Two Much! by Donald E. Westlake Page A

content, however, was a card from Those Wonderful Folks that had turned out to be even more apropos than I’d thought when I’d selected it yesterday afternoon. On the front an old man in a wheelchair is saying, “I’m not too old to cut the mustard.” Inside he finishes, “I just can’t seem to find the hot dog.”

    W HEN L IZ ARRIVED THE next afternoon at two-thirty, I knew at once I was in trouble. “Well, you’ve made yourself at home,” she said, coming out onto the terrace where I was enjoying the sunlight, the view of the park, a rum and soda, and my marital status. Dropping into a canvas chair, she waved generally at the park and said, “Next you’ll want to graze your sheep on our lawn.”
    â€œWell, hello,” I said, in my witty Bart manner. “Betty didn’t tell me you were coming to town.”
    â€œBetty didn’t know.” She shrugged, looking vaguely irritable and discontented: normal, in other words. “I just thought I’d come in and see Art in his natural habitat.”
    â€œAh,” I said.
    â€œHe takes long lunches.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œI called the office,” she said. “His secretary said he was still out to lunch.”
    â€œWell,” I said, “they’re business lunches. You know, with artists and distributors and so on.”
    She frowned at the blue sky. “Maybe I’ll go down there and hang around, see what the office looks like.”
    â€œYou never know how long he’ll be gone,” I said. “Why not wait for him to call?”
    She picked at the canvas of her chair, looking mulish, then frowned at me and said, “What about you? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
    On my honeymoon? Well, I wasn’t to mention that; Betty still insisted on keeping our marriage secret, even from Liz, and for reasons of my own I was happy to oblige. Once again invention came when needed. With no more devious intention in my mind than to offer an acceptable answer to Liz’s question, I fell once again into a useful arrangement. “Art and I have had—” I gave a little shrug “—kind of an argument. I haven’t seen him for a while.”
    Her attention had been caught; I could see in the sudden glint in her eye and curve in her lips the hope of hearing something amusing. “An argument? You two?”
    â€œAll families argue.” Bart would never amuse Liz, the best day he lived.
    â€œI thought you and your brother were very close.”
    â€œDon’t you and Betty argue sometimes?”
    The eye-glint turned steely for a second. “We’re not talking about me and Betty.” Curiosity returned, and she said, “But what do you find to argue about?”
    What, indeed? Searching for subject matter, poring over the personality differences I’d established between us, I said, “Oh, I just think sometimes Art gets a little careless with, urn, business ethics.”
    â€œBusiness ethics?” She found the phrase hilarious, but struggled to keep a straight face for my sake.
    â€œHe doesn’t treat the artists well,” I said primly. Then I leaned closer to her, lowering my voice and looking toward the terrace doors as I said, “I haven’t said anything to Betty about it. I didn’t want to upset her.”
    â€œYou have a lot to learn about Betty,” she said.
    Less than Liz thought. “Will you keep my secret?” I asked her.
    She shrugged. “Why not?” And, since the threatened diversion had not after all arrived, she changed the subject without a backward glance, saying, “What’s that you’re drinking?”
    â€œRum and soda.”
    â€œIsn’t that Art’s drink?”
    â€œI thought I’d try it,” I said, grinning sheepishly at the glass and cursing myself for a fool. “I suppose it means I wish he and I were friends again.”
    Liz was the