Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

She dug in her bag for a pack of cigarettes, shook her head as I reached for mine. Lighting her cigarette, I said, “You don't seem to be exactly fond of the Anthonys.”

“They bored me. But End Harbor is comfortable and I thought Matt was good for Joel.”

“What's that 'good' mean?” I asked, motioning for the waiter again, but holding on to my glass.

“He's an old hand. I suppose I hoped some of his success would rub off on Joel. Oh, that's unfair—I think Joel is a better writer than Matt, even commercially. But Joel's afraid to take chances and writing is a gamble. I don't mind working, giving him time to make it. I even like getting out of the house every day. I want him to try TV or... here, he has a wonderful idea for a modern fantasy novel. A woman like— Hatti Carnegie, Arden, one of these female Diors who set the fashions—she gets angry at the cosmetic industry, due to a petty, minor matter... and, for christsakes, don't blab or steal this idea.”

“I'm safe as Fort Knox.”

She blew a cloud of smoke at me. “I believe you are. Anyway, this woman deliberately changes the fashions to long, straight hair and no make up. This knocks out all the cosmetic concerns, kills TV advertising, ruins magazines, in fact the entire country is on the brink of a depression as a result In the end the President has to invite her to the White House, beg her for the sake of the country's economy to tell women to start using lotions and cosmetics again. It would be a wonderful satire, would make Joel. But he piddles around with the adventures of some bastard pussy cat, insists he wants to knock off enough children's books to feel secure first.” She shrugged—and so many things danced. “Maybe he's right Sometimes I get a chill; seems such a long chance, to base your rent and food bills on a mere idea. There's no kick to it any more.”

“Kick to writing?”

She nodded. “Joel has done some good stuff, really sensitive. He has a flair for that. When I first knew him it gave me a thrill to see his stuff in print. Now everything comes down to, 'Will it sell?' Tell me, would Joel gain anything by switching to Longson?”

“I don't know. We haven't much of a juvenile list.”

“You're pushing Matt's books. There must be some way Joel can cash in on this publicity. He's so damn afraid it will ruin him. I keep urging him to capitalize on it but... That's what I mean about the writing business, there aren't any rules, you don't know what to do. Norm, can we talk about something else except shop? Do you dance?”

“A little.”

“I'm sort of keyed up. I'm out for a hell of a time. This place is too quiet.”

“Finish your drink and we'll go. Did Matt really threaten his wife that afternoon?”

“Yes. But I thought it was only talk. And talking about that nightmare gives me the creeps. Have you a car?”

“Yes.”

“Let's drive and cool off. And forget all writers, including Matt,” she said, getting up.

We taxied to the garage and then drove out to Long Island, stopping at a dismal place where we danced and she had a few more drinks. I didn't even finish my first. For no reason I found myself telling her about Michele. Not all of it, I mean not all about last night I merely said we had a spat. But I told her other things, like how I met Michele when I was a Press Officer in Paris, fresh out of college, and she was working as a typist in SHAAF while waiting for a teaching appointment. How we had acted like a couple of jerks, afraid to touch each other, not even a kiss. Michele hadn't wanted to act the sexy French gal of fiction and the dirty jokes. And I had to prove my French wasn't limited to Voilez vous coucher avec moi ce soir? I even told Wilma about that afternoon, it was our 5th or 6th date, when we were alone in Michele's house and rushed each other to bed. What a tremendous afternoon! And I told Wilma about my winning $739 in a crap game which let us honeymoon in the finest hotels on the Cote D'Azure.

I knew I was talking too much, but it all made me feel slightly better. Although Wilma was hardly my idea of a confessor. But she was a fine listener.

She said, “In her case running home to mama is some hop, skip and jump. If—”

“You should have seen how proud her folks were—he's the head of a school there—to have an American officer for a son-in-law.”

“... if Joel ever hits it, well live in Europe. While I'm not on a baby kick myself, things are so unsettled for us, but if Joel had a regular job like yours.... I can see her point Maybe.”

Wilma decided the bar was too lonely and we drove on. It seemed to me as if we'd been together for a long time, but it wasn't quite midnight. We stopped in Long Beach for more drinks and I said she must have something to eat In the middle of a seafood meal Wilma announced she wanted fresh air—in a hurry. I drove down a deserted road that ran along a bay until she moaned, “Stop. I'm getting sick.”

Pulling off the road, I hit a soft shoulder or maybe it was some swampy sand. The car lurched, seemed about to turn over. There was a bad moment as I battled the wheel, stepped on the gas. We seemed to hang in air, then the car leaped back on the road. Ahead I saw a tiny dirt lane leading to the water. I turned into it a ways and stopped.

Holding one hand over her mouth, Wilma ran out of the car and into some tall swamp grass and gave up. I wasn't drunk, and I suppose it was the near accident and her being so messy—but I was suddenly very sober and tired. This would have been such a stupid way to die. And why was I being so childish about an affair when I had a wife like Michele?

Wilma came near the car, said, “Wasn't that a charming sight? Told you not to feed me.” She shook her hand violently, looked around. “I know I smell like two other girls and I feel the same way. Seems to be a beach down there. Swimming, anybody?”

“Okay.”

She undressed so quickly it seemed I glanced down to turn off the ignition and looked up to see her nude in the dim moonlight. The nipples of her breasts were as red as her hair. She ran toward the water, running gracefully, and dived in. A minute later she was running back, stuck her wet head in the window. “Well, Tarzan?”

The door window framed her breasts and shoulders. She arched her chest out, as though that was necessary, and said, “You see, they are real. Your eyes have been like a bra all night.”

There was something so pat about it all, I became sore. I told her coldly, “That's me, very bosom conscious. Here's another book idea for your husband; no part of the human body, including the brain, has changed the world's history as much as a firm pair. In fact, at the moment, breast shots are the mainstay of a high percentage of our magazines; they're the new literary movement.”

“Odd time for a lecture, isn't it?” Her big eyes were mocking me.

I slid along the seat and stepped out of the car on the other side, undressed. Wilma ran into the water and I followed her. The water was wonderfully salty and cool. Wilma was a good swimmer and we went out about a hundred yards before turning back. It was a fine beach, very few rocks or mud on the bottom. We walked up and down the beach, shivering a bit. She kicked up the sand with her toes and stared at me, her face more intense than ever. “You strip big, Norm. You really have good shoulders, and those hands.... so strong.”

I looked down at the sand, kicked some on her feet. She seemed to have perfectly formed feet. “Why do you wear those funny looking shoes?”

“Find they relax me. The old gag about taking a cold shower—the swim did it for us, didn't it?”

“Did what? We wanted to take a swim, and we did. Let's go back to dry ourselves.”

As we headed back toward the car Wilma took my hand. We walked along like a couple of kids. She said, “You have such hard rough palms, like a laborer's. What do you do at Longson's, use your hands for a paper press?”