Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

There was a special smile when Matt met a guest at the station and as they stepped into his Jaguar, Matt would say, “Off to the cottage,” and his big grin when they saw the large house carefully screened from the bay by a row of immense pines. Again the little smile when he casually said, “Oh, I own all the land around this end of the bay. Might call it my private bay.”

Now he turned to Brown and with a grin (of self-pity) said, “Guess that sums up my life, Hank; feeding the poodle cantaloupe. Still, it is a long way from being an English Lit instructor—only most times I can't figure in which direction it's a long way.”

“A comfortable way, at least,” Brown said, sitting in a pigskin camp chair, rubbing his broken nose. Matt was terribly envious of that busted nose.

“A 'comfortable' weight around my neck,” Matt said. “I need a minimum of twelve grand a year for living expenses. Means three books a year, unless I'm fortunate enough to have a movie or TV sale. And with my lousy luck, those have been few and far between.”

“Lord, three books a year? How many have you published, Matt?”

“Oh, I've lost count. Around 40. And a few dozen novelettes, and perhaps 500 stories. Although I haven't done much short fiction in recent years.

“How do you do it?”

Matt smiled. “The secret is to do 10 pages a day. Trouble with most writers is they're lazy. Stall themselves with crap about having to be in the mood, all that. No matter how much hell I raise, how crocked I get, I do my 10 pages a day, seven days a week. Rain or shine. Okay, Hank, don't look so damn horrified. It really isn't much. I dictate it in about two hours, then mail the tape to my secretary in New York. Hell, I once dictated a complete novel in three days. Listen, I'm a slow writer compared to a fellow like Simenon. I can't complain, where else could I make this sort of money for a 14 hour week? You know, Hank, I often think back to the old days when we'd argue for hours over a line, the right word, or—”

Francine Anthony came into the living room followed by a black poodle licking his chops, and the Hunters. The Hunters wore bathing suits. Wilma Hunter had a strong figure w ith sturdy hips and a great bosom. She had an average face, but intense eyes, and her very red hair was rough and kinky. Joel Hunter was slim and stooped. His face was flushed and in sharp contrast to his white-gray hair which was cropped very short—like a worn brush. He was smoking a corncob pipe and wearing thick black-shell glasses. He dropped into a chair with a decidedly feminine movement, stretching his thin legs. He said, “I've never seen a dog like that before, eating fruit like a pig.”

The poodle looked up, ran over and mounted one of Joel's legs. Joel yelled, “Matt, will you get this sexy mutt off me!”

Matt looked at Hank Brown and smiled.

Francine Anthony said sharply to the dog, “Come here, Clichy.” She walked over and kicked the poodle's backside, and he whined, then sat down and went back to licking his whiskers. Everything about Francine was small and compact. Her features were sharp and her shorts and striped blouse showed off a slightly scrawny figure. She could have been 40 years old, or 50. Her face was weather-beaten and her hair stringy and wild. She asked, “Anything in the mail, Matt?” as she ran her eyes over Brown's worn tropical suit.

“No checks; honey, this is Hank Brown. Prof. Hank Brown. We used to teach together at Brooks. Hell of a thing, haven't seen him for years, and I run into Hank in Hampton, of all places. Hank, these two slightly drunk inkers are Wilma and Joel Hunter. Perhaps you've read some of Joel's children's books, Hank. They sell faster than contraceptives.”

Joel waved as he said, “Oh, Matt, you always do that to me. ”

“I wish they did sell that fast,” Wilma Hunter said, nodding at Brown.

Francine said, “Glad to meet you, Professor. What were you doing in Hampton, Matt?”

“Out for a ride and there was old Hank waiting at the station. Must be at least 16 or 17 years since we last saw each other. Hasn't it, champ?”

“About that. I'm really an ex-professor, Mrs. Anthony,” Brown said as the poodle came over and sniffed him. Brown rubbed the dog's wooly head. The professor had big hands for a little man.

Francine lit a cigarette, blew thin clouds of smoke through her nose as she said, “Seems to me I've read something about you, Prof. Brown. A book out recently?”

Hank Brown glanced at Matt, who smiled. “I only published one book. That was quite some time ago.”

“A textbook, and a damn good one,” Matt added. “Joel, that's the racket we should be in, writing textbooks. The dough pours in, year after year.”

“But somehow your name rings a bell,” Francine said. “You can have the bedroom in the...”

“Thank you but I have to be back in New York tonight.”

There was a moment of silence which Matt enjoyed, then Francine asked him, “How many drinks did you have in Hampton?”

“I didn't even sniff a cork, my darling. I stopped to look at some new reels, glanced at the magazines,” Matt said, fingering the car keys in the pocket of his plaid shorts, certain the 'stuff' was safe in the trunk of the roadster. Brown said, “It's nearly one. I want to catch the 2:05 train.”

“Plenty of time, champ. We have a lot of talking to do. Want some lunch?”

“Thanks, Matt, but as I told you, I've already eaten.”

“How about a cocktail?” Francine said, “Matt, the doctor said—”

“Okay, honey, but the doc didn't say my guests couldn't drink. What are you guzzling these days Hank, gin and tonic, Scotch?”

“I could use a beer.”

“Splendid, I have some imported brew that's terrific Wilma?”

Wilma shook her head. Joel said, “Much too early for beer. I'll take a Scotch, please, Matt.”

Matt gave his wife a very tender smile. “Are you gassed-up for the day, yet, darling?”

“Don't be so goddamn smart, Matt. I don't want anything.”'

As Matt started for the kitchen Francine said, “Ring for May.”

