Olivia laughed. "I don't recognize you from the description, Paul." After a moment she went on, "You're worried about the girl, aren't you? I gathered that much from what you said on the phone."
"Well, I dragged her into this," I said. "She's just a kid. She's probably still got some kind of glamorous, juvenile notions about this business. Well, to hell with her. I can't be responsible for every crazy little girl who wants to play Mata Hari or something."
After a moment, Olivia turned away. I followed her into the next room, a living room. It had books along the walls-lots of books, a record player and records, and some furniture that looked comfortable but not particularly new or expensive. The only intriguing piece was a nice little table with a built-in chessboard upon which the men were set up, ready for a game. I remembered that I hadn't got very far into Capabalanca.
Olivia wasn't in sight, but she soon came back through a swinging door that apparently led to the kitchen. A nook at that end of the room served as a dining alcove. She had a glass in each hand. I took one and raised it to her.
"To Mr. and Mrs. Corcoran," I said. We drank, and I looked at her for a moment. It was quiet and peaceful in the little house, and she was kind of a pleasant person to have around, and I was tired of thinking about Kroch and Antoinette Vail and my orders. Thinking wasn't getting me anywhere, and I said, "We have a couple of hours to kill, Doc, before we head for the Flamingo. I have a suggestion to make. It's subject to veto; I'm not pushing it; but I have a sudden urge to lock the doors and windows of the bridal cottage and consummate this crazy marriage. What do you say?"
She was silent. I saw that I had shocked her. "You put it crudely, Paul," she murmured at last. "I mean well, we had the excuse of being rather drunk last night, but we're not drunk now."
I said, "It was just a suggestion. We can play chess instead. That was your original idea, remember?"
She smiled faintly, but the smile died at once. "I… I don't think I want to be made love to just to kill time. Besides, it's broad daylight and I've never… I don't know if I really could. No, I'd rather not."
"Sure," I said. "Well, if you're going to change clothes for this evening excursion, put on something dark, not too tight in the skirt, not too high in the heels."
She said, "I don't mean to be difficult or overly finicky. But there should be something more to it, shouldn't there? Not love necessarily, I don't mean that. Just so there's something."
I said, "You'll need this," and took the.38 Smith and Wesson out of my pocket. "That is to say, you may need it."
After a moment she reached for the gun. I flicked it open and laid it in her hand that way.
"As you can see, this time it's loaded," I said. "Those round brass things are the cartridge heads. You can kill five men with that, Doc, more if you line them up and shoot through two or three at a time, and don't think it won't. The brassiere is supposed to be a good place, or the top of the stocking. The purse is not so good; you may lay it down somewhere or have it snatched from you. Use your imagination. Whatever happens from now on, don't go anywhere without this gun, not even to the john. And remember what I told you, if you have to use it."
"I'll do my best if it's necessary," she said, rather uncertainly. "But you'll forgive my hoping I won't have to."
"Sure. There's another possibility," I said. "We don't know just how this will break. In the juvenile gangs, I understand, the girl generally carries the rod so the boy will be clean if he's frisked by the fuzz-police to you. If we should get in a bind together, I might want this back, very secretly and suddenly. Your signal is when I wiggle my ears like this… What's so funny?"
She was smiling. She looked down at the blunt, businesslike little revolver and stopped smiling. "All right. When you wiggle your ears…" She broke up again.
"It may be funny now," I said severely. "It won't be when and if the time comes."
"I know," she murmured. "I'm just being silly."
I grinned. "You're a pretty good soldier, Doc."
"You don't know that yet," she said.
"I'm sorry if I stepped out of line," I said.
She hesitated for as long as a couple of seconds. Then she looked up at me. "But it wasn't out of line," she said in an even tone. "I was the one who was out of line, Paul. I forfeited all right to be prudish last night-and after all, we're married. Your request was perfectly legitimate."
I said, "Doc-"
"No," she said. "I've been protesting very loudly that I've had enough of romance and sentimentality and that I approved your lack of it. Why should I expect you to dress up your very sensible suggestion with tinsel flowers, like a lovesick boy? Just put my suitcase in the big bedroom and give me five minutes, Paul."
She started to turn away. I caught her arm and swung her back to face me. I said, "If you're trying to make me feel like a damn lecher-"
Then I stopped, because there were tears in her eyes. We looked at each other for a moment. I reached out and took the gun she was holding and put it on a nearby table. I took off her glasses and laid them beside the gun. She stood quite still while I was doing this. I kissed her carefully. Her arms went around my neck, and I kissed her again with less restraint.
We'd both been under strain of one kind of another for quite a while; we were both fed up with one thing and another, including ourselves, I guess. There comes a time when you need another human being for reasons that have very little to do with love.
She freed herself breathlessly at last. "No, darling, leave my dress alone. Maybe some other time you can rape me on the living room sofa. Today we'll use the bedroom like respectable married folks. Just… just wait here a minute, like a good boy, while I slip into something nice and sexy."
"Well, I'll wait," I said.
XVI
THE FLAMINGO LOUNGE was located in the base of a tall new building on a wide boulevard with palms down the middle. Even after all the times I've been in California and Florida, not to mention the great Southwest, I can never quite get used to the idea of palm trees growing in the United States of America. They still look exotic and foreign to me, and I expect to hear natives beating on drums at night and lions growling in the bush. There was a parking lot across the street. I put the Renault into a vacant slot and went around to help my bride out.
There was some constraint between us. This business was no longer all play-acting, but neither was it all for real. It was an uneasy, artificial relationship and I guess we were both aware that there would be a good deal to straighten out once the job was over, assuming we were both around to straighten it out afterward, and that it could be straightened.
She was wearing another good, smart, reasonably expensive dress that might have upped the circulation of Vogue slightly but did nothing much for her. It was dark brown wool, a tunic job. I looked her over for bulges and spotted none that weren't natural.
"Where is it?" I asked.
She laughed and touched her side where the tunic was loose. "It's tucked into the top of my skirt," she said. "I'm praying it doesn't fall through and go clattering on the floor at an inopportune moment." She made a face. "You can tell your information that the brassiere is a highly overrated place of concealment for anybody who isn't built like a Jersey cow; and I ruined a perfectly good stocking trying to hide it down there."
I said, "Sure. Well, we're in good time, but we might as well go over… Damn!"
"What's the matter?"
We were walking out of the lot. I'd been checking the parked cars routinely. Now I stopped, looking down at a low, racy, red topless job with big wire wheels. I knew it, of course. I'd ridden in it to New Orleans and back. You'll know him when you see him, the man on the phone had told me cryptically.