Marine Corpse by William G. Tapply Page A

and looked sharply at me. Then she smiled, as if I had said something funny, or she had noticed that my fly was open. It was a remarkable smile. I read intelligence, warmth, cynicism, and self-mockery in it. It transformed her.
    Then, abruptly, she frowned. “What’d you say your name was?”
    “Coyne.”
    She arched her eyebrows. “Aha. Now I remember. Stu mentioned you several times. You were his agent. He liked you.”
    “I liked him, too.”
    She touched my hand. “You are the first person I’ve met today who has said even that much about Stu. I don’t understand these people. It’s as if he never existed. They’re all so damn dignified. These WASPs keep their upper lips stiffer than their penises.”
    Her eyes welled up with tears at the same time as she smiled. “I’m sorry,” she said. She snuffled. “That wasn’t very elegant of me. It’s just—he was a nice man, Stu, and I miss him, and nobody around here seems to give a shit. Especially his Mummy.”
    “She probably does, in her way,” I said.
    Heather Kriegel tossed her head. “If she only knew,” she muttered. “Anyway, it was nice they invited me. After this, I guess the Woodhouses will have fulfilled their social obligations to me.”
    “Aw, they’re not such bad people,” I said.
    “Like hell they’re not,” she said.
    She stood up and walked over to the window. She wore a black wool dress that revealed a sturdy body, constructed more of angles than curves, which, coupled with her short, carelessly cut hair, struck me as almost sexually neutral. Except that as she stood looking out the window, the slimness of her waist and the vulnerability of the back of her neck were decidedly feminine.
    I turned my attention to the football game, and in a minute Heather came back and folded herself into the other chair. “You’re an attorney, right?”
    “Afraid so.”
    “Well, for Heaven’s sake, you don’t need to apologize.”
    “I didn’t mean to.”
    She stared at me solemnly and nodded. “I could use an attorney right now. Are you by chance available?”
    I smiled. My legal specialty was rich old folks. Most of them turned out to be Yankees with roots deep in the rocky New England soil. They rarely called upon me to perform difficult juridical maneuvers. I didn’t consider this peculiar emphasis in my practice to be a matter of prejudice, or snobbery. It just happened to be the way things had evolved, and it had become comfortable.
    “I’m not taking any new clients just now,” I said. “I can recommend one, if you want.”
    She shrugged. “That might be good. So. Who do you like?”
    “What, the game? I like Miami. I like them a dollar’s worth.”
    “Really go out on a limb, don’t you? I’ve got the Jets and four. Not enough. Ever since they made a rule against Gastineau making a jerk of himself whenever he sacked the quarterback, the Jets have had trouble covering the spread.”
    “Well, what with my big investment and all,” I said, “my heart has been in my mouth all afternoon.”
    She grinned. “How was Stu’s book coming along?”
    “You knew about the book?”
    “Sure. He told me what he was going to do. The last time I saw him or heard from him was in October, when he left. Did he get any of it done?”
    “He sent me notebooks every week. I haven’t read them.”
    “We talked about collaborating, you know.”
    “No, I didn’t. In what way?”
    “I’m a photographer. He had in mind a kind of documentary. His text, my black-and-white photos. He was going to do his research, make his connections, and then take me into the city with my camera. I guess that’s out the window now.”
    “I don’t see why it should be,” I mused. “I do have the notebooks. Maybe there’s still a project there.”
    “I’d really like to see them.”
    “Why not? They’re not going to do poor Stu any good. Perhaps I could send them to you.”
    “Yes. I’d like that. I’m sick of taking graduation pictures and