Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

Now Burges blew a cloud of smoke at her and grinned. “Well, well, has anybody seen my sophisticated Ruth, the dirty joke queen? You're reacting like Sal-from-Carrot-Cross-roads.”

“I'm merely thinking it over. Or did you expect me to jump to attention with sheer joy? It was an abrupt offer.”

“Nonsense, we're not kids. We've been seeing a good deal of each other, and it's time we tried it in the hay. Simple as that, really.”

“Really?” Ruth mimicked, trying to keep fear and doubt from her voice. “Burgie, I don't think you quite understand the type of female I am.”

“But I do, I do the most. You're the type female I want to sleep with. I trust I'm your boy-type.”

“Stop making this sound like a blood test,” Ruth said, lighting a fresh cigarette, to stall for time. “I'm very serious, Burgie. I'm not saying no. The truth is I may want to say yes. But there's one thing about me you first have to understand. I'm a...”

Flynn held up a tobacco-stained hand. “Ruth, stop making with all the talk. And I do understand you—perfectly. My darling, you're a bum. Wait, wait, wait, and get the anger from your eyes. I don't mean a bed tramp, but an intellectual bum. You gas and moan about that great book within you—as you find a million excuses for not writing it. Undoubtedly you're afraid you'll learn you lack the talent. So you play it safe, never try to find if you have it or not. Next year, the year after, ten years from now, you'll be sitting at this same table, or in some other bar, playing the same record, 'If only I had the time to work on my book.' That's pure baloney, Ruthie dearest, and very stale baloney, at that.”

Her face was pale as she said, “Flattery will get you no place. You... !”

Burges reached across the table, squeezed her hand. “Honey, I understand you because we are alike. I'm a bum, too, so I know. We try to crucify ourselves on the cross of talent because we may be strictly no-talent characters. We are flagellants, beating ourselves with the success of others— and enjoying the pain. We...”

“I don't know what you are trying...”

“Come on, Ruthie, you know it's true This is the voice of experience talking. I've told my sad tale in Nice, in Hollywood, over cocktails in Chicago, Greenwich Village, did my song and dance as far south as Mexico City and north in Montreal, the pitiful tale of what an artist I am with the camera, the photo masterpieces and portraits I will shoot— some day. Those snatches of life I will stop and capture with my lens. Honeybunch, it isn't so much can I do it, but will I ever do it. I'm a guy who's been around and around, so I don't kid myself; it's far more comfortable to talk about it, than give it the old college try. Frankly, I've had my chances. In the navy I had the best equipment possible, loads of time. And once I married a wealthy biddy who set me up with everything I needed. As you have your opportunity now. You don't have to work, hide behind your job. You could devote all your time to your writing. Let's put it on the line, honey, we're both phonies, in our own little way. 'Art' will always be a word in quotes to us, the impossible carrot dangling before our noses.”

“Burgie, you have hidden talents! You're wasting your time behind a camera. You should be sitting beside the couch, taking notes. Or maybe on the couch!”

“One thing at a time,” he said, pressing her hand again. “At the moment all I desire to be on is you.”

“Oh, how sweetly you put it!”

“Come on, Ruthie, we're at least above the corny seduction lies and drinks. You're a hell of an attractive woman. I want you. That's my story; what's yours?”

“Now you sound like a lawyer, asking for a yes or no answer. Since we're being oh-so-frank, there's one thing you don't know about me, wise old owl. If I sleep with you it can't be any one-night stand. I'm a throwback to... something. Are you asking me to leave my husband and live with you?”

Burges took his hands from hers, rested his face on his palms and played with his beard. After staring at Ruth for a long second, he said, “Really, you're beginning to sound like one of my empty-faced models, completely simple.”

“Burgie, I'm not a prissy puritan, I trust. Nor am I a wanton, an easy...”

“Wanton? Oh please! Please! You say live with me, those just words or do you actually mean it?”

“I mean it, of course.”

“But what does 'live with me' mean? Tonight we'll be living together. If we hit it off okay, we might live together tomorrow, the following day, for a year, or until we're ready for Social Security. But even if we set up house tonight and tomorrow turned out to be dull—that would be the end of it for me. Even if we were married, legal, and what-not. In short, no guarantee comes with my bed.”

“Under all those words, how is this different from a one-night stand?”

“I don't know. As I said, if the one night turns out interesting, we keep going. My dear, one of the occupational diseases of our day is trying to stretch something good until it turns sour. In this lousy world I believe in finding happiness where you can. The food was fine here tonight, but that hardly means I'll be eating breakfast and lunch here tomorrow. Don't try to push your luck is my motto.”

“I see. I'll have to think about it.”

“Really, Ruth?”

“Yes, really!”

Flynn motioned for the check. They didn't talk again until they stood outside, when he said, “I'll put you in a cab. When you've thought it over, give me a ring.”

“For your next tidy, here's another motto: don't push your rudeness!”

Burgie reached up to kiss her, but Ruth shook her head. He smiled as he said, “But I'm not being rude, sweet. Surely you can understand that being around you and not having you is sheer torture for my sensuous nature. Rude? Indeed no, but I am being terribly honest.”

He stopped a passing cab and holding the door open for Ruth, told her, “I sincerely hope, and expect, to hear from you very soon. Perhaps tonight.”

When the cab pulled away, Burges dropped into a bar for a fast one. He felt very dramatic and pleased with himself, although he also vaguely wondered if he had talked himself out of some work. But he felt sure she would call him within hours. Beside, her trade magazine could only mean so much money—about enough to cover his rent. And tonight he couldn't resist the cool act he'd put on. Burges had enjoyed it more than if he had taken Ruth to his place. As for becoming tied up with her—My God!

Riding in the cab, Ruth lit a cigarette and somehow felt like a little girl who has been scolded. For no reason she found herself remembering the time she was sixteen and joined the high school ballet group. The teacher was a snippy old maid who'd taken one look at Ruth's stocky big body in the skin-tight leotard, and told her loudly, “You would rupture any unfortunate boy trying to lift you. I think you'd do better to try out for the football squad.” Of course this was followed by a chorus of snickers from the other girls.

Later, when Ruth had used the incident in a story published in a literary magazine, she had made the teacher a homo. It had given her a great sense of revenge, almost made up for the hurt. But at the time she had a feeling she had no real business in trying to be a ballet dancer, and certainly no need for outside activity. That had been foolish; being assistant editor of the school paper kept her running after school. And Ruth had, in a sense, the very same feeling now with Burges. She really didn't want to be that 'Bohemian.' Yet the thought of being only Walt's wife rankled her, seemed a defeat. For a journalism major who had won a medal for the best creative writing in college to end up as a mere housewife for a detective was a hell of a letdown. Ruth was also aware, when she could think clearly and honestly enough about it, that she was using Walt for a whipping boy.