Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

“The little sonofabitch is home, humoring his whims. If anything, he's out of this world at the moment, gone... real gone.” She suddenly laughed, a warm live sound that filled the car, made the cabbie grin. “Don't look so startled. A writer often has to get away from it all—and there's a devastating little phrase. Tell you, phone the house in two days, he'll be there. When you come up to the apartment you'll see this purple monstrosity he calls a den. Joel's too poor to hop a plane for Paris or Mexico, so when the routine gets him, or something upsets him—like this Anthony stuff—why be locks himself in his den with a bottle, some food and a stack of his favorite records, gets stewed on music and rye. Music really sends that boy. I hate it, but I can see his point: no radio, TV, newspaper, typewriter or people. He even has his own bathroom. After a day or two he comes out all rested up and rather proud of himself for 'losing time'—as he cleverly terms it. That's the way it is with writers, you have to put up with anything and everything with them. Suppose you can tell I hate the idea. I told you that already. And I know I'm talking too much. Sure, I'm a bit liquored up myself. But don't worry, I rarely get plastered.”

“All sounds like a novel idea, at least,” I said, not knowing what to say.

“It works for him. It would drive me nuts,” Wilma said as the cabbie pulled up to the curb.

As we were getting out and Wilma was stooped over, I could see the outline of her bra and pants under the dress: rousing lines. I had this feeling I could sleep with her if I played it right; and I don't care how trite that sounds—I had the feeling. I was also pretty sure I was going to play it 'right'.

The bar had enough people in it to be comfortable. We got a table in the corner. She said, “I'm on gin, I'll stay with it. Gin and tonic, please.”

After I told the waiter to make it two, I told her, “You had me fooled. Would have sworn rye.”

She gave me a long look, then nodded as she said, “I think you're okay, Norm. Although that could be called a snotty crack. But I don't think so. What was it we're to talk about?”

“Matt Anthony. I'm thinking of advertising one of his books and, the point is, I have to know more about what happened before we go ahead. In short, I'm doing research on Mr. Matt Anthony.”

“That stuffed crud. I suppose I'm talking like an ingrate— we've freeloaded upon him often enough. But then he needs an audience. I'll bet he's looking forward to taking the stand at the trial.”

“Do you think he murdered his wife?”

“Is there any doubt? He's said so.”

“There's a difference between murder and manslaughter,” I said as the waiter put our drinks on the table.

“Not to the victim. But I see what you mean. I read about the murder charge—that's ridiculous. He got steamed and clipped Fran, and it must have been a belt he'd been saving up for years. She was mostly drip—not that Matt was any dilly to live with.”

“You sound like you know him very well.”

“Anything in skirts gets to know Matt. His second sentence to any gal is, let's tumble in the hay. Actually, he was far more talk than action.”

I hesitated for a moment, then had a hunch she wouldn't be angry, so I asked, “Strictly as a matter of curiosity and not minding my own business: did you sleep with him?”

“No. And I expected you to ask, the way I'm shooting off my gums. But I almost did. Joel and I were in Florida when we first met them... and believe me the first dose of Matt Anthony is damn strong. He's got this great muscular body, the worldly chatter and you think this is the man. The truth is he was a doubly strong potion for me because Joel and I weren't hitting it off at the moment I hadn't learned what it means to be a writer's wife yet and Joel—he's a front runner and things were breaking all wrong for him. Nothing went right. We'd just been married and I had this feeling that somehow I was to blame, that I was wrong for him too.” She washed this down with most of her drink.

“Although I've been in publishing a number of years, I don't get what you mean by being a writer's wife. What's so special about that?” My eyes were taking inventory of her as if it was already agreed we would go to bed.

“It isn't anything special, merely different. You must get used to a lot of things. As a for instance: Joel doesn't have any set working hours, he's around the house all day and... well... being together 24 hours a day calls for a kind of adjustment. And there's the money uncertainty. I remember when we were first married and a couple of small checks came in. Why, I looked upon them as found money, rather than wages. Me, I come from a hard working, and of course, poor family, and the writing dollar frightened me. Guess it still does. Too many ups and downs, nothing you can count on. Matt once told us how he was driving to New York from California, absolutely broke. Not even a dime for food or gas. In St. Louis he had to sell his old car and practically hitch hike to New York. When he finally got his mail he found over $3,000 waiting for him, money he didn't expect. To quote Matt, “I racked up a good score.” He bought a new car and headed back to the Coast. My nerves like to know what's coming in each week.”

“Did Fran like being a writer's wife?” I nodded at the waiter.

“No. Although she sure had plenty of experience—her first husband was a typewriter slob too. First off, Matt is a joker who can really blow his money, live big. But it wasn't only the money part; she never learned that writers can't live in a rut—even an expensive one—or it dulls their work. They need shaking up, so to speak, but it has to be a shaking of their own choosing. Or it throws them off completely. What I'm trying to say is: A wife shouldn't try to dominate a writer. I suppose we shouldn't dominate any man, but especially a writer. Took me a long time to learn that. Take this mental jolting—you ever notice how writers are traveling all the time? Sinclair Lewis, for instance, was always on the go. Of course there were other complications with Matt, he never really cared for Fran. Told me that down in Florida. He married her after their first night together. I don't think Matt can really care for any woman because he doesn't know what sex is all about.”

