Clemmie by John D. MacDonald

to bed alone. She was dangerous. She was a girl who lived too close to the unpredictable edge of hysteria. She hunted trouble. The breasts, too evident under the basque shirt last night, had been an invitation to trouble. She walked the night streets with chippy stride. She was an exhibitionist, body-worshipper, sensualist—without discipline, morals, scruples, ethics, a child in search of the father she had never had.
    But, after all, it was only one weekend. He stubbed hiscigarette out in a pottery ashtray Puss had made in the second grade, a Father’s Day gift with a melted image that was indubitably a duck. And he left.

CHAPTER SIX
    On Monday, the fifteenth of July, Craig was a half-hour late to work. Everything looked quite different to him, as though he had exchanged eyes and color sense with someone else. Everything was intensely familiar, and totally strange. As he went through the main room to his private office, he tried to make his morning greeting cheerful but not boisterous. It sounded too loud, and he saw Betty James start and look at him strangely.
    “Watch it, son,” he said to himself. “You are just the slightest loveliest bit tight, and you feel absolutely wonderful, and when it all wears off you are going to be lucky to be able to hold your head up. So step carefully.”
    Betty followed him into the office as usual and shut the door. “You didn’t look at the board.”
    He leaned back in the chair. “A terrible oversight. And I’m a half-hour late.”
    “I waited Saturday, but you didn’t come in.”
    “Did I ask you to come in?”
    “No, Mr. Fitz. But I knew you were coming in. I didn’t have anything else to do. I thought I could help.”
    “I changed my mind.”
    “Sooner or later they’re going to start hollering for those back reports, you know.”
    The jubilant mood soured in an instant. “Miss James, if you want to sit here and let me sit there, I’ll see if I can clear it with Personnel.”
    She flushed and abrupt tears stood on the sandy lashes. “I just thought I’d—”
    “Sometimes you think too much.”
    She got up very quickly and quietly and started for the door. He moved more quickly and caught her right at the door, put a hand on her shoulder and turned her around gently.
    “Sorry, Betty. Wrong side of the bed.”
    She stood with head bent and then looked up slowly, the tears still there. “Is anything wrong, Craig? Is there any way I can help? You’ve been so—odd.”
    He concealed his annoyance with her. She was too adept at gamesmanship. Make a bad slip and when you comfort her, she moves a step closer and starts calling you Craig.
    “I’m fine, Betty. Nothing wrong. Let’s get to work.”
    His mind felt clear enough. He went through the morning stack of memos, reports and orders quickly, so quickly that twice she had to ask him to repeat. He studied the board, made a few phone calls, then went out into the production areas. When he got back to his office Betty said Mr. Chernek had phoned.
    “Get him for me, please.”
    When Bill got on the line he said, “What the hell, Craig?”
    “What do you mean, what the hell?”
    “Where can I talk to you?”
    “Come over here. I’ve got a breathing space.”
    He told Betty that while Mr. Chernek was in his office, he did not want to be disturbed.
    Bill came in and sat down wearily. “Does it show much?”
    “It shows some.” The left side of Bill’s mouth was puffed. His left eye was discolored. There was a large flesh-colored Band-Aid on his left temple.
    “Those God-damn cops beat the crap out of me. They had no reason to do that. Thanks for alerting Al.”
    “Did he get you out?”
    “Right away. There was no more fight in me, brother. I was sick. He says I shouldn’t try to sue those cops.”
    “He’s right.”
    “How would you know?”
    “You swung first, Bill. Before I could have gotten across the street to help you argue, I fell. Then it was too late.”
    “Nice guy. Great