Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

“Honest Matt Anthony! By what rationalization do you picture yourself writing the truth?”

“Truth? That's the whole point, champ, I don't pretend to write the truth. I write crap fantasies—the modern fairy tale: two-fisted, gonadal whimsy. But I never fool my readers or myself. Once a writer fools himself he's lost. But not little Matt. Plain and simple, I'm a hack and I'm writing to make a big buck. I haven't any fuzzy notions I'm turning out literature; I don't worry whether my name will live two seconds after I die or not.”

Matt was staring at Brown, as if waiting for an answer, an argument. Brown sipped his beer. Matt asked, “Isn't that something? I get it by the case from Austria.”

“Very good.” Brown glanced at his wrist watch. “Matt, I simply must make that train. I should have taken the early one. I'm looking for a job and I'm to see somebody this afternoon who may be able to arrange for me to ghost several textbooks.”

“Relax, champ, I'll get you there. I might even drive you into New York. Don't worry about Francine or the Hunters being uncomfortable around you. I—”

“Matt, I'm the one that's uncomfortable. I must catch that train.”

“Okay, okay, Hank. Just don't worry. I can make the station in six minutes flat. Champ, I want you to come out and spend time here. I'll clean house of all jerks, ship Fran-cine to town for a shopping spree. Just the two of us to bull about old times.”

“Thanks, Matt, but Ruth is waiting for me in Chicago.”

“Relax, champ, you've had a tough time. You need a vacation, I have the house, the beach, the boats. Ruth would agree with me.”

“Let me see how my time turns out, Matt. I might have to remain East over the weekend. I'll call you.”

“Not this weekend. I'm having Gary Rawn, the screen star, and his current gal, down. What about the following weekend?”

“I'll see how things work out. If this job comes through, I may settle in New York, Matt, let me call you.”

Matt stood up, took a boxing stance. “Great seeing you, champ. You're a breath of clean air. So we have a date. Finish your beer. I'll see if Fran needs anything in the village, then drive you to the station.”

Francine was sitting on the rear steps, sipping rye and water. The poodle was busy worrying a lemon, which he thought was a ball. Joel Hunter was stretched out on a dull red lounge—two empty glasses on the floor—glancing at an English magazine. Wilma Hunter was sewing a bra strap. Before Matt could open his mouth, Francine sprang to her feet, told him, “I've been waiting for you to step out here. Matt, are you out of your goddamned mind? If the papers, the gossip columnists, ever found out you're entertaining a Fifth Amendment Red, or that you even knew him, why Hollywood would drop the option on Slug In The Gut and you'd be ruined as a writer!”

“No, my darling, not as a writer. What you mean to say is my sales might dip. Although I even doubt that. Hank is one of the oldest friends I have, and I certainly do not intend to let anybody tell me who my friends are to be.”

“I'm telling you, Matt Anthony!” Francine said. “Keep your gentle voice down, honey. Anybody is a noun that can be both male and female.”

“You might have the decency to think of Joel's career,” Francine said, stooping to pick up her drink. “Francine, my sweet, don't tempt me.”

“Seriously, Matt,” Wilma said, “Fran is right. We're not the martyr type, we—”

“Wilma,” Matt said, his eyes staring at her breasts, “will you please explain what sort of movement would make a bra snap? I'm dead serious. They're not like an arm, or even the hips, where there is a certain amount of movement, or muscular contraction. They lay in the bra like eggs waiting... waiting for what?” (Matt loved to shock people with his clever 'hot' talk. But actually he enjoyed it because deep in his mind, Matt himself was the one most shocked by his own bold words.)

“Stop it, Matt,” Wilma said. “This isn't a joke.”

“Do you think this professor fellow will ever mention meeting me?” Joel asked.

Matt smiled down at Joel, aware of the narrow shoulders —and how huge be must look in comparison to this runt. “Joel, what do you think he's rushing back to New York for? He wants to shout it from the top of the Empire State Building. Listen to me, all of you; maybe you don't agree with what the champ did, but that's no call for this display of Goddamn rude manners.” He turned to Francine. “You acted with all the taste of a two-bit whore stuck with a lead quarter.”

“You know what you can do, Mr. Sonofabitch. If your friend wants to get his rear kicked, fine. But don't bring him here so we all get the boot.”

“As usual, you're talking sheer nonsense, honey,” Matt said. “You'll be slobbering about witches and bogeymen next.” He paused to smile. “Matter of fact you should be grateful for the champ's courage. You see, if he wanted to save his job and name people, he could have very easily named me!”

Wilma stopped sewing. “Really, Matt?”

“You?” Francine blurted the word out. “Now I've heard everything!”

“Indeed, darling, little old me,” Matt said, his voice mocking them. “I know my dearest wife thinks of me only as a drunken dumb-ox so it may come as a shock to learn I didn't quit college to write—as a jacket blurb once stated. I was thrown out for being the only instructor backing a student anti-ROTC demonstration. I was the only teacher with guts. True, that was over 20 years ago, but mere mention of my name would still make headline reading now.”

They were silent for a moment, Matt enjoying things thoroughly. Then Wilma asked, “You were the only teacher? Where was the professor at the time?”

