Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

Michele kissed me, pulled out of my arms. “Perhaps we should respect his request for privacy. Let us go, be moving... ever since you left me I have felt I am standing still. You must tell me all about Monsieur Matt on the stand today.”

“Okay. But I'm afraid the big monsieur had a rough time,” I said, packing a few things into her overnight bag.

It was still light by the time we reached Montauk but we were too late for the fishing boats. Michele thought the country quite desolate and dreary looking. She also thought Matt's wife must have been an awful woman and that his books were also awful. But she was very much in favor of the lobster dinner we had. We stopped for the night at a rather fancy motel within the sound of the ocean waves. Although we had only been apart one night, we made love with all the passion of honeymooners and when she finally let go of me I stared up at the darkness and smiled—feeling very certain I wasn't a “lousy lay.”

I had done nothing but sit around the courtroom all day and I wasn't tired enough to sleep. I thought again, with the same warm amazement, of the odd crew of characters my life had been tied up with the past months. I'd be glad to be rid of them. Sometimes when watching a TV commercial, I'd have the feeling I was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. I'd think of the thousands of dollars, the talent, and all of it for the sale of a little dime can of cleanser. It was the same way with Matt: his big house, his 'literary' life, even Francine's death, Wagner and Jackson's skills, the whole operation at Longson—all went in to producing a book about a girl kicking a guy in the groin or getting beaten on the breasts. Perhaps I was over-simplifying things, but I ran my hand over Michele's shoulders, as if she were the only real thing in the world. Yet, in a sense, our being together in this motel was dependent—to some degree—upon that kick in the groin. Maybe Michele was right about the lack of dignity in life here. But hell, the same thing was true in France; I understood Mart's books sold very well there in translation. It was all quite confusing... and embarrassing.

Saturday was another mild Fall day, but cloudy. After a walk along the beach searching for shells—and not knowing what to do with them—we had breakfast. Michele kept talking about the various things to be done around 'the house,' including looking at a boat. So we made our way over several charming and old fashioned little ferries, and finally we were on an old Navy craft and the three hour trip across the Sound was windy but relaxing. We were 'home' an hour after we hit the Connecticut shore.

In the afternoon we went to see our boat and fell in love with a wide, tubby, 21-foot cat boat. It had a tiny little cabin you had to practically crawl into, with an open 'head' at one end that didn't work. But the boat yard owner assured us a fine, safe boat with a decent motor. The boat was already up on land and the owner was asking $1500, but as the yard owner explained, “It ain't a firm $1500. I don't want you to get in over your heads, you understand, so I'll give it to you straight—this boat is worth at least double the money. She may look the devil but the wood is good and she's only six years old, engine overhauled this season—I did the job myself. Buy her now and next season you should expect to put about another few hundred bucks in her. Needs new sail, mattresses, anchor, things like that. Let me call the owner, tell him you'll pay cash, see what gives.”

By the end of the day we were minus $850 and the sudden owners of a boat. The yard man advised us that for the winter all we had to do was drain and grease the motor, slap a coat of paint on the hull and decks, then... “cover her with canvas and she'll be snug all winter. Along about April, you'll take care of the seams, give her a real paint job, restep the mast... but don't worry about that now. By the by, I just happened to remember, I got an old canvas cover that will fit your boat and I'll let you steal it for thirty bucks.”

We purchased several tremendous cans of white paint, brushes and early Sunday morning we were busy as kids painting our 'yacht'. You'd think a 21-foot boat could be painted in about 21 minutes. By noon we hadn't half-finished the job, although we had used up enough paint to do a house. We were tired, dirty and splattered. Michele went off and came back with two giant hero sandwiches and beer and found a fairly clean patch of beach to eat on, and then we stretched out for a rest.

Staring up at the clean sky I thought: “I'm happy. I have everything I want, really want. And if I have to plug Matt Anthony's pedestrian novels in payment, well, so be it. After all, what harm do they do, how much of the violent bit does the reader believe? What difference would it make if I earned my living plugging cigarettes, or turning out cars or shoes? I—”

Michele turned on the sand beside me, asked, “What are you mumbling about?”

I faced her, poked at a speck of paint on her face, took in the trim fit of the dungarees over her hips. “Was I mumbling? Must have been thinking aloud. I just decided I'm a very happy man and I was trying to find out why. I mean, Mart's trial... well, in a sense they are somehow trying to convict him for the books he wrote. God knows they sounded pretty horrible. But those books aren't just Matt's—I help produce them, so does Bill Long and Marty Kelly and every clerk in the book stores and the newspapers and paperback editors and newsstand dealers and... hey, do you want to hear any of this?”

“I don't understand it. Perhaps I should try to. Norm-man, if you are happy, be glad, as I am. Why must you worry about the know-how behind your happiness? Or do you think you can manufacture it?”

“Probably wouldn't sell, anyway,” I said, thinking how right she was. A second ago I'd sounded like the would-be Madison Avenue personality slob I'd forgotten about I reached over and tapped her backside. “Okay, matey, back to work. Please note the sudden appearance of nautical words in my speech. We have to be careful not to bore our friends talking about the darn boat.”

Ws finished at four, got the canvas cleaned and ready to go on the following weekend. Michele was pooped and after we cleaned up she slept soundly. It was past ten when she awoke and I said it would be silly to go back to New York tonight: if I missed part of the trial Monday it would only be the dull testimony of the couch doctors.

Michele didn't have a class until eleven, so after a big breakfast we took our time driving to the city. I stopped at the office and took care of a few things, had galley proofs sent to Frank Kuhn, mixed some tobacco, lunched with Marty Kelly. It was 5 p.m. when I reached Riverside and, of course, court was adjourned for the day. I tried to find Hank, without success, finally ate supper alone and took the evening papers back to the motel.

There wasn't much in the papers. Jackson had a well-known psychiatrist testify that certain tests proved Matt unstable during emotional stress. The very fact Matt could plot an alibi and a phony crime immediately after his wife's death proved, according to this doctor, that his thinking was not normal, that he didn't know right from wrong, that he was temporarily insane at the time he struck Francine. I didn't get it but that's what the eminent doctor claimed.

Wagner had then put a State psychiatrist on the stand to testify other tests proved Matt absolutely sane, normal and under stress he would know the difference between right and wrong, that he was sane enough to form a criminal intent. The fact he set up an alibi proved that far from being insane, his mind was working at normal speed and he was thinking of self-preservation. This doctor also claimed that Mart's books proved he had an “addiction for violence.” Under a sharp cross-examination by Jackson the doctor had agreed that a capable writer could write about violence without being of a violent mind. I was very happy I had skipped the day.