Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady
Francine Anthony came into the living room followed by a black poodle licking his chops, and the Hunters. The Hunters wore bathing suits. Wilma Hunter had a strong figure with sturdy hips and a great bosom. She had an average face, but intense eyes, and her very red hair was rough and kinky. Joel Hunter was slim and stooped. His face was flushed and in sharp contrast to his white-gray hair which was cropped very short—like a worn brush. He was smoking a corncob pipe and wearing thick black-shell glasses. He dropped into a chair with a decidedly feminine movement, stretching his thin legs. He said, “I've never seen a dog like that before, eating fruit like a pig.”
The poodle looked up, ran over and mounted one of Joel's legs. Joel yelled, “Matt, will you get this sexy mutt off me!”
Matt looked at Hank Brown and smiled.
Francine Anthony said sharply to the dog, “Come here, Clichy.” She walked over and kicked the poodle's backside, and he whined, then sat down and went back to licking his whiskers. Everything about Francine was small and compact. Her features were sharp and her shorts and striped blouse showed off a slightly scrawny figure. She could have been 40 years old, or 50. Her face was weather-beaten and her hair stringy and wild. She asked, “Anything in the mail, Matt?” as she ran her eyes over Brown's worn tropical suit.
“No checks; honey, this is Hank Brown. Prof. Hank Brown. We used to teach together at Brooks. Hell of a thing, haven't seen him for years, and I run into Hank in Hampton, of all places. Hank, these two slightly drunk inkers are Wilma and Joel Hunter. Perhaps you've read some of Joel's children's books, Hank. They sell faster than contraceptives.”
Joel waved as he said, “Oh, Matt, you always do that to me. ”
“I wish they did sell that fast,” Wilma Hunter said, nodding at Brown.
Francine said, “Glad to meet you, Professor. What were you doing in Hampton, Matt?”
“Out for a ride and there was old Hank waiting at the station. Must be at least 16 or 17 years since we last saw each other. Hasn't it, champ?”
“About that. I'm really an ex-professor, Mrs. Anthony,” Brown said as the poodle came over and sniffed him. Brown rubbed the dog's wooly head. The professor had big hands for a little man.
Francine lit a cigarette, blew thin clouds of smoke through her nose as she said, “Seems to me I've read something about you, Prof. Brown. A book out recently?”
Hank Brown glanced at Matt, who smiled. “I only published one book. That was quite some time ago.”
“A textbook, and a damn good one,” Matt added. “Joel, that's the racket we should be in, writing textbooks. The dough pours in, year after year.”
“But somehow your name rings a bell,” Francine said. “You can have the bedroom in the...”
“Thank you but I have to be back in New York tonight.”
There was a moment of silence which Matt enjoyed, then Francine asked him, “How many drinks did you have in Hampton?”
“I didn't even sniff a cork, my darling. I stopped to look at some new reels, glanced at the magazines,” Matt said, fingering the car keys in the pocket of his plaid shorts, certain the 'stuff' was safe in the trunk of the roadster. Brown said, “It's nearly one. I want to catch the 2:05 train.”
“Plenty of time, champ. We have a lot of talking to do. Want some lunch?”
“Thanks, Matt, but as I told you, I've already eaten.”
“How about a cocktail?” Francine said, “Matt, the doctor said—”
“Okay, honey, but the doc didn't say my guests couldn't drink. What are you guzzling these days Hank, gin and tonic, Scotch?”
“I could use a beer.”
“Splendid, I have some imported brew that's terrific Wilma?”
Wilma shook her head. Joel said, “Much too early for beer. I'll take a Scotch, please, Matt.”
Matt gave his wife a very tender smile. “Are you gassed-up for the day, yet, darling?”
“Don't be so goddamn smart, Matt. I don't want anything.”'
As Matt started for the kitchen Francine said, “Ring for May.”
“I'm not too old to fetch a drink for a buddy. And don't worry, honey, I really don't want a belt.” Once inside the kitchen Matt leaned against the door and listened. After a moment he heard Francine say, “Names stick in my mind—a lousy habit. Haven't you been in the papers recently, Prof. Brown?”
“Yes.”
“Divorced your wife?” Wilma Hunter asked.
“What? No, no, nothing like that I... uh... refused to sign a loyalty oath and was dismissed from Brooks. I also had the misfortune to do this on a day when there wasn't much news.”
Matt grinned at the sudden hush in the living room, broken somewhat when Francine said harshly, “Oh, yes!”
Joel asked, “Why didn't you sign the damn thing? I mean, what the hell, avoid all the... mess?”
