with Ralph Waldo Emerson. It would be nice to get back to the beach and read some Emerson.
Overtime never carried the same author around with him for more than one trip. That would be a pattern, and patterns, like women, could identify you. And he hadn’t jumped off that bridge to be defeated by a paperback book.
He found a picture: a tall, thin brunette with tight features and a cruel, intelligent mouth. He hated the stupid-looking blond cows that overpopulated these magazines. The brunette looked smart. She would do.
It’s silly, he thought as he developed a stimulating mental image, how some men balked at killing women: such a sexist attitude. If women have the right to play, they have the right to lose. The downside potential of liberation. The Equal Last Rites Amendment.
Overtime was an equal-opportunity button man. A Title Nine killer. The first person he had ever killed, and the last person he had ever killed for free, had been a woman. But she had been his wife, and that was personal, so it didn’t count.
And a very unprofessional job it was, he thought with some chagrin. He had slashed her maybe a hundred times, maybe more. Sloppy, emotional. Messed it up so badly that he’d had to drive his car to the bridge, leave the suicide note, and do a perfect forward, twisting one-and-a-half gainer into the bay.
“Med student kills wife and self. Film at eleven.”
The phone rang. He picked it up but said nothing. The voice on the other end sounded nervous.
“Uhhh, we think we got it locked.”
You think?
“Call me when you know,” Overtime said. “Where’s the staging area?”
“Vegas.”
Not good news. Overtime hated Vegas. There was nothing to do but gamble, and Overtime didn’t gamble. Basic mathematics precluded an activity in which the odds were against you.
“Is the dog in yet?” he asked.
“He’s on his way.”
“I want pictures. Current ones, please.”
Overtime hung up and turned his concentration back to the photograph. He needed to achieve release. Sexual tension was a distraction. Not that he had much to do but wait. Let the dog catch up to the bird. The bird worries about the dog, and doesn’t think about the hunter.
Then bang.
One shot, just in, just out. Professional.
Release.
6
I think there are three trees,” Neal said for the fiftieth time that morning.
“Oi tink dere aaw tree trees,” Polly repeated for the fiftieth time.
“Three trees.”
“Tree trees,” Polly said. “The hell we talking about trees, anyway? Nobody’s gonna ask me about one tree, never mind tree trees. They’re going to ask me about doing ih. ”
“Doing it,” Neal said. “There’s a t at the end of the word. Pronounce it. I’m begging you.”
“And we never did ih in a tree,” Polly said. “Ih, ih, IH!”
Neal dropped his head down on the kitchen table and moaned softly.
Six days. Count them, Lord, six days. Six days of “I think there are three trees,” and “Park the car and go the party with Barbara,” and “I like my bike.” Five days of trying to get her to respond to a simple question with a simple answer instead of a stream-of-consciousness soliloquy that would have made James Joyce reach for a nice drink of Drano. Israel won an entire war in six days, and I can’t get one woman to pronounce it.
Neal raised his eyes and looked up at her.
Today’s costume consisted of black toreador pants, a black tube top, and enough black jewelry to dress Scarsdale in mourning for a week.
She made a face at him, lifted her bare foot onto the table, and started to paint her toenails.
Neal watched her make careful, precise strokes until he realized he was being mesmerized by her almost Zen-like concentration.
“Say it,” he said.
“Take me to dinnuh,” she answered without taking her eyes off her task.
“I can’t take you to dinner,” he said, stressing the r. “You’d be seen.”
“I want to go out to dinnuh,” she whined. “Anyways, nobody in this dog-shit
Overtime never carried the same author around with him for more than one trip. That would be a pattern, and patterns, like women, could identify you. And he hadn’t jumped off that bridge to be defeated by a paperback book.
He found a picture: a tall, thin brunette with tight features and a cruel, intelligent mouth. He hated the stupid-looking blond cows that overpopulated these magazines. The brunette looked smart. She would do.
It’s silly, he thought as he developed a stimulating mental image, how some men balked at killing women: such a sexist attitude. If women have the right to play, they have the right to lose. The downside potential of liberation. The Equal Last Rites Amendment.
Overtime was an equal-opportunity button man. A Title Nine killer. The first person he had ever killed, and the last person he had ever killed for free, had been a woman. But she had been his wife, and that was personal, so it didn’t count.
And a very unprofessional job it was, he thought with some chagrin. He had slashed her maybe a hundred times, maybe more. Sloppy, emotional. Messed it up so badly that he’d had to drive his car to the bridge, leave the suicide note, and do a perfect forward, twisting one-and-a-half gainer into the bay.
“Med student kills wife and self. Film at eleven.”
The phone rang. He picked it up but said nothing. The voice on the other end sounded nervous.
“Uhhh, we think we got it locked.”
You think?
“Call me when you know,” Overtime said. “Where’s the staging area?”
“Vegas.”
Not good news. Overtime hated Vegas. There was nothing to do but gamble, and Overtime didn’t gamble. Basic mathematics precluded an activity in which the odds were against you.
“Is the dog in yet?” he asked.
“He’s on his way.”
“I want pictures. Current ones, please.”
Overtime hung up and turned his concentration back to the photograph. He needed to achieve release. Sexual tension was a distraction. Not that he had much to do but wait. Let the dog catch up to the bird. The bird worries about the dog, and doesn’t think about the hunter.
Then bang.
One shot, just in, just out. Professional.
Release.
6
I think there are three trees,” Neal said for the fiftieth time that morning.
“Oi tink dere aaw tree trees,” Polly repeated for the fiftieth time.
“Three trees.”
“Tree trees,” Polly said. “The hell we talking about trees, anyway? Nobody’s gonna ask me about one tree, never mind tree trees. They’re going to ask me about doing ih. ”
“Doing it,” Neal said. “There’s a t at the end of the word. Pronounce it. I’m begging you.”
“And we never did ih in a tree,” Polly said. “Ih, ih, IH!”
Neal dropped his head down on the kitchen table and moaned softly.
Six days. Count them, Lord, six days. Six days of “I think there are three trees,” and “Park the car and go the party with Barbara,” and “I like my bike.” Five days of trying to get her to respond to a simple question with a simple answer instead of a stream-of-consciousness soliloquy that would have made James Joyce reach for a nice drink of Drano. Israel won an entire war in six days, and I can’t get one woman to pronounce it.
Neal raised his eyes and looked up at her.
Today’s costume consisted of black toreador pants, a black tube top, and enough black jewelry to dress Scarsdale in mourning for a week.
She made a face at him, lifted her bare foot onto the table, and started to paint her toenails.
Neal watched her make careful, precise strokes until he realized he was being mesmerized by her almost Zen-like concentration.
“Say it,” he said.
“Take me to dinnuh,” she answered without taking her eyes off her task.
“I can’t take you to dinner,” he said, stressing the r. “You’d be seen.”
“I want to go out to dinnuh,” she whined. “Anyways, nobody in this dog-shit
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