Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

They ordered a round and consumed it. Then they put on their coats and all shook hands outside the rustic exurban inn where the foreign cars mingled with the American infidels. Di Labbia climbed into a Ford and shoved off. Larry and Altar got into the convertible.

“What do you think?” Altar asked.

“I think he’ll do a fine job.”

“Then why were you so rough on him?”

“Was I?”

“You know you were.” Altar started the car and let the engine idle. The exhaled breaths of the two men fogged the windshield and Altar reached over to mop it with a gloved hand.

“I wanted to know why his bid was so low,” Larry said. “I checked him with some architects up this way, so I knew he was honest. But why the low bid? If he bid so low out of stupidity, he’s not the man to build our house.”

“Do you think he’s stupid?”

“No. I think he really wants to build it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s something different from the pap he’s been putting up. He wants the challenge, he likes it. Or maybe he just wants the distinction of having built Roger Altar’s house. How do I know? But he wants to build it. He’ll lose five grand, but he’ll still build it.”

Altar nodded and pulled the car out of the parking lot. He hesitated before entering the main road, executed his turn, and then stepped on the accelerator.

“Do you like this house, Larry?” he asked.

“Of course I do.”

“You don’t seem to. It doesn’t seem very important to you.”

“It is.”

“I don’t sense that.”

“It’s a good house, Altar, and I’m proud of it. Hell, are you excited about a book three weeks after it leaves the typewriter?”

“It left the typewriter last week, you know.”

“Which? The new book?”

“Yes. I’m rereading it tonight. And then I’ll forget about it until the day before publication. That’s when I’ll begin dying. Slowly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Waiting for those reviews.”

“Are they that important?”

“It depends on what you want, I suppose.”

“What do you want, Altar?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

He fell silent. He drove with his eyes on the road, not looking at Larry.

“I die,” he said suddenly. “I’m like the kid on Christmas Eve. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t even think. I’m just waiting for Christmas morning.” He laughed a short, sardonic laugh. “The trouble is I’ve opened all the presents already. I’ve had the big magazine sale, and the book club, and the movie deal all before publication. There’s only one present left to open. And that always turns out to be the coal you’re promised if you’re a bad little boy. Argh, the hell with it. I don’t even like to think about it. I get depressed thinking about it.”

“Your readers like you,” Larry said.

“Sure. They like Dick Tracy, too. But will your great-great-grandchildren be reading him?”

“You can’t expect immortality, Altar.”

“I don’t. Honestly. I’m not that egotistical. I don’t want much at all.”

“What do you want?”

“I want some good reviewer, just once, to say that I’m a writer, that’s all.” He paused. “I try, Larry. I really try like hell!”

“You succeed.”

“Oh, sure, I succeed. Jesus, do I succeed! But sometimes. I wonder about success. What good is it if you don’t feel you’re doing something important?” He shook his head. “Don’t you see? Who wants to be kept by a bitch like success? I want to be contributing something, giving. I can’t just take all the time.” He shook his head. “The hell with them. It’s just... well, you hang your clean wash on the line and they throw mud at it. It takes guts to hang up your underwear. When they... the hell with it. The hell with it. What do you want, Larry?”

“Me?” Larry grinned. “I don’t know.”

The heater had begun to throw its warmth into the car. Both men had unbuttoned their overcoats and lighted cigarettes. They both seemed completely relaxed, like two old friends driving home after a day’s hunting. Larry with his knees propped up against the dashboard, Altar slumped idly behind the wheel. Oddly, they were not old friends. Nor was either sure they were new friends. Yet, with the heater spreading its warmth around them, with the barren gray countryside blurring past outside, there was a mood of relaxed friendliness in the automobile. And each man recognized the mood and allowed it to claim him completely.

“Every man has to want something,” Altar said.

“I guess I want too much.”

“What’s that, Larry?”

“I want to be happy.”

“Ahhh,” Altar said.

“Don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“So. That’s all. Just to be happy.”

“How do you just ‘be happy’?”

“I’m not sure I know.”

They fell silent. The automobile hummed through the countryside. A boy rode past on a bicycle and waved at the car. Altar waved back.

“Have... have you ever—” Larry cut himself off.

“Ever what?”

“Ever been in love?” he said, turning to face Altar.

“It depends on what you mean by love.”

“You know what I mean by love.”

“If you mean have I ever known a woman who was beautiful and passionate, yes.”

“Well, more than that. I meant...”

“If you mean have I ever known a woman who was knowledgeable but ignorant, yielding but obstinate, sensible but illogical...”

“Yes, something like that.”

“If you mean have I wanted her despite her shortcomings, or because of them; if you mean, Larry, has a woman ever made me forget myself and yet become myself...”

“Yes,” Larry said, “yes.”

“Then, no. I’ve never been in love.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t building to a climactic letdown. I’d like to feel that way about some woman, but I don’t. Do you? ” He touched Larry’s arm quickly. “Never mind, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Larry hesitated. Then he said, “Jesus, Altar, I’m all mixed up. I feel like a dozen phony people. Do you ever feel that way?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ve got a closetful of manufacturer’s labels. Architect, Husband, Father, Son, Striver, Brooder, Man! I sew the labels into my clothes, but the suits never fit me. Underneath all the crap, there’s me ! And I’m never really me, never the Larry Cole I want to be until I’m with—” He cut himself off, suddenly wary.

“Sure,” Altar said, “and then you fly, don’t you? Then you’re bigger and stronger and handsomer and wittier, aren’t you? Then you can ride your goddamn white charger against the black knight! Then you can storm the enemy bastions!”

“Are you playing with me, Altar?”

“I never kid a man who’s serious,” Altar said. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

“I guess it’s... I don’t know what’s real or true any more. What happens when values shift, Altar? What happens when all your life you’ve believed in honor and trust and decency and all at once they’ve become labels, too? How can you tell right from wrong if wrong suddenly seems right? What do you do, Altar?”

“I don’t know,” Altar said. He paused. “Is this why the house seems unimportant to you now?”

Larry did not answer.

“Whatever you do, don’t lose your head,” Altar advised. “You didn’t invent infidelity.”

Again Larry did not answer.

Altar sighed and turned on the radio.

In his apartment that night, he took the box containing the manuscript from his desk.

The title pleased him. He had typed it, together with his byline, on a small slip of paper which he’d then Scotch-taped to the lid of the box. Fondly, he lifted the lid now. Then he sat down with the manuscript in his lap. A bottle of Scotch and a box of cigars were on the coffee table before the couch. He propped up his feet on the table and began reading the book from the beginning.