“Not really. I recall a story he did years ago in one of these literary anthologies; a charming bit about a Mexican kid who wants to be a football player. Quite different from his tough mystery novels.”
“He's a holdover from the post World War I school of writers. Last of the big, blustering, hero type. Mad Matt Anthony he's sometimes called. These days ever since the decadent school has been in vogue, most writers seem to be precocious fags.” Long laughed. “Don't quote me on that. All generalizations are fuzzy. But... well, if you ever meet Matt, you'll know what I mean.”
I said, “I lunched with him, years ago. I was working on one of those shoe string imitations of Esquire. The editor decided to bankrupt himself by paying $800 for Anthony's byline on a long adventure piece. Some horrible tripe about Matt's alleged visit to a Central American tribe of witch doctors. It was so bad no other mag would touch it. Anyway, Anthony wanted a thousand dollars, so we took him to lunch at the Algonquin—we were being very literary. Matt made the grand entrance, a salt-stained trench coat wrapped tightly around his big body. He was sporting a pointed beard and when he removed the coat he was wearing a faded sailor's striped Basque shirt and dungarees. I think he was between wives then and getting ready to sail the Atlantic. He talked loudly, drank a great deal, and of course we were the center of all eyes. The fact is, the editor became so high he finally agreed to pay the thousand. When we staggered back to the office I remember saying the article wasn't worth the money. The editor said, 'Sure, the sonofabitch can't write any more, but... by damn, doesn't he look like a writer?'”
Long clapped his thin hands together, one loud clap. “Norm, what a delicious story.'... but doesn't he look like a writer.' I must remember that, a perfect description of Matt Anthony. Well, enough of this. Let me know what decision you reach. Take your time. Confer with Kelly, if you wish.”
“No, this is my baby. I'll buzz you the second I get any clever ideas.” And what made me say, my baby? Oh Michele.
“Responsible ideas, Norm, rather than clever. And don't be afraid to say thumbs down, if you feel that way.”
Riding the elevator I thought, The bastard is giving me the horns. He wants to reissue the book but hasn't the guts. Norm, the whipping boy. Oh, hell, I'd do the same thing if I were in his position, I suppose.
As I walked into the office, Miss Park said, “I'm about to try the Turkish...”
I shook my head and closed the door. Taking out my blending kit, I mixed enough tobacco to last the day, glanced at my work sheet. There wasn't a thing that couldn't be put off for a day or two. Or that Miss Park couldn't handle, although I didn't want her to get into the habit of handling too much of my work. When I got my pipe working I rang for her, said, “I don't want to be disturbed for the balance of the day. Not even a phone call, unless it's urgent.”
“Certainly, Mr. Connor.” She gave me a wise look that annoyed me. “Anything happen... upstairs?”
“No. That is, I don't know—yet.”
Turning to leave, she stopped at the door. “Do you want the new coffee iced or...?”
“Goddamn the coffee! I don't want any!” She jumped and I grinned quickly, added, “Sorry I barked, Miss Park. Last night left my nerves on edge. Thank you, but I really don't want any coffee now. Perhaps later in the afternoon.”
When she shut the door I opened my collar and sprawled in the leather desk chair. My mind was galloping in vast circles. Michele, Bill Long, Michele, the Anthony killing... and then for no reason I thought of Miss Park, the way she had pressed her bosom against the door. “If I want an affair, this is the time,” I told myself. “I'm a grass widower, or whatever the dandy title is. Crazy, all these years and I never called her anything but Miss Park. What's with me; that would be all I'd need, an office affair! But how did Michele cash a check so early in the morning? Or did she have the cash ready? Was the flight prearranged? Had she been wanting to leave me all...? That was impossible, we had it made. But what do I do now? Forget last night.... think of now, the future. A great big fat day for decisions; Michele and now Anthony.”
I was too restless to sit. I began pacing the office and felt ridiculous; the office was far too small for pacing. “I wish Michele were here, I really need her on this Anthony thing. She has such a level head. We could talk out all the angles and... here I am, wishing like a kid! I have to snap out of it, forget my personal problems until I rack up the right move on this or Long will throw me to the stockholders. Being jobless would be a new complication. But how can I forget Michele for a second? And how can I possibly know what the public's reaction will be to an Anthony book? Hell!”
And I was quite aware that I'd never had to make any real decisions before. I had lived a very happy and mild 29 years. Everything had worked for me—until last night.
Last night.
Exactly what had happened last night? I'd been over it a hundred times since, trying to understand what had gone wrong. All I could come up with was: either I was dense or something had been cooking in Michele's head for a long time.
It had been a hot day, so muggy even the air conditioner couldn't do much with it. Perhaps the humidity had made our nerves ragged. But not that ragged. After a light supper at home, we'd been sitting around in our pajamas watching TV. The damp heat, the food and the dull TV show had left me sleepy. Through half-shut eyes I'd watched Michele's long face, the body under the sheer shortie night gown. Her auburn hair was cut in an Italian bob and strangely enough the slight boyish look seemed to heighten the sensuous quality of her face. A swarthy face with crowded, delicate features. The eyebrows and lashes so jet black it was hard to believe she didn't use mascara. The lips heavy under a faint moustache. I loved to lie in the darkness and feel those demanding lips cover me with tiny hot kisses. I loved her moustache, and the three long hairs that grew from a little mole in the cleft of her breasts.
Often when I awoke first in the morning and didn't feel like getting up, I would analyze her body. Michele's face could belong to any nationality: it could be Semitic or Latin or North African. Here in New York I'd often been asked if she was Spanish or Italian. But from the neck down her body was strictly ail-American. In fact I once had a slightly drunken argument with Michele about it. She claiming I was being a jingoist. She had the strong clean shoulders of a female athlete (although her only exercise was some mild swimming) and then her body V'd down past small breasts to a narrow waist and neat, solid hips, then the long, almost powerful dancer's legs. It was neither a slim nor a delicate body, but a very healthy one.
Completing the inventory I happily decided Michele had a far better figure than any stage beauty's—but if she only had larger breasts. I grinned as I told myself to stop thinking like an ass. The bra ads were getting to me.
Glancing at me, Michele asked with her warm accent, “Are you amused by this dull nonsense on the TV?”
“What? Honey, I wasn't even watching it.”
“And I only tolerated it for your sake,” she said, crossing the room to switch off the set. She moved with a fast, sultry grace. I thought, Lord, I'm a lucky man. I have a girl out of a European movie living with me.
Pushing a foot stool toward my chair, Michele sat at my feet, like a good Continental wife. She said, “It has been such a sweaty day.”
“New York's claim to summer fame. Perhaps we'll try Jones Beach this weekend.”
“And roast again on the bumper-to-bumper ride back? Norm-man (she always said my full name when she had something important to tell me), one of the teachers at school, Edith—you remember seeing her, the plump one— well, she has recently inherited a small house in Connecticut. A quite wonderful old stone house with enough land. Also but a short ride from the ocean, the Sound.”