“Well,” Hank said slowly, obviously not wanting to discuss it, “I felt it wasn't a question of loyalty at all, but rather an invasion of privacy. Also, it's rather complicated. If I had signed I probably would have been called upon to... perhaps... become a kind of informer. I couldn't do that.”
There was a long silence and then Joel Hunter suddenly came to life, as if hearing the conversation for the first time. He sat up straight, his red face full of worry. He said, “Oh, my!”
Matt, who was standing in the doorway holding a large glass of dark thick beer and a jigger of Scotch, said, “Don't jump, Joel, Hank isn't a leper.”
Francine actually glared at Matt, then calling the dog, she left the room. Matt said sternly, “Fran!” The Hunters remained for a moment, ill at ease, then Wilma said, “Come along, Joel, show me what you want typed.”
Joel nodded at Brown and as he passed Matt gave him a sickly grin. “Don't forget your goddamn drink!” Matt said, shoving the glass at him, spilling Scotch on Joel's smooth chest.
Matt handed Brown the beer, sat down opposite him. “The smug sonsofbitches. Why didn't you tell them off, champ?”
“Can one explain hysteria in a few sentences? You were wrong, Matt, I am a modern leper. To associate with me can mean blacklist, loss of employment. Really, Matt, I wish you'd drive me to the station. You know I didn't want to come here.”
“Don't worry about the damn train, we have time. Hell of a deal when you, of all people, can't feel at ease in my house. But don't mind Francine, she's the world's biggest bitch.”
Hank stared at him over the glass of beer.
“We've hated each other from the moment we got married. That's why we're so compatible.”
Brown looked puzzled, as Matt knew he would. After the tiny smile, Matt said, “Francine is right for me, she's a pusher and a worrier, and you know what an easy-going slob I am. Then we have great times in bed. We're a couple of sexual sadists and since we hate each other, well... we're fantastic between the sheets. Don't look so damn shocked, Hank, I'm only telling you what...”
“Matt, why tell me?”
“Oh, come now, champ. You know damn well every man is curious—even if only passively—about every woman's sex life. Christ, not you—you just can't have become a hypocritical old bastard. Man, when you see Wilma's big knockers, don't you wonder what she's doing with a fag like Joel? Admit it, Hank: could you take your eyes off that breastwork?”
Brown looked a bit sick as he said, “A man my age loses a great deal of that... eh... curiosity and... Matt, what's happened to you?”
Matt's smile opened into a laugh. “Nothing very much, champ, I'm a success. A big gassy success. I make money. Everything I write sells, my books are translated all over the world. Don't look down your busted nose at me, champ, because I write about sex and violence. In your old age, Hank, you're naive, real simple.”
“Thank you.”
“It's a fact, you still put a halo around the word 'writer.' Let a pro tell you about writing. It requires a great deal of research—for example, I know all there is to know about police work, detection. And everything I read or see must be translated into a gimmick for a crime plot. Those floods out West the other day—I may use them in a murder story. A month ago I happened to read that a cobra can only strike down, Hot up. That's been burning and turning over in my mind ever since. I've read up on it, even. A cobra can only strike down. I'll use that... some day. Oh, my mind is full of many such fascinating thoughts. Just as my relationship with Francine helps put sex in my books and... skip the vomit look, champ, I know it sounds rough, but I'm safe. I am. I'm safe because objectively and subjectively I'm one of the few writers in America who knows exactly what he's doing. Yes, sir!”
“Matt, what are you talking about?”
“Salvation!”
“What's all this mean?”
“That I don't kid myself. That's the secret—not to fool the fooler. It means all writing today is a series of compromises. It has to be or it will never reach print. Things are reduced to the degree you compromise. You can't be honest if you compromise. Yeah, they talk about the mediocrity of TV—as though compromise hasn't leveled all our culture, our lives. Your so-called serious writers, who think they're writing honestly, they're lying in their brains and don't realize it. Don't realize they have compromised, and begin believing the stuff they write is honest. They're lost.”
Matt pounded his fist into his other palm. “Of course, it's tougher today. Different in the old days—the good old days! At least then you could write honestly because everything was so new, even the publishers couldn't detect the truth. People are too smart today. 'Greatness' gives me a laugh. One major reason for Shakespeare's 'greatness' was the mass illiteracy, hence the worship of any printed word. London could write about Alaska, Twain about the West, Hemingway about war and the Paris of 1920, Faulkner and Caldwell about the South, Lewis about main street... and not many people knew if it was real or not. Today, as a result of the travel two wars have brought, radio, TV, paperbacks, greater education in general, people are smarter. There aren't any new frontiers—unless you write about pansys, and that will soon become too well known—to write about. So people know when a writer is compromising, faking. Education has made people tolerant in an unhealthy way: they're actually cynical and indifferent to whatever issues a writer tries to give. But above all, they damn well know when he's lying, or half-lying. Well, by God, I'm no fake, I never lie to my readers!”