“I'm not too old to fetch a drink for a buddy. And don't worry, honey, I really don't want a belt.” Once inside the kitchen Matt leaned against the door and listened. After a moment he heard Francine say, “Names stick in my mind—a lousy habit. Haven't you been in the papers recently, Prof. Brown?”

“Yes.”

“Divorced your wife?” Wilma Hunter asked.

“What? No, no, nothing like that I... uh... refused to sign a loyalty oath and was dismissed from Brooks. I also had the misfortune to do this on a day when there wasn't much news.”

Matt grinned at the sudden hush in the living room, broken somewhat when Francine said harshly, “Oh, yes!”

Joel asked, “Why didn't you sign the damn thing? I mean, what the hell, avoid all the... mess?”

“Well,” Hank said slowly, obviously not wanting to discuss it, “I felt it wasn't a question of loyalty at all, but rather an invasion of privacy. Also, it's rather complicated. If I had signed I probably would have been called upon to... perhaps... become a kind of informer. I couldn't do that.”

There was a long silence and then Joel Hunter suddenly came to life, as if hearing the conversation for the first time. He sat up straight, his red face full of worry. He said, “Oh, my!”

Matt, who was standing in the doorway holding a large glass of dark thick beer and a jigger of Scotch, said, “Don't jump, Joel, Hank isn't a leper.”

Francine actually glared at Matt, then calling the dog, she left the room. Matt said sternly, “Fran!” The Hunters remained for a moment, ill at ease, then Wilma said, “Come along, Joel, show me what you want typed.”

Joel nodded at Brown and as he passed Matt gave him a sickly grin. “Don't forget your goddamn drink!” Matt said, shoving the glass at him, spilling Scotch on Joel's smooth chest.

Matt handed Brown the beer, sat down opposite him. “The smug sonsofbitches. Why didn't you tell them off, champ?”

“Can one explain hysteria in a few sentences? You were wrong, Matt, I am a modern leper. To associate with me can mean blacklist, loss of employment. Really, Matt, I wish you'd drive me to the station. You know I didn't want to come here.”

“Don't worry about the damn train, we have time. Hell of a deal when you, of all people, can't feel at ease in my house. But don't mind Francine, she's the world's biggest bitch.”

Hank stared at him over the glass of beer.

“We've hated each other from the moment we got married. That's why we're so compatible.”

Brown looked puzzled, as Matt knew he would. After the tiny smile, Matt said, “Francine is right for me, she's a pusher and a worrier, and you know what an easy-going slob I am. Then we have great times in bed. We're a couple of sexual sadists and since we hate each other, well... we're fantastic between the sheets. Don't look so damn shocked, Hank, I'm only telling you what...”

“Matt, why tell me?”

“Oh, come now, champ. You know damn well every man is curious—even if only passively—about every woman's sex life. Christ, not you—you just can't have become a hypocritical old bastard. Man, when you see Wilma's big knockers, don't you wonder what she's doing with a fag like Joel? Admit it, Hank: could you take your eyes off that breastwork?”

Brown looked a bit sick as he said, “A man my age loses a great deal of that... eh... curiosity and... Matt, what's happened to you?”

Matt's smile opened into a laugh. “Nothing very much, champ, I'm a success. A big gassy success. I make money. Everything I write sells, my books are translated all over the world. Don't look down your busted nose at me, champ, because I write about sex and violence. In your old age, Hank, you're naive, real simple.”

“Thank you.”

“It's a fact, you still put a halo around the word 'writer.' Let a pro tell you about writing. It requires a great deal of research—for example, I know all there is to know about police work, detection. And everything I read or see must be translated into a gimmick for a crime plot. Those floods out West the other day—I may use them in a murder story. A month ago I happened to read that a cobra can only strike down, Hot up. That's been burning and turning over in my mind ever since. I've read up on it, even. A cobra can only strike down. I'll use that... some day. Oh, my mind is full of many such fascinating thoughts. Just as my relationship with Francine helps put sex in my books and... skip the vomit look, champ, I know it sounds rough, but I'm safe. I am. I'm safe because objectively and subjectively I'm one of the few writers in America who knows exactly what he's doing. Yes, sir!”

“Matt, what are you talking about?”

“Salvation!”

“What's all this mean?”

“That I don't kid myself. That's the secret—not to fool the fooler. It means all writing today is a series of compromises. It has to be or it will never reach print. Things are reduced to the degree you compromise. You can't be honest if you compromise. Yeah, they talk about the mediocrity of TV—as though compromise hasn't leveled all our culture, our lives. Your so-called serious writers, who think they're writing honestly, they're lying in their brains and don't realize it. Don't realize they have compromised, and begin believing the stuff they write is honest. They're lost.”

Matt pounded his fist into his other palm. “Of course, it's tougher today. Different in the old days—the good old days! At least then you could write honestly because everything was so new, even the publishers couldn't detect the truth. People are too smart today. 'Greatness' gives me a laugh. One major reason for Shakespeare's 'greatness' was the mass illiteracy, hence the worship of any printed word. London could write about Alaska, Twain about the West, Hemingway about war and the Paris of 1920, Faulkner and Caldwell about the South, Lewis about main street... and not many people knew if it was real or not. Today, as a result of the travel two wars have brought, radio, TV, paperbacks, greater education in general, people are smarter. There aren't any new frontiers—unless you write about pansys, and that will soon become too well known—to write about. So people know when a writer is compromising, faking. Education has made people tolerant in an unhealthy way: they're actually cynical and indifferent to whatever issues a writer tries to give. But above all, they damn well know when he's lying, or half-lying. Well, by God, I'm no fake, I never lie to my readers!”