whispered.
She pushed at him. “Go home now, Quinn. Go on. It’s late.”
He looked back at her just before he closed the door. She stood watching
him, almost without expression, her face the ancient face of woman, timeless
and passive. He closed the door quietly. All the stars were high and far away.
The night was cooler. He walked slowly to his car, pausing and searching the
night sky when he heard the distant whispering rip of a night jet. But he could
not find it against the stars. Her satisfaction had been complete and evident
this night. He walked more quickly, squaring his shoulders, taking longer
strides, thumping one fist against his thigh in rhythm with his walk.
There was no reason why it couldn’t go on for years. Not if they were
careful, discreet. She shouldn’t start to fade even a little for at least six
or seven years. Perhaps longer than that, because her bones were so good. A
nice safe arrangement. Sometimes Bess could be talked into taking a trip down
to New York by herself. Shopping. Maybe go with a girl friend. Then he could
move right in with Bonny. Buy some things and keep them there. Liquor, razor,
pajamas. She could take time off from the job. Say she was sick. Like a
honeymoon. Stay right there with her. She could cook.
There certainly was no point in worrying about the rightness or wrongness
of it. She was there, like a dollar bill on the sidewalk. If he hadn’t seen it,
somebody else would have. Some dull clown. This way it was better for her. And
she said it was enough for her. So it was enough for both of them.
He drove home through the night feeling good, tapping on the edge of the
steering wheel in time to the late jazz on the car radio. He felt big and whole
and wonderful.
And the sickening depression came without warning, came climbing up out
of his belly, moving black across his mind. No reason for it. None. He stamped
the gas pedal. The trees began to swing toward the car and then jump past him.
The motor settled into a high note of strain and he leaned forward trying to
see beyond the reach of the headlights.
He did not see the car come up behind him. He heard the siren over his
own motor sound and glanced in the rear-vision mirror and saw the red spot on
top of the car. He slowed down, feeling sweaty and shaky. He pulled over onto
the shoulder still moving fast enough so that his car bounced and swerved
before he halted it. The police sedan pulled diagonally in ahead of him, the
siren dying into a low growling and silence. They both got out quickly and the
nearest one had his revolver drawn and ready.
“Out!” the cop said. “Move!” Quinn got out. “Turn around and put your
hands flat against the car.” He did so, feeling like a fool. Quick hard hands
slapped him, took his wallet. One of them carried the wallet out in front of
his car, looked at it in the headlight brightness.
“You Mr. Delevan?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You can turn around, sir. You got treated this way on account of when we
come up behind you and clocked you at ninety-three, you started to pull away.
That’s a silly thing to do, Mr. Delevan.”
“I didn’t see you at all.”
“That’s a hell of a big red spot we turned on.”
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t see it.”
“I hope you won’t get sore about us handling you this way, Mr. Delevan.
You were in one hell of a hurry. What’s the idea?”
“I was late. The road was empty. I wasn’t thinking.”
The two policemen stood there uncomfortably, facing him. The powerful
motor of their cruiser made a bubbling sound. A truck went by, pulling wind
behind it.
“I’m glad to see you’re so much on the ball,” Quinn said.
“Keep it down below sixty, Mr. Delevan. Good night, sir.” They hurried to
the cruiser, banged the doors shut, and left. Quinn got slowly into the car.
Exhilaration was gone. Depression was gone. He merely felt tired. He put the
car in the garage, pulled the door down. The studio lights were off. Bess had
left a
She pushed at him. “Go home now, Quinn. Go on. It’s late.”
He looked back at her just before he closed the door. She stood watching
him, almost without expression, her face the ancient face of woman, timeless
and passive. He closed the door quietly. All the stars were high and far away.
The night was cooler. He walked slowly to his car, pausing and searching the
night sky when he heard the distant whispering rip of a night jet. But he could
not find it against the stars. Her satisfaction had been complete and evident
this night. He walked more quickly, squaring his shoulders, taking longer
strides, thumping one fist against his thigh in rhythm with his walk.
There was no reason why it couldn’t go on for years. Not if they were
careful, discreet. She shouldn’t start to fade even a little for at least six
or seven years. Perhaps longer than that, because her bones were so good. A
nice safe arrangement. Sometimes Bess could be talked into taking a trip down
to New York by herself. Shopping. Maybe go with a girl friend. Then he could
move right in with Bonny. Buy some things and keep them there. Liquor, razor,
pajamas. She could take time off from the job. Say she was sick. Like a
honeymoon. Stay right there with her. She could cook.
There certainly was no point in worrying about the rightness or wrongness
of it. She was there, like a dollar bill on the sidewalk. If he hadn’t seen it,
somebody else would have. Some dull clown. This way it was better for her. And
she said it was enough for her. So it was enough for both of them.
He drove home through the night feeling good, tapping on the edge of the
steering wheel in time to the late jazz on the car radio. He felt big and whole
and wonderful.
And the sickening depression came without warning, came climbing up out
of his belly, moving black across his mind. No reason for it. None. He stamped
the gas pedal. The trees began to swing toward the car and then jump past him.
The motor settled into a high note of strain and he leaned forward trying to
see beyond the reach of the headlights.
He did not see the car come up behind him. He heard the siren over his
own motor sound and glanced in the rear-vision mirror and saw the red spot on
top of the car. He slowed down, feeling sweaty and shaky. He pulled over onto
the shoulder still moving fast enough so that his car bounced and swerved
before he halted it. The police sedan pulled diagonally in ahead of him, the
siren dying into a low growling and silence. They both got out quickly and the
nearest one had his revolver drawn and ready.
“Out!” the cop said. “Move!” Quinn got out. “Turn around and put your
hands flat against the car.” He did so, feeling like a fool. Quick hard hands
slapped him, took his wallet. One of them carried the wallet out in front of
his car, looked at it in the headlight brightness.
“You Mr. Delevan?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You can turn around, sir. You got treated this way on account of when we
come up behind you and clocked you at ninety-three, you started to pull away.
That’s a silly thing to do, Mr. Delevan.”
“I didn’t see you at all.”
“That’s a hell of a big red spot we turned on.”
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t see it.”
“I hope you won’t get sore about us handling you this way, Mr. Delevan.
You were in one hell of a hurry. What’s the idea?”
“I was late. The road was empty. I wasn’t thinking.”
The two policemen stood there uncomfortably, facing him. The powerful
motor of their cruiser made a bubbling sound. A truck went by, pulling wind
behind it.
“I’m glad to see you’re so much on the ball,” Quinn said.
“Keep it down below sixty, Mr. Delevan. Good night, sir.” They hurried to
the cruiser, banged the doors shut, and left. Quinn got slowly into the car.
Exhilaration was gone. Depression was gone. He merely felt tired. He put the
car in the garage, pulled the door down. The studio lights were off. Bess had
left a
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