Donald Westlake: Two Much!

Gloria was at her desk, typing at her typewriter. “Look at the tan,” she said.

“It comes from the Tabasco in the bloody Marys.” I pulled the dress out from under my shirt and said, “Here’s a little something I bought you.”

“You bought me?” She held the dress away from herself with one hand, studying it without trust “If I wear it to work, will I get arrested?”

“Think of it as a weekend dress. What’s that you’re typing?”

“A letter to my mother.”

“Good. I was afraid it might have something to do with the firm.”

“What firm?”

“No double-entendres,” I warned her, and went back into my own room, which hadn’t changed much in my absence.

My firm is Those Wonderful Folks, Inc ., and I do greeting cards. I create my own copy, farm out the illustrations, and am cheated by the printer and robbed by the distributor. My product, known as Folksy Cards, is distributed only in the Greater New York area, and pays just enough to make me ineligible for food stamps.

My favorite cards are framed and mounted on the walls in my office. It inspires me to be able to look up from the desk and see the earlier emanations of my genius. “Kiss me again — I’ll turn the other cheek.” “We’ll have to stop meeting like this — roll over.” “Love is — never having to say, ‘How much?’”

In fact, they inspired me again. I no sooner sat down at my desk than I grabbed pencil and paper and wrote. “Get well soon — my doctor says you have it, too.” That was two in one day, by God; taking a vacation really does help.

Whistling cheerfully, I turned to the stack of memos on which Gloria had listed the incoming phone calls of the last few days, and what an honor roll of complainers and spoilsports unfolded there before me. Even the landlord, for the love of Christ. Jack Mulligan, my sister, Ed Frazee,

Linda Ann Margolies...

Linda Ann Margolies? I buzzed Gloria. “Who is Linda Ann Margolies?”

“A sexy voice on the phone. Young and cuddly.”

“Get her.”

“Mm hm.”

“You’re too cynical, Gloria,” I said, hung up, and finished throwing away the rest of the phone memos. Three calls from my ex-wife alone. If these buffoons overworked Gloria, she’d up and quit. Then there were Dave Danforth, Abbie Lancaster, Charlie Hillerman...

Hmmm, Charlie Hillerman. An illustrator with a very lewd style, he’d be perfect for the Get Well Soon. Unfortunately, I still owed him one or two fees for previous work, which-was surely what he was calling about. Would he do just one more, prior to payment? It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

Buzz. Gloria said, “Linda Ann Margolies.”

“Fine. Get me Charlie Hillerman.”

“You must be crazy.”

“Just get him.” I switched to the outside line, and said, “Miss Margolies?”

“Yes, it is.” Gloria’s description had been absolutely on the money: sexy, cuddly and young. “Is that Arthur Dodge?”

“Depends,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m a graduate student at Columbia, Mr. Dodge,” she said. “My master’s thesis is on humor, and I’d like to interview you about Folksy Cards and your theory of comedy and, oh, all sorts of stuffy things like that.”

“Well, you can’t hope for too much from a first date,” I said. (She had a nicely throaty chuckle.) “When did you want to get together?” Not that I was set on fire by the thought of a master’s thesis on the theory of comedy — my own theory, which could quickly have been transmitted by telephone, is if they buy it it’s funny — but the voice was intriguing. And, as John Ray pointed out back in 1650, “A maid that laughs is half taken.”

“As soon as possible,” she said. “Could I come down there today?”

“Not today,” I said. “Umm, how about next Wednesday?”

“What time?”

“One o’clock.” Late enough for me to definitely be in town, early enough so I wouldn’t have to leave for a while.

“Fine,” she said. “See you then.”

“Try to stay cheerful,” I told her, hung up, and Gloria buzzed me. “Hah?”

“Hillerman.”

“Ah.” I pushed the button. “Hi, Charlie.”

“So you’re in town, are you?” He sounded dangerous, and I was recalling now that he’s a large fellow for an illustrator. He comes from Oregon, and he’s no stranger to woodchopping. “Just wait there,” he said, “I’ll be right over.”

“No need, Charlie,” I said. “I can describe the idea on the phone.”

That bewildered him. “What idea?”

“The idea I’m calling about. It’s a Get Well Soon, and what we want—”

“You want me to do another ?” He became briefly falsetto. “You son of a bitch, you’ve been avoiding me with that out-of-town gag, all of a sudden—”

“Charlie, Charlie,” I said, “what makes you talk that way? I have been out of town. You can ask Gloria.”

“I was there yesterday,” he said. “And I went to your apartment, talked to that freak you’ve got in there.”

“You’ve got my home address, Charlie? That’s wonderful; now we can see each other after business hours, too.”

“You’re in town now , you bastard, and—”

“Charlie, what are you upset about?”

“ You owe me three hundred and fifty dollars, you son of a bitch! ”

“That much?” With my free hand I opened my checkbook, which I keep edged in black.

“I’ll take it out of your ass, Art, if I can’t get it any other way.”

“Charlie, you know how bad the greeting card business is in the summer. Don’t act as though I’m not your friend, buddy, you’ve cashed my checks before.”

“Some of them,” he said. “And some of them I used to fix bicycle tires.”

“That’s good, Charlie, that’s very funny. Listen, I’m looking at my checkbook right now, and—”

“The bank repossessed mine,” he said.

“Charlie, you’re really in top form today. You ought to write this stuff down.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m writing down. Never trust a dirty son of a bitch.”

“That’s a good rule, Charlie. Listen, to be serious for a minute, I can’t pay you the whole thing right now, but I can send you a check for, uh, fifty bucks.”

“A hundred,” he said. “And don’t send it, I’ll come down for it”

“Sixty is the absolute best I can do,” I said. “I have the landlord breathing down my neck.”

“Eighty.”

“Charlie, you can’t get blood from a stone.”

“I can get blood from you , Art Eighty.”

“Oh, very well. Seventy-five. But I don’t know what I’ll tell the landlord.”

“You’ll think of something. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“No violence, Charlie, okay? Fun’s fun, okay?”

“I’ll be as good as the check,” he said ominously.

“Listen,” I said, “on the trip down, be thinking about this one. ‘Get well soon — my doctor says you have it too.’”

“Have what?”

“Don’t worry about it Charlie. What we want is a girl, like a nice cross between a nurse and a hooker, okay?”

“You’re a complete birdbrain, Art, you know that?”

“I have faith in you, Charlie,” I said, and hung up, and went out to say to Gloria, “Now, how do you suppose Charlie got my home address?”

“Probably from your sister.”

“That’s a wonderful theory,” I said, “only slightly hampered by the fact they don’t know each other.”

“Charlie was here yesterday when she called,” Gloria said. “He’s paranoid, he thought it was you on the phone, he grabbed it out of my hand and they had a nice long chat.”

“Goody,” I said. “Get her on the phone, will you?”