Payback by Sam Stewart

yard. No grass ever grew under Richard Gough’s feet; it was all terra-cotta. She ambled to the pool.
    Robert R. Mitchell sounded practically terrific.
    He seemed to be standing where the rest of her fine generation should have been, if fashion or comfort or boredom hadn’t taken them to some other port.
    She looked at the hedges that rimmed the back yard and then squinted at the pool. The sun had come up very startlingly bright. The air was still chilly but the water, in the heated little quarry, would be warm.
    On an impulse, she suddenly stripped off her sweatshirt, climbed up the diving board, thought for a moment, and then took the plunge.
    The water was good. She swam a few lengths of it, feeling it tingling and soothing her body, then floated for a while, thinking of nothing but the sun and the sky and how Robert R. Mitchell would undoubtedly be a very grave disappointment if she actually met him.
    In Richard’s bedroom, with a towel wrapped tight and the radio saying it was ten after nine, she checked through the phone book, looking up Entrepreneur magazine. If anyone she knew was a total workaholic, it was Harry Alina. Ten after nine and he’d be ready for his lunch.
    Sitting on the bedspread and combing out her hair, she got him on the telephone.
    â€œHarry? Joanna Reese. Listen,” she said, “I’ve got a brilliant idea.”

6
    Mitchell had breakfast. Sitting in a coffee shop, wolfing half an omelet then staring at the rest of it, yellow and soggy, feeling suddenly glutted.
    By the time he got home, half starved and half queasy, limping from the knots that were chewing up his leg, he was ready for a Moment of Silence for himself. As he opened the door, though, the radio was spitting out excitements of Spanish. A head popped out at him. Melda said, “Oh señor. Ju hokay?”
    Wincing, he nodded. He’d forgotten she’d be there. Monday was maid-day.
    The radio blatted. Melda said, “Ju big surprising in the morning,” and waddled through the living room fronted by a mop. Mitchell tried to tell her he’d like to be alone. Melda, oblivious, told him, “Sokay. Ju no bother,” and headed very briskly down the hall. He tried another angle: he said he had to sleep. Nodding comprehension, she lowered the radio, till finally Mitchell used his limited Spanish and said to her, “ Comprende. Yo necessito usar el dormitorio ,” which netted him a smile. Melda, which he gathered was short for Esmerelda, the girl for whom the Hunchback had busted his hump, understood about bedrooms and their customary use. “Oh,” she said knowingly. “Fren coming, uh? Hokay.” She was giggling, putting down the mop.
    He went into the living room and headed for the bar. The room was immaculate—sterile and neat—a Hollywood decorator’s careful idea of Heterosexual Executive Taste: a desert of beiges in the Beverly Hills. He reached for a bottle.
    Melda came in in a dusty-looking raincoat and hovered at the wall. “I forget,” she said somberly, “but somebody call.” She was rummaging for carfare. Mitchell, without much interest, said, Who?
    Melda had forgotten “what he nane was,” she said, “but he tell me he calling ju many many tine and ju no calling heen. Sending many many postcard, ju no calling heen. What he say was, ju calling heen now or no what.”
    Mitchell cocked his head.
    Melda, departing, said, “Is all writing down. In thee bedroom,” she told him, and giggled at the word.
    Mitchell shook his head. He had no idea what she was talking about, and he wasn’t in a hurry to get in there and look.
    He poured himself a Scotch and then reached in the bookshelf for an Ellington record, “‘A’ Train” starting to rumble off the tracks as he turned on the bathwater, hot as he could take it, and stripped off his sweater.
    The note was on the bed, on a torn blue envelope, the