“Honest Matt Anthony! By what rationalization do you picture yourself writing the truth?”
“Truth? That's the whole point, champ, I don't pretend to write the truth. I write crap fantasies—the modern fairy tale: two-fisted, gonadal whimsy. But I never fool my readers or myself. Once a writer fools himself he's lost. But not little Matt. Plain and simple, I'm a hack and I'm writing to make a big buck. I haven't any fuzzy notions I'm turning out literature; I don't worry whether my name will live two seconds after I die or not.”
Matt was staring at Brown, as if waiting for an answer, an argument. Brown sipped his beer. Matt asked, “Isn't that something? I get it by the case from Austria.”
“Very good.” Brown glanced at his wrist watch. “Matt, I simply must make that train. I should have taken the early one. I'm looking for a job and I'm to see somebody this afternoon who may be able to arrange for me to ghost several textbooks.”
“Relax, champ, I'll get you there. I might even drive you into New York. Don't worry about Francine or the Hunters being uncomfortable around you. I—”
“Matt, I'm the one that's uncomfortable. I must catch that train.”
“Okay, okay, Hank. Just don't worry. I can make the station in six minutes flat. Champ, I want you to come out and spend time here. I'll clean house of all jerks, ship Fran-cine to town for a shopping spree. Just the two of us to bull about old times.”
“Thanks, Matt, but Ruth is waiting for me in Chicago.”
“Relax, champ, you've had a tough time. You need a vacation, I have the house, the beach, the boats. Ruth would agree with me.”
“Let me see how my time turns out, Matt. I might have to remain East over the weekend. I'll call you.”
“Not this weekend. I'm having Gary Rawn, the screen star, and his current gal, down. What about the following weekend?”
“I'll see how things work out. If this job comes through, I may settle in New York, Matt, let me call you.”
Matt stood up, took a boxing stance. “Great seeing you, champ. You're a breath of clean air. So we have a date. Finish your beer. I'll see if Fran needs anything in the village, then drive you to the station.”
Francine was sitting on the rear steps, sipping rye and water. The poodle was busy worrying a lemon, which he thought was a ball. Joel Hunter was stretched out on a dull red lounge—two empty glasses on the floor—glancing at an English magazine. Wilma Hunter was sewing a bra strap. Before Matt could open his mouth, Francine sprang to her feet, told him, “I've been waiting for you to step out here. Matt, are you out of your goddamned mind? If the papers, the gossip columnists, ever found out you're entertaining a Fifth Amendment Red, or that you even knew him, why Hollywood would drop the option on Slug In The Gut and you'd be ruined as a writer!”
“No, my darling, not as a writer. What you mean to say is my sales might dip. Although I even doubt that. Hank is one of the oldest friends I have, and I certainly do not intend to let anybody tell me who my friends are to be.”
“I'm telling you, Matt Anthony!” Francine said. “Keep your gentle voice down, honey. Anybody is a noun that can be both male and female.”
“You might have the decency to think of Joel's career,” Francine said, stooping to pick up her drink. “Francine, my sweet, don't tempt me.”
“Seriously, Matt,” Wilma said, “Fran is right. We're not the martyr type, we—”
“Wilma,” Matt said, his eyes staring at her breasts, “will you please explain what sort of movement would make a bra snap? I'm dead serious. They're not like an arm, or even the hips, where there is a certain amount of movement, or muscular contraction. They lay in the bra like eggs waiting... waiting for what?” (Matt loved to shock people with his clever 'hot' talk. But actually he enjoyed it because deep in his mind, Matt himself was the one most shocked by his own bold words.)
“Stop it, Matt,” Wilma said. “This isn't a joke.”
“Do you think this professor fellow will ever mention meeting me?” Joel asked.
Matt smiled down at Joel, aware of the narrow shoulders —and how huge be must look in comparison to this runt. “Joel, what do you think he's rushing back to New York for? He wants to shout it from the top of the Empire State Building. Listen to me, all of you; maybe you don't agree with what the champ did, but that's no call for this display of Goddamn rude manners.” He turned to Francine. “You acted with all the taste of a two-bit whore stuck with a lead quarter.”
“You know what you can do, Mr. Sonofabitch. If your friend wants to get his rear kicked, fine. But don't bring him here so we all get the boot.”
