Part 18 (2/2)

”I was a combination of Hemingway, Hammett, and Conan Doyle. The style of Hemingway, the toughness of Hammett, and the weird murders of Doyle. You know, the G.o.dd.a.m.n speckled band snake, the f.u.c.king dog with the phosphor on its muzzle, crazy stuff like that. You read Sherlock Holmes?”

”Yep. Loved him when I was a boy.”

”Yeah. Anyway, I thought up the murders. One of them, this woman drops dead, just keels over, a goner. Not a mark on her, no poison in her, healthy one minute, a stiff the next. A voodoo curse got her. Like that. I thought them up, wrote the G.o.dd.a.m.n books, and never made it out of paperback. Most advance I ever got was the last one, and I never wrote the book.” He laughed; it sounded like the bark of coyote. ”We took the money, a thousand dollars, big money to us, and we came to Florida, and a slick son of a b.i.t.c.h sold me a piece of swamp. Still don't know how the b.a.s.t.a.r.d did it, but I saw the light. I'd never make it writing some of the best G.o.dd.a.m.n mysteries ever written-the world wasn't ready-but I sure as h.e.l.l could and did make it in real estate. Land developer. I turned that piece of swamp into a shopping mall.” He laughed again. The sound made the hairs on Frank's arm rise. ”Never even started that book.”

The fruit drink was delicious; Frank could not identify what all was in it, but it was exactly right. Fensterman was talking about another perfect murder; the old icicle trick. Frank did not yawn, or even sigh. He drank his juice and listened.

The next time Fensterman paused, Frank said, ”What about the murder in the book I'm interested in, Over My Dead Body?”

That cackling laugh came again. ”You'll have to read it and find out for yourself. It's ingenious. You'll see. My secretary will Xerox a copy. Monday. It'll be ready Monday. Can't get any f.u.c.king help on weekends. I used to work seven G.o.dd.a.m.n days a week, eighteen-hour days, every G.o.dd.a.m.n day. They think anything more than thirty hours a week is back to slavery. Cost you fifty bucks.”

”Fair enough,” Frank said. He drained his gla.s.s. ”That was very good. Thanks.”

”Stay for supper,” Fensterman said. ”I don't eat anything but seafood and fruit. I expect to live forever. Eat right, live forever.”

”Thanks again, but I'm afraid I can't. Another appointment. What time would be good on Monday?”

”Three, four. How the h.e.l.l do I know? I'll light a fire under her. Say four. We'll have to call you a cab.” He let out a piercing yell, ”Ruma, get in here!”

The black woman came in, as silent as ever; he told her to call a taxi, then he said to Frank, ”Come on, I'll show you how I have to keep my books.”

He led Frank through the sprawling house. Not another person was in sight anywhere, and it was as still as a tomb. They entered a room he said was storage. Frank stared. Cages? He kept books and papers in wire cages? Bookcases were enclosed in screening material with metal frames. There were hundreds of books, folders, paper stacks....

”Can't put them in closed cabinets,” Fensterman said. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n mold eats them up. Can't put them on open shelves, the f.u.c.king roaches eat them. Spray every month, so what? They love the stuff. Spray every day, they just get bigger. They call them palmetto bugs down here, but they're roaches on steroids. They eat the glue on the spines first, then come back for the rest. Five, six inches long, you can hear the f.u.c.kers galloping around, hear them munching all night. So I had screened cases built. Does the trick, too. Should get it patented, make a fortune.” He laughed again.

Ruma came to say that the taxi had arrived, and Frank escaped.

He endured a month of Sunday; he read The New York Times, all of it, and then went to bed. When he came awake enough to realize it was Monday, he rejoiced. Promptly at four he arrived at Fensterman's house. Ruma met him and ushered him to the Florida room again, where Fensterman was at a window with binoculars. He laughed when Frank joined him.

”Want to see? Pretty little p.u.s.s.ies taking in the sun.”

”I guess not this time,” Frank said. ”Is the copy of your novel ready?”

”Sure. One hundred bucks.”

”You said fifty. An oral contract,” Frank said coldly.

”You can prove it?” Fensterman tossed the binoculars down on a chair, and said, ”A hundred smackers.”

Frank counted out five twenty-dollar bills and tossed them down by the binoculars. Fensterman pointed to a ream box on a table. ”All yours. Enjoy. Best book sale I ever made.” He laughed.

