyes narrowed, and his shaggy brows descended.

“Isn’t it?” Larry asked. “You’re sick of the commercial hack—”

“That’s not true!” Altar snapped. “Maybe you think it’s the same but it isn’t. When I’m in that room, I’m working every damn minute, and I’m trying! I care deeply about what I’m doing. And you don’t!”

“Commercial tripe, the critics said. They hit it right on—”

“The critics don’t know how I bleed!” Altar shouted. “I open a vein on every page! I give everything I’ve got, my blood, my good red blood! What in God’s name do you give? What are you afraid of? That you’ll have to give something of yourself? Those sketches are the plotting of a guy who lives in a shell. Well, I don’t live in a shell. I take, I take a lot — but I try to give something back. If you want to work for me—”

“ Work for you! Holy—”

“What’s the matter, is work a dirty word? Don’t architects work? What do you prefer? Do you want me to call myself your client? Will that improve our relationship? Okay, if you want me to be your client, you’ve got to give. Everything. I’m treating you like a thoroughbred, and all I’m asking is that you get out there and run for me. I don’t want excuses about a muddy track or a bowed tendon. All I want you to do is run. Do you know how to run, Larry? Can you go the distance? ”

Larry was silent. Altar lighted another cigarette. He blew out a stream of smoke, and still the silence persisted. Slowly, Altar nodded and said, “Okay, forget it. It’s been swell. Send me a bill for the work you’ve—”