he’s hidden it up to now and the two days were the drop that made the cup brimmeth over.”
“Literary allusions don’t answer this particular problem,” Sheila said curtly. “Is there anything else you could tell me?”
Oliver hesitated, played with the food on his plate. “One thing. Two things, to be exact.”
“What?” Sheila’s voice was harsh. “Don’t hide anything, Oliver. Not from me.”
“Well,” he said, speaking reluctantly, “he was supposed to read a manuscript over the weekend—it’s by a woman we’ve had some luck with up to now—and he’s always so punctilious about getting things read quickly—but on Monday morning he threw the manuscript on my desk and said he couldn’t make anything out of it and asked me to read it and tell him if it was any damn good or not. It turned out that it was perfectly acceptable and he said, Okay, you handle the deal, even though he’d made the contracts for that particular writer every time. Oh, I forgot, I didn’t order anything to drink. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Forget the wine. You said two things. What was the second thing?”
Oliver looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know whether you want to hear this, Sheila,” he said.
“I’ve got to help Roger,” Sheila said, “and so do you. And we won’t be able to do it if we keep things from each other. What’s the second thing?”
“Roger once told me that sometimes you reminded him of Medea,” Oliver said, postponing. “Now I see what he meant.”
“I’d kill anybody who tried to harm my husband,” Sheila said evenly. “And it has nothing to do with a young man showing off that he read enough Greek literature to know who Medea was.”
“I’m your friend, Sheila,” Oliver said, hurt. “And Roger’s. You know that.”
“Prove it.” She spoke without pity. “What’s the second thing?”
Oliver coughed as though he had caught something in his throat and drank half a glass of water. “The second thing,” he said as he put the glass down, “is that he asked Miss Walton to call City Hall and find out how he could get a permit to carry a pistol.”
Sheila closed her eyes. “Oh, Christ,” she said softly.
“Oh, Christ it is,” Oliver said. “What are you going to say to Roger?”
“I’m going to repeat every word of our conversation to him,” Sheila said.
“He’ll never forgive me.”
“That will be just too bad,” Sheila said.
CHAPTER
FIVE
D AMON LOOKED AT HIS watch impatiently. He had called his ex-wife, Elaine, and told her to meet him in the restaurant at one o’clock. It was now one-twenty. She had always been late for everything, which was one of the many reasons for their divorce, and she had not changed. She had not changed in other of her habits, either. She still smoked three packs of cigarettes a day and drank from morning to night and gambled away whatever money she could lay her hands on. The mixed odors of cigarette smoke and alcohol that had enveloped her still made the routine kiss of greeting on her cheek a trial for him. She had always dressed sloppily, like a girl going to class in the rain on a weekday morning in Northampton and now, a woman of sixty gone to fat, she still might appear in a restaurant in jeans and a sweater two sizes too large for her. What had seemed a charming lack of vanity in a girl when he had first met her in the book store where she worked was now a studied affectation of youthfulness in the woman. She had been a pretty girl when he married her, with a pert, mischievous small face and long red hair, and she had been smart and witty and had a generous and compassionate heart, but her airy way with money and her indolent neglect of herself and him and their apartment, plus her three addictions, had destroyed the marriage. They had married in haste, ten days after their first meeting, and they had not slept with each other before their wedding. Their discovery that they did not satisfy each other sexually
“Literary allusions don’t answer this particular problem,” Sheila said curtly. “Is there anything else you could tell me?”
Oliver hesitated, played with the food on his plate. “One thing. Two things, to be exact.”
“What?” Sheila’s voice was harsh. “Don’t hide anything, Oliver. Not from me.”
“Well,” he said, speaking reluctantly, “he was supposed to read a manuscript over the weekend—it’s by a woman we’ve had some luck with up to now—and he’s always so punctilious about getting things read quickly—but on Monday morning he threw the manuscript on my desk and said he couldn’t make anything out of it and asked me to read it and tell him if it was any damn good or not. It turned out that it was perfectly acceptable and he said, Okay, you handle the deal, even though he’d made the contracts for that particular writer every time. Oh, I forgot, I didn’t order anything to drink. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Forget the wine. You said two things. What was the second thing?”
Oliver looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know whether you want to hear this, Sheila,” he said.
“I’ve got to help Roger,” Sheila said, “and so do you. And we won’t be able to do it if we keep things from each other. What’s the second thing?”
“Roger once told me that sometimes you reminded him of Medea,” Oliver said, postponing. “Now I see what he meant.”
“I’d kill anybody who tried to harm my husband,” Sheila said evenly. “And it has nothing to do with a young man showing off that he read enough Greek literature to know who Medea was.”
“I’m your friend, Sheila,” Oliver said, hurt. “And Roger’s. You know that.”
“Prove it.” She spoke without pity. “What’s the second thing?”
Oliver coughed as though he had caught something in his throat and drank half a glass of water. “The second thing,” he said as he put the glass down, “is that he asked Miss Walton to call City Hall and find out how he could get a permit to carry a pistol.”
Sheila closed her eyes. “Oh, Christ,” she said softly.
“Oh, Christ it is,” Oliver said. “What are you going to say to Roger?”
“I’m going to repeat every word of our conversation to him,” Sheila said.
“He’ll never forgive me.”
“That will be just too bad,” Sheila said.
CHAPTER
FIVE
D AMON LOOKED AT HIS watch impatiently. He had called his ex-wife, Elaine, and told her to meet him in the restaurant at one o’clock. It was now one-twenty. She had always been late for everything, which was one of the many reasons for their divorce, and she had not changed. She had not changed in other of her habits, either. She still smoked three packs of cigarettes a day and drank from morning to night and gambled away whatever money she could lay her hands on. The mixed odors of cigarette smoke and alcohol that had enveloped her still made the routine kiss of greeting on her cheek a trial for him. She had always dressed sloppily, like a girl going to class in the rain on a weekday morning in Northampton and now, a woman of sixty gone to fat, she still might appear in a restaurant in jeans and a sweater two sizes too large for her. What had seemed a charming lack of vanity in a girl when he had first met her in the book store where she worked was now a studied affectation of youthfulness in the woman. She had been a pretty girl when he married her, with a pert, mischievous small face and long red hair, and she had been smart and witty and had a generous and compassionate heart, but her airy way with money and her indolent neglect of herself and him and their apartment, plus her three addictions, had destroyed the marriage. They had married in haste, ten days after their first meeting, and they had not slept with each other before their wedding. Their discovery that they did not satisfy each other sexually
Similar Books
