Dancing Aztecs by Donald E. Westlake Page A

crazy enough to undertake.
    She looked at the statue, holding it at arm’s length. His crazy devil mask and his shriveled little genitalia attracted one’s first attention, but now she looked at him, really looked at him, his bent knees, his one raised foot, his off-balance torso, and she decided he was ducking, too. Defending himself. Ducking the missiles, ducking the issues, ducking out.
    Fighting about a statue? A useless, stupid, plaster-and-paint joke of a statue? She looked from the Priest to her husband. “This is it, Chuck,” she said, and all at once she too was calm. “You’ve heard of the straw that broke the camel’s back? Well, this is it, right here.” And she gestured with the statue.
    The man was incapable of noticing anything , not even her sudden calm. “Be careful with my statue,” he said, and even smiled slightly.
    At which point she understood he wanted her to break it; he was goading her to break it just as he’d always goaded her to climb into bed with black men. Yes, he was, he absolutely was. Their marriage was built on this eternal argument; resolving the fight wouldn’t cure their marriage, it would end it.
    And the statue had made her understand. This dumb little creature from South America had shown her, finally, the truth. “Once more,” she said, with a calm so steely, so cold, so rigid that Chuck could never hope to match it. “This is the last time, Chuck,” she said, “and if you were ever smart or careful in your life this is the time for it. Once more, now. This is my statue.”
    He shook his head. He had never been smart or careful in his life. “Wrong,” he said.
    â€œOkay, Chuck.” While he stood there she turned carefully and carried the statue away into the bedroom and locked the door behind her.
    It didn’t take that long to pack; all she did was jam all her clothing—plus the statue—in two suitcases. What took most of the time was throwing all Chuck’s clothing out the window. Shirts, slacks, underwear, socks, jackets, his raincoat and top-coat, all sailing like Daliesque gliders out into the air over West End Avenue. Shoes and hats made a captionless Thurber cartoon as they tumbled down toward the sidewalk. Sweaters, blue jeans, and two bathing suits launched themselves like all the partners in a 1929 stock brokerage, and Bobbi slammed the window behind them.
    Next, leaving the suitcases zipped shut atop the bed, she went out to the living room, where Chuck was rolling a joint, their frequent practice at the end of a fight. (End of a round .) “Hello, there,” he said, looking up from his leather chair. He didn’t call her “dear” or “sweetheart,” another indication that he considered the fight at an end.
    â€œGive me your robe,” she said.
    He blinked at her in mild bewilderment. “What?”
    â€œGive me your robe.”
    â€œMy robe?”
    â€œGive it to me.” At last she had as much patience as he.
    â€œAre you going to shower?”
    â€œGive me your robe, Chuck.”
    Still bewildered, but agreeable, he put down the paper and the plastic bag of grass, got to his feet, untied the belt, removed the robe, and handed it over. He had a bony body, with clearly visible ribs, like the Dancing Aztec Priest. Perhaps she had loved him because he reminded her of a harp.
    She took the robe, went back to the bedroom, shut the door, opened the window, and heaved the robe out. It sank with its arms spread wide in horror and despair.
    He was sitting naked on the leather chair, like O, lighting the joint, when Bobbi came through again with the suitcase. “Good-by, Chuck,” she said.
    He looked at her, speechless, holding the match upright.
    She opened the apartment door and looked back at him. “You’ll burn your finger,” she told him, but it was too late.

NOT TO MENTION …
    While Ralph the chauffeur piloted the