“He was lecturing at—”

Francine stormed over to Matt, her head barely reaching the bushy grey hair on his chest. “You damn fool! Did you lend him any money? You know how tight—”

“I told you to keep your sweet voice down. Hank refused money. But I am going to see if I can do something about finding the champ a job with Longson.”

“They'll love that! Just eat it up! Bill Long is after you to make good the money—” Francine noticed the Hunters straining their ears and stopped. She shouted up at Matt, “You'll have nothing more to do with him!”

“No? I've asked him out for a weekend. If the champ gets a job in New York, I shall certainly see him as often as possible.”

“Matt Anthony, that man is not coming into my house again!”

Matt laughed. “While it isn't your house, nor mine, but the bank's, I am still able to ask my friends here.”

“Matt, I've taken all I can stand from you. I won't see us broke because of some sentimental whim of yours.” Francine started around his big bulk. Matt grabbed her shoulders, asked, “Where are you going?”

“To settle this! To tell that... Red bastard to get the hell out of here!”

Matt squeezed her shoulder and Francine's face screwed up with pain. She tried to get away but Matt shook her hard, his face going paler than his stubble of gray-white whiskers. Matt told her, “Francine, honey, some things I'll take from you because it's a kind of game between us. But Hank Brown is one of the few real things in my life. Do you understand that? He's an isle of reality in this phony world. If you ever say a single out-of-the-way word to Hank, I'll kill you! I mean that.” He pushed her away, sending Francine sprawling against the wall, then walked out.

The poodle whined, Wilma sat there pop-eyed and Joel Hunter said, “My, aren't we melodramatic!”

Francine Anthony stepped away from the wall, rubbed her shoulder.

As they walked toward the roadster, Henry Brown asked, “Something wrong, Matt? You look sick.”

“Nothing. Another row with Francine—as you probably heard.”

“I didn't hear a thing. I'm sorry I caused any—”

“It really isn't about you, champ. She's such a scheming bitch. A silly doc claims my heart does a rumba now and then. Hell, I guess he knows his stuff but... it isn't anything serious. Francine keeps harping on it. Every time I take a drink, a swim, for Christsakes she looks ready to step aside so I won't fall on her when I drop dead.”

“Don't you think you should take it easy?”

“Look, champ, I carried a large policy but two years ago we were stony and I had to borrow to the hilt on it. I couldn't meet the payments and they had to cut down the insurance. Francine wouldn't mind my dying—if I had the full policy again. She's trying to get me reinstated. I guess I couldn't pass a new physical.”

“All those books, how could you be broke?” Brown asked, getting into the Jaguar.

“Don't talk like a hick, champ. Writers never make real money. In the last census the income of the average professional writer was substandard. In a way we're like pugs: a few writers are in the top brackets, a few more make a fair living—and most writers need a working wife to keep above water. Anyway, we were building this house that year.” Matt started the car, the motor purring with power. “Hank, we're really equipped for decent living here. When you come out I'll take you tuna fishing—I have a hell of a fine sea boat and... damn I never had a chance to show you the boat, the beach. This was some visit. When you come out we'll do nothing but fish and bull about the old gang. I won't do a drop of work, won't think about my damn cobra gimmick. We were all so full of purpose, so sure of life in those days. Sometimes I wonder if it wasn't all a kind of binge. Tell me, do you ever hear of Nick and old Pete? What's become of Hazel the pretty kid with the haunting eyes?”

They talked about 'old times' while waiting for the train, an awkward conversation since neither could recall much about any one person. Brown again refused a check, said he would phone about the weekend the moment he knew about his time. When the train pulled out, Matt drove down a deserted side road and parked. He ran around to the car trunk and eagerly opened a large cardboard carton—the real reason he'd gone to Hampton.

Through the mail, and under a pen name, he had ordered a complete skin-diving outfit: mask, fins, spear gun and two compact air tanks that fastened over the back. A month ago, after he had tried a friend's outfit, there had been a bitter fight with Francine over buying one. “That's all your heart needs!” she had said.

“Nonsense. I won't go down more than 50 feet. We'll buy two and both of us can explore the bay.”

“Forget it, Matt. Or better yet, let's call the doctor and have him tell us it's okay?”

Now Matt fingered the gadgets like a happy kid. He thought, It will be a cinch, hide it in the sail locker in the boat house, she never opens that. I'll only use it at night or when Fran is away. I can stay under for nearly an hour. My God, they're always talking about the British ships sunk here in 1776—-be something if I find them. Maybe treasure! Has anybody used skin diving as a plot gimmick yet? Must have been used.

When he reached the house Joel Hunter was sleeping on a beach mat on the front lawn, a shaker of cocktails sweating in the sun beside him. Wilma was dozing in a chair, a yellow scarf flung over her eyes. The dog was curled up in the shade of the chair. For a second Matt grinned down at Wilma, mentally taking off her bathing suit—as he had, in his mind, so many times before. Couple of years, he thought, she'll be a pot. But right now... mine for the asking. What the hell am I afraid of?

He walked on into the house, walking softly. Upstairs he heard May working. Quietly he walked to the veranda, opened a closet—Fran's tackle box was gone. Matt glanced at the pines which screened the view (and the wind) of the bay. He looked at his wrist watch and nodded to himself. Crossing the rear lawn, he opened the trunk of the Jaguar, and glancing around like a ham actor, took out the cardboard box, and headed through the pines toward the boat house.