thousand bucks’ worth of stones in those attaché cases—they might as well put a sign on their backs—Come and get me. Then they’re surprised they’re murdered. If I was them, I’d hire a platoon of infantrymen from the Israeli army to patrol Forty-seventh Street. I got a heavy afternoon ahead of me—I got to check on two dead men’s dearest friends.” He settled the absurd little hat more securely on his balding head. “Stay here for a minute or two after I leave. I don’t want us to go out on the street together. And hope for the best.”
There was no handshake and the old Marine strode toward the bar, rolling like a sailor in a storm as he went through the doorway.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
H E WALKED SLOWLY UP Sixth Avenue, remembering that there was a big store that sold electronic equipment near Fiftieth Street. He felt physically bruised after his session with Lieutenant Schulter. It was as though he had just gone through an excessively rough massage. Schulter hadn’t been of much help, had, in fact, raised more questions than given answers. And it had been painful to have to tell him about Julia. After all these years to come weeping out of the past to bedevil him with a problem not of his own making. He remembered the evening they met. He and Sheila had gone to a small party at which the talk had been mostly about books. Someone learned she had been a librarian before her marriage and regretted having left New York. She only joined in the general conversation at intervals, although the few things she said made it plain that she had read a great many of the contemporary writers, knew about all the books that came up in the course of the evening and kept up with literary gossip, even in Gary, by reading a lot of magazines and by correspondence with friends she had left behind in New York who were on the fringes of the publishing and theatrical worlds. She was a pretty little thing, in a pale, washed-out, shy way and she made no distinct impression on Damon, either good or bad.
He was going through a rough period with Sheila. He was drinking heavily because his business was going badly and several of his more successful clients had drifted away. Three or four nights a week he stayed out until two or three o’clock in the morning with friends of his who could be counted on to drink themselves into a stupor by midnight. He, himself, more often than not, reached his apartment walking unsteadily and fumbling as he put the key into the lock of the front door. His excuses were lame and Sheila listened to them in icy silence. They hadn’t made love for weeks before the night of the party. When they got home after it, they barely said good night to each other before Sheila turned off the light on her bedside table.
He was feeling lustful and had a huge erection and reached out to caress her. She pushed his hand away angrily. “You’re drunk again,” she said. “I don’t make love to drunks.”
He lay back, wallowing in self-pity. Nothing is right, he thought, everything is sliding downhill, this marriage won’t last much longer.
In the morning, he didn’t wait for Sheila to make his breakfast, but had it in a cafeteria on the way to work. Miraculously, he had no hangover. Clearheaded, he decided that his behavior of the last few months had been Sheila’s fault as well as his. The deterioration of the marriage had started with a quarrel about money. He was bringing very little in and Sheila never made much, and the bills were piling up. Then a publisher with an unsavory reputation who had become rich by publishing sensational semi-pornographic books had made him an offer of a job in his office to start a more respectable line. The money he promised was very good, but the man was a vulgarian and Damon felt it would take ten Damons ever to make him respectable. He had turned the offer down and had made the mistake of telling Sheila about it. She had been furious and let him know it.
“You’ve had it too soft
There was no handshake and the old Marine strode toward the bar, rolling like a sailor in a storm as he went through the doorway.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
H E WALKED SLOWLY UP Sixth Avenue, remembering that there was a big store that sold electronic equipment near Fiftieth Street. He felt physically bruised after his session with Lieutenant Schulter. It was as though he had just gone through an excessively rough massage. Schulter hadn’t been of much help, had, in fact, raised more questions than given answers. And it had been painful to have to tell him about Julia. After all these years to come weeping out of the past to bedevil him with a problem not of his own making. He remembered the evening they met. He and Sheila had gone to a small party at which the talk had been mostly about books. Someone learned she had been a librarian before her marriage and regretted having left New York. She only joined in the general conversation at intervals, although the few things she said made it plain that she had read a great many of the contemporary writers, knew about all the books that came up in the course of the evening and kept up with literary gossip, even in Gary, by reading a lot of magazines and by correspondence with friends she had left behind in New York who were on the fringes of the publishing and theatrical worlds. She was a pretty little thing, in a pale, washed-out, shy way and she made no distinct impression on Damon, either good or bad.
He was going through a rough period with Sheila. He was drinking heavily because his business was going badly and several of his more successful clients had drifted away. Three or four nights a week he stayed out until two or three o’clock in the morning with friends of his who could be counted on to drink themselves into a stupor by midnight. He, himself, more often than not, reached his apartment walking unsteadily and fumbling as he put the key into the lock of the front door. His excuses were lame and Sheila listened to them in icy silence. They hadn’t made love for weeks before the night of the party. When they got home after it, they barely said good night to each other before Sheila turned off the light on her bedside table.
He was feeling lustful and had a huge erection and reached out to caress her. She pushed his hand away angrily. “You’re drunk again,” she said. “I don’t make love to drunks.”
He lay back, wallowing in self-pity. Nothing is right, he thought, everything is sliding downhill, this marriage won’t last much longer.
In the morning, he didn’t wait for Sheila to make his breakfast, but had it in a cafeteria on the way to work. Miraculously, he had no hangover. Clearheaded, he decided that his behavior of the last few months had been Sheila’s fault as well as his. The deterioration of the marriage had started with a quarrel about money. He was bringing very little in and Sheila never made much, and the bills were piling up. Then a publisher with an unsavory reputation who had become rich by publishing sensational semi-pornographic books had made him an offer of a job in his office to start a more respectable line. The money he promised was very good, but the man was a vulgarian and Damon felt it would take ten Damons ever to make him respectable. He had turned the offer down and had made the mistake of telling Sheila about it. She had been furious and let him know it.
“You’ve had it too soft
Similar Books