“What's that mean?” I asked, sipping my second drink slowly, warning myself not to get high.

“Usual male arrogance. Matt thinks he has a king's scepter dispensing divine favors. Any time he had a woman who wasn't a professional whore, and I'll bet that wasn't often, Matt was overcome with the tremendous 'sacrifice' he thought the female had made, and the wonderful 'favor' he had conferred upon her. Actually, he's a horrible prude. I think that's why he writes about sex so much and so badly. He simply can't believe there is joint enjoyment, in the equality of the sexes. Happily, I never let him bestow the 'favor' on me. Although we damn near landed in bed. Know what made me see the light? A fish. Really. As I told you, Joel was in a hell of a funk. He couldn't even get a drink of water without spilling it. When the four of us went fishing for a few days, my poor Joel couldn't get a bite. Then, on our last day, the very last hour of fishing, wham! Joel hooked and boated this great marlin all by himself. Biggest fish you ever saw. It was one of those things; gave us both new confidence. That's when I told Matt I quite literally wanted no part of him.”

“And he gave up that easily?”

She laughed. “I'm trying to tell you he's a phony about sex. Every time I saw him, all last week, he'd get me aside and whisper like a hammy actor, 'Let me show you something out in the pines.' Or, 'Honey, isn't it time we see what sort of spring music we can make?” Real kid slobbering. I got so used to it I didn't bother answering. Bet if I had said yes he would have run. It was merely another muscle Matt liked to flex. Fran as much as told me—several times—he wasn't anything in bed. Nice wifey talk. You know he has a bad heart, showing his muscles will kill him one of these days if the State doesn't kill him first.”

She dug in her bag for a pack of cigarettes, shook her head as I reached for mine. Lighting her cigarette, I said, “You don't seem to be exactly fond of the Anthonys.”

“They bored me. But End Harbor is comfortable and I thought Matt was good for Joel.”

“What's that 'good' mean?” I asked, motioning for the waiter again, but holding on to my glass.

“He's an old hand. I suppose I hoped some of his success would rub off on Joel. Oh, that's unfair—I think Joel is a better writer than Matt, even commercially. But Joel's afraid to take chances and writing is a gamble. I don't mind working, giving him time to make it. I even like getting out of the house every day. I want him to try TV or... here, he has a wonderful idea for a modern fantasy novel. A woman like— Hatti Carnegie, Arden, one of these female Diors who set the fashions—she gets angry at the cosmetic industry, due to a petty, minor matter... and, for christsakes, don't blab or steal this idea.”

“I'm safe as Fort Knox.”

She blew a cloud of smoke at me. “I believe you are. Anyway, this woman deliberately changes the fashions to long, straight hair and no make up. This knocks out all the cosmetic concerns, kills TV advertising, ruins magazines, in fact the entire country is on the brink of a depression as a result In the end the President has to invite her to the White House, beg her for the sake of the country's economy to tell women to start using lotions and cosmetics again. It would be a wonderful satire, would make Joel. But he piddles around with the adventures of some bastard pussy cat, insists he wants to knock off enough children's books to feel secure first.” She shrugged—and so many things danced. “Maybe he's right Sometimes I get a chill; seems such a long chance, to base your rent and food bills on a mere idea. There's no kick to it any more.”

“Kick to writing?”

She nodded. “Joel has done some good stuff, really sensitive. He has a flair for that. When I first knew him it gave me a thrill to see his stuff in print. Now everything comes down to, 'Will it sell?' Tell me, would Joel gain anything by switching to Longson?”

“I don't know. We haven't much of a juvenile list.”

“You're pushing Matt's books. There must be some way Joel can cash in on this publicity. He's so damn afraid it will ruin him. I keep urging him to capitalize on it but... That's what I mean about the writing business, there aren't any rules, you don't know what to do. Norm, can we talk about something else except shop? Do you dance?”

“A little.”

“I'm sort of keyed up. I'm out for a hell of a time. This place is too quiet.”

“Finish your drink and we'll go. Did Matt really threaten his wife that afternoon?”

“Yes. But I thought it was only talk. And talking about that nightmare gives me the creeps. Have you a car?”

“Yes.”

“Let's drive and cool off. And forget all writers, including Matt,” she said, getting up.

We taxied to the garage and then drove out to Long Island, stopping at a dismal place where we danced and she had a few more drinks. I didn't even finish my first. For no reason I found myself telling her about Michele. Not all of it, I mean not all about last night I merely said we had a spat. But I told her other things, like how I met Michele when I was a Press Officer in Paris, fresh out of college, and she was working as a typist in SHAAF while waiting for a teaching appointment. How we had acted like a couple of jerks, afraid to touch each other, not even a kiss. Michele hadn't wanted to act the sexy French gal of fiction and the dirty jokes. And I had to prove my French wasn't limited to Voilez vous coucher avec moi ce soir? I even told Wilma about that afternoon, it was our 5th or 6th date, when we were alone in Michele's house and rushed each other to bed. What a tremendous afternoon! And I told Wilma about my winning $739 in a crap game which let us honeymoon in the finest hotels on the Cote D'Azure.