THE LADY KILLER: intense, suspenseful, gripping literary fiction by LEE OLDS Page A

frenetic but it does keep you moving.”
    Whereas Sandy hesitated to attend, fearing quite justifiably the carpenter and his alcoholic girlfriend’d be there since they went every weekend, and the proximity of the two men might prove too tempting , she said,
    “You go on alone. Perhaps you’ll meet someone. I’m just too tired.” Hartwig grabbed her, shook her a little and said,
    “Then I’m going home.” She was a poor dancer but he’d been teaching her disco in the living room and he wanted to show her off.
    “If you insist, but I’m not going.”
    She was stubborn and spoiled to the hilt. Both of them were when it came to having to have their own ways. She retreated to her bedroom, locked herself in but somehow Hartwig managed to get to her. I don’t know whether it was through a window or perhaps he forced the lock. But he cornered her on her bed, pulled her up and made her get dressed. Just to make sure she went along and didn’t run away on him kept him from dressing. He, however, knew others’d be there in their sandals and shorts so what was the difference? It was a beach community. Go like you’d just come off the beach. You were there, weren’t you? The dress he picked out for her was white and summery. It’d be the beachcomber and the fashion model, perhaps a fitting combination out there.
    Not two blocks from the house they ran into several neighbors. Once Sandy began chatting he let her tightly held hand go. He figured she was no longer a flight risk and just before they entered the old tavern she did make him promise.
    “Just be good and don’t cause any trouble. That’s all I ask.” To which Hartwig answered,
    “You think I’m crazy?”
    A reasonable request, of course, if you’re dealing with rational people but they weren’t like that. Was anyone really if you stopped to think about it? None of them were, including some of the other peacemaker types in the vicinity, who caused more trouble than they made peace. On top of that they’d been drinking. Or at least the provocative ones had.
    “Boy,” said Hammond, “Now I’d really like to see Hartwig knock the crap out of that Barney fellow. He does sound despicable.”
    “You would? And I haven’t even been talking about him. I could say it never happened. Something did, however, it always does and here’s what it was.”
    The crowd was so thick any party that couldn’t fill a table entirely was bound to share it, hopefully with friends, but if not with amicable strangers. Sandy and Hartwig sat with the Adamses, a grey haired couple both of whom were artists, and Mort the script writer who commuted between Hollywood and the beach. He’d come with Vera, another single woman out there who had money and also a weight problem. Though she had a pretty face, Mort wouldn’t look at her. She had a ribald sense of humor and was funny as hell. That’s why he put up with her. He’d once made a play for Sandy and been rejected but they were still friends and he had no objection to Hartwig, who he found quite intelligent and more than once had suggested a screen test for him. The Adamses, the woman and the man, though fun, were figure and landscape painters respectively and not very good. Hartwig’d seen their works at the local gallery and though Sandy had bought several of their things, which hung in her home and she’d told Hartwig how great they were, his reply’d been.
    “Yes, I’m sure. They’re lucky to have you as a client otherwise they’d have nothing to live on.” Made in jest, I’m sure, for the couple had other money otherwise they wouldn’t’ve been there, but,
    “That’s not a very nice thing to say.” He’d managed to insult Sandy’s integrity in the process. To the Adamses, however, he was unctuously sweet. He claimed it was a painful exercise just not to talk about painting in their presence especially as he considered it such an interesting subject.
    “And,” I said to Hammond, “Guess who took the