phone? I called right back.”
“I was hungry. I didn’t know it was you.”
“I had a message,” she said. “From Mr. Duster. You didn’t go to see him, did you?”
“His son-in-law’s funeral was this morning,” I said. “How could I see him?”
“Well, he wants to see you. That’s why I called back. He wants to see you this afternoon.”
“I’ll see him. How about some pie now? I’ll pay for it.”
“You’ll pay,” she assured me. “If I find out the real reason for that silly phone call, you’ll pay plenty.”
“I love you,” I said. “Have ice cream, too.”
She sniffed. My fan came over and I ordered the pie for her, with ice cream, and coffee for both of us.
It is a dilemma, my relationship with Jan. She won’t marry me, because of my trade and almost guaranteed poverty, but she wouldn’t marry a man she couldn’t sleep with, and she can’t sleep with the other men. To the best of my available knowledge.
Women with careers shouldn’t earn more than their husbands. It’s not good for either one of them and Jan earns much more than I do, on a yearly average.
It is a dilemma, so we drift along, getting nowhere. Though we do have our moments of ecstasy. It is a hell of a situation.
We didn’t talk much. We ate and listened to the music on the little FM radio behind the counter and more or less thought our separate thoughts.
And I am ashamed to admit my thoughts were divided between Giovanni and Selina Stone. That girl … That slim, elegant, perfumed and sensual girl …
Jan said, “What in hell are you smirking about?”
“Was I smirking? I was thinking of the time I nailed Otto Graham for a forty-six-yard loss.”
“I’ll bet.”
I finished my coffee and stood up. “Let’s not fight. Let’s part friends. I’m going up to see your Mr. Duster now. I’m already working for his daughter.”
She stared at me. “She’s paying you?”
I nodded. “She will. Harry Adler hired me but it’s her money.”
She expelled a big breath. “Well, that’s better. I’m glad to see you’re getting some financial sanity.” She stood up.
We went out together and on the sidewalk, right there, almost in the center of Beverly Hills, she stretched to kiss me and then went hurrying off toward her exclusive shop.
That was another part of our trouble: we dealt with the rich all day long, the troubled rich and the wasteful rich, and that had a tendency to make us discontented and resentful.
I climbed into the flivver and headed for the residence of William Duster, a man reputed to be worth twenty-seven million. In the north the clouds were forming; more rain was coming down the coast, heading our way.
There was a possibility that it hadn’t been Duster’s idea to see me. Perhaps Jan had been putting in a sales pitch. If there is any flaw in my beloved, it is a persistent and exaggerated commercialism. It is a common fault among interior decorators, despite their artistic pretensions. They certainly know how to squeeze a client dry.
The house was a two-story structure of fieldstone and Arizona flagstone, on a rise overlooking Roxbury Drive. The green concrete driveway wound through two acres of perfect lawn and continued around the house. The flivver sniffed in class-conscious disdain.
The Negro butler told me Mr. Duster had been expecting me and led me through a breezeway that led to the covered patio on the sunny side of the house.
Big Bill Duster was in a deck chair out there, looking tall and gaunt and green. The green came from the translucent panels overhead. He stood up and I figured him for about six-seven. He had short, wiry gray hair, fierce black eyes and a voice right out of the Oklahoma oil fields.
He said harshly, “it’s about time, Callahan.”
“Miss Bonnet only gave me your message twenty minutes ago,” I explained. “I’ve been busy, Mr. Duster.”
“I’ll bet you have. And I’ll bet you know plenty about him, don’t you?”
I stared at Duster
“I was hungry. I didn’t know it was you.”
“I had a message,” she said. “From Mr. Duster. You didn’t go to see him, did you?”
“His son-in-law’s funeral was this morning,” I said. “How could I see him?”
“Well, he wants to see you. That’s why I called back. He wants to see you this afternoon.”
“I’ll see him. How about some pie now? I’ll pay for it.”
“You’ll pay,” she assured me. “If I find out the real reason for that silly phone call, you’ll pay plenty.”
“I love you,” I said. “Have ice cream, too.”
She sniffed. My fan came over and I ordered the pie for her, with ice cream, and coffee for both of us.
It is a dilemma, my relationship with Jan. She won’t marry me, because of my trade and almost guaranteed poverty, but she wouldn’t marry a man she couldn’t sleep with, and she can’t sleep with the other men. To the best of my available knowledge.
Women with careers shouldn’t earn more than their husbands. It’s not good for either one of them and Jan earns much more than I do, on a yearly average.
It is a dilemma, so we drift along, getting nowhere. Though we do have our moments of ecstasy. It is a hell of a situation.
We didn’t talk much. We ate and listened to the music on the little FM radio behind the counter and more or less thought our separate thoughts.
And I am ashamed to admit my thoughts were divided between Giovanni and Selina Stone. That girl … That slim, elegant, perfumed and sensual girl …
Jan said, “What in hell are you smirking about?”
“Was I smirking? I was thinking of the time I nailed Otto Graham for a forty-six-yard loss.”
“I’ll bet.”
I finished my coffee and stood up. “Let’s not fight. Let’s part friends. I’m going up to see your Mr. Duster now. I’m already working for his daughter.”
She stared at me. “She’s paying you?”
I nodded. “She will. Harry Adler hired me but it’s her money.”
She expelled a big breath. “Well, that’s better. I’m glad to see you’re getting some financial sanity.” She stood up.
We went out together and on the sidewalk, right there, almost in the center of Beverly Hills, she stretched to kiss me and then went hurrying off toward her exclusive shop.
That was another part of our trouble: we dealt with the rich all day long, the troubled rich and the wasteful rich, and that had a tendency to make us discontented and resentful.
I climbed into the flivver and headed for the residence of William Duster, a man reputed to be worth twenty-seven million. In the north the clouds were forming; more rain was coming down the coast, heading our way.
There was a possibility that it hadn’t been Duster’s idea to see me. Perhaps Jan had been putting in a sales pitch. If there is any flaw in my beloved, it is a persistent and exaggerated commercialism. It is a common fault among interior decorators, despite their artistic pretensions. They certainly know how to squeeze a client dry.
The house was a two-story structure of fieldstone and Arizona flagstone, on a rise overlooking Roxbury Drive. The green concrete driveway wound through two acres of perfect lawn and continued around the house. The flivver sniffed in class-conscious disdain.
The Negro butler told me Mr. Duster had been expecting me and led me through a breezeway that led to the covered patio on the sunny side of the house.
Big Bill Duster was in a deck chair out there, looking tall and gaunt and green. The green came from the translucent panels overhead. He stood up and I figured him for about six-seven. He had short, wiry gray hair, fierce black eyes and a voice right out of the Oklahoma oil fields.
He said harshly, “it’s about time, Callahan.”
“Miss Bonnet only gave me your message twenty minutes ago,” I explained. “I’ve been busy, Mr. Duster.”
“I’ll bet you have. And I’ll bet you know plenty about him, don’t you?”
I stared at Duster
Similar Books