Frank opened the box to check, and it was there. ”Thanks,” he said; he turned and walked from the room. The black woman met him in the hallway.

”I called you a cab, sir,” she said softly. ”It should be here in a few minutes. Do you want to wait inside?”

”You're very kind,” Frank said. ”I'll just wait under a tree out there.” At the door, he said, ”I hope he pays you well. Good-bye.”

As soon as he got back to his hotel, he called the airline and changed his flight. The only flight available was very early, with a layover of three hours in Chicago, a layover in Portland, then a small commuter plane from Portland to Eugene. He took it.

It was too hot to stay in his room and read. Too hot by day, and he froze at night; also, he was beginning to feel suffocated, breathing the same air day after day. He took the novel to the shaded terrace, ordered iced espresso, and settled in to read.

It was hard going. On page one people were shooting one another; the protagonist was a nameless, faceless first-person narrator who wouldn't have known a past perfect verb if it had kicked him in the b.u.t.t. He was impervious to physical beatings, and he liked to slap women around. There was a millionaire involved, but involved in what, Frank couldn't say. He suspected there was a plot even if it eluded him. The millionaire was married to a pretty young thing who had been his nurse. He died in his sleep, and it seemed that someone had given him a drink with chloral hydrate, but it shouldn't have killed him, just knocked him out. He began to read slower.

She slipped into the room without a sound and she was wearing a pink peignoir that didn't hide a curve, like I knew she would. ”Baby,” she crooned, ”you didn't wait for me. Look at you, sound asleep.” She lifted my wrist and let it drop like a lead weight. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were falling out of the sheer peignoir, pink like it, ripe, ready for picking, and her golden hair cascaded over her face when she leaned over me. She smelled like Paris in spring, like violets, pa.s.sionflowers. Then she pulled out doctor's gloves from her pocket and put them on, then took out a hypodermic needle and held it to the light. She touched my lips, and then forced my mouth open. ”Baby, what a wonderful tongue! But it's in the way, sweetheart.” She had gauze or something in her hand, and used it to grab my tongue and raise it. ”Ah, what magnificent veins!”

And I knew how the old man was killed. I grabbed her wrist and twisted. The crack of the bone was the loudest sound in the room until she screamed, and I twisted the hand holding the needle and jabbed her arm.

I held her in my arms, smelling her perfume as she fell into the final sleep.

Slowly, glacially cold, Frank returned the pages to the box. The storm had not come ash.o.r.e yet, and for a long time he sat on the terrace and watched lightning flare in the cloud mountains.

25.

When Barbara saw her father walking toward her, she felt a stab of anxiety, if not fear; he looked drawn and exhausted. ”No more Florida vacations for you,” she said when he drew near. They embraced and headed for the terminal exit. Outside, he stopped walking and took a deep breath, another.

”Want me to bring the car around?”

”No. No. I just want to breathe. Air smells and feels good; you miss it when it's not there.”

In no hurry they walked to the car a short distance away. There were few people around at that time of night; the commuter plane could carry sixteen pa.s.sengers, and it had not been full. Neither spoke again until they were in the car heading home.

”Did you learn anything? Get the book?”

”I learned several things,” he said. ”It's a state secret, but there's a shortage of air in Florida. They recycle it over and over. The water tastes like something you spray on the tomatoes. And they don't know what time it is, out of kilter with the rest of the world. Their days are twenty-eight hours long, all sunny.”

She nodded, understanding very well the real message-not now, not tonight-and she asked no more questions.

When they entered the house, the cats pretended not to see him. ”Pouting,” he said. ”They'll sulk awhile.” He pulled his roll-on to his bedroom, then returned a minute later with a ream box and put it on a table in the living room.

”Do you want something to eat? I have sandwich stuff, and today I picked two tomatoes. I ate one and saved one for you.”

”Nothing,” he said. ”I want a bath. That water's so hard, it leaves a soap sc.u.m you have to break up with a hammer. I itch all over. You know how good our water is? You ever think about it?”

She shook her head. ”Go on and take your bath.” She motioned toward the box. ”That's the novel?”

”It is. Good night, Bobby. We'll talk tomorrow.”

This time when he walked out, both cats followed; he was already forgiven.

She read the book the way Frank had, skipping long pa.s.sages and pages, losing track of the characters, losing count of the corpses littering the landscape. Then, exactly the way Frank had done, she read every word of the finale carefully. Afterward, she put the pages back in the box, and sat for a long time staring at nothing.

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