The Sunset Gang by Warren Adler Page B

to do with it?" he responded,
annoyed at her criticism.
    "Books end. Life doesn't."
    He was confused now, a lone voice of reason, he decided.
They had no real understanding, he assured himself, sitting down.
    "If we don't tell her," Marcia said, ignoring the
exchange between the Shapiros, "then we simply go on as if nothing is
happening. That's what I've done." She paused and looked at her husband.
"I buy a little extra," she said. "I expect to find things
gone." She paused again and dropped her eyes. "And you know, I feel
good about it. I think of the humiliation that poor Harriet has to live with
and I feel good about it."
    For a moment the group was silent, like a tableau in some
French painting, their eyes briefly washing over each other. Only Seymour kept his eyes hidden, looking downward, feeling the weakness of their reasoning.
He longed to leave this place, to go back to reading his mystery books, where
things were more logical, where all clues led to resolution.
    The women exchanged kisses and the two couples left the
Finkelsteins' condominium to go home after first confirming the coming
evening's game and where it would take place. Back in his own apartment again, Seymour dressed and while Bernice puttered in the kitchen making them breakfast, he
carefully searched his book collection for the one he would spend the day with.
    Now I could swear I had more eggs, Bernice thought, on the
verge of shouting the discovery to Seymour. Then she checked herself and
smiled. I'll have to go shopping later, she decided, feeling happy as she
opened the blinds wider to bring the morning sun into the room.

God
Made Me That Way
    For forty years Max Bernstein had spent every winter from
November first through March first in Florida. He would return, always deeply
tanned, full of energy and optimism, as if the sun had rejuvenated his spirit.
Not that he had ever been depressed or gloomy. He was a born kibitzer, always
joking with the women at his brother's delicatessen, where he worked behind the
counter during those months when he was back in Brooklyn.
    His first and only wife, Milly, divorced him in 1937, after
five years of marriage.
    "How can I live with him?" she told her lawyer.
"He's a playboy, a born playboy."
    "You have to be a little more specific," the
lawyer had told her as he sat, pencil poised over lined yellow paper.
    "Women," she said uncomfortably. "That's his
whole life. That's all he has on his mind. Mrs. Goldberg's daughter was the
last straw."
    "Who?"
    "My neighbor, Mrs. Goldberg. She has this college girl
daughter, Eileen. It wasn't me that found them. Mr. Goldberg came home early
from work and there they were in bed, the Goldbergs' bed. It was a horrible
scene. Very embarrassing."
    "And what did Mr. Bernstein say?"
    "What he always says."
    "What's that?"
    She flushed a deep red. "He said she seduced
him." She paused. "After all, women find him very attractive."
    "And you, Mrs. Bernstein. Have you been
cohabiting?" the lawyer asked.
    "Cohabiting?" She blushed again thinking that she
had surmised his meaning. "Of course," she said indignantly.
"One thing has nothing to do with another. It's just that I can't stand
the humiliation any more."
    "Can I help it?" Max Bernstein had protested to
his wife. But the divorce proceeded and after a few weeks of being terribly
upset he went off to Florida and drowned his sorrows in a Miami Beach hotel.
    Max's brother, for whom he worked, had long ago thrown up
his hands about Max, but his job behind the counter was always waiting for him
when he got back. Secretly, he had always yearned to be like Max, who was
always so self-assured and, it seemed, could hypnotize any woman to crawl into
his bed. It was a gift, a talent, he was convinced, wondering how his parents
had spawned brothers who were so different.
    It wasn't that Max Bernstein was handsome. He had a big
nose, and curly hair that began a little too low along his forehead. His eyes
were big brown cow's eyes,