Breathe No More My Lady

me a sudden queasy feeling, but I had to get it over with.

“Have to have you over for supper more often, Norm, when Liz learns you're a summer bachelor. We didn't get much sleep either last night. It got so damn muggy we drove up to City Island and spent the night on the boat Here, I have a new ball—try it.”

“Never mind. I've been on the go all morning. Play for serve.”

We had our usual tight game and I made a few lucky killers to win 21-17. I didn't say a word about Matt Anthony although I sensed Frank was waiting for me to talk about the mess.

Over lunch at the Ad Club, when I gave him the galleys, he finally asked, “What about this Anthony thing you mentioned on the phone?”

In an off-hand manner I told him about Bill Long's pitch, what the deal was. I ended with, “So there it is, a minor matter blown all out of proportion by this biddy stockholder, and dumped square in my lap.”

Frank toyed with a cigarette and shook his silver-white crewcut head. “I'd forget it. Difficult to gauge the public reaction to such an ad campaign. The biddy will find something else to make a stink about anyway, so no sense in hanging yourself.”

“No, I'm going ahead with the campaign,” I said softly. “What the hell, Bill Long practically ordered me to. He hinted at some big plans he wants to carry at the next stock-holders meeting, so if we can lick this... well, it is important. And I want to do it. Keep my mind off Michele. (I put in the proper, light chuckle.) Seriously, Frank, I have about a week's leeway and I'm going to interview everybody connected with the killing. I have to determine in my own mind if Matt is guilty.”

“I'm not reading you, son. The man has admitted it.”

“What I mean is, was it one of those things or real murder?” I said, taking a small breath and plunging in. “I know I hardly have to tell you of all people, Frank, that advertising has a creative, intrinsic quality. A fellow has to believe in what he's selling to do a job. Sure, one can peddle anything, and it will be a routine campaign. Well, this can't be routine. I can't afford a mistake or I ruin Longson. So I have to first believe in my product. Even though the D.A. is calling this murder, I have to make up my own mind, be damn certain— without any reservations—that it was... well, an accident. In a moment of rage any of us might punch somebody, even a — a... wife. And if she bangs her head in falling, to me and the public that's not murder but a tough break. No matter what any D.A. claims. After all, even though you and I may know differently, part of the pitch has to be that we're helping Matt raise money for his defense. Therefore, I have to make the public feel that by buying his book they are also helping a worthy cause, so to speak. To do that, and I'm certainly not judging the man, I first have to be certain he has a defense. In short, if it really was murder, I wouldn't blow my nose to help him.”

I was stirring and playing with my coffee as I talked, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Frank nodding in agreement. Frank said, “I like your feeling of loyalty to Longson, Norm, and your slant about advertising integrity. Certainly a man has to sell himself first. I once saw Anthony in action at some yacht club dance. A hell of a big bruiser, and what's more, he looked like a mean customer. I wouldn't want to tangle with him.”

“What sort of 'action' was he in?”

“Nothing much actually happened. He drank a few too many and pushed somebody around. Now that I think of it, Francine Anthony was there too. I'd give odds he's taken a fist to her before.”

“A bitch?”

Frank nodded. “I hate that word. I also hate to go by first impressions, but she struck me as the Bitch.” He motioned for the check.

I finished my coffee quickly, added, “Of coarse all I've told you is off the record, Frank.”

“I know. Look, we're going away for the weekend, that Liz will phone you early in the week for supper. And maybe we'll get in a few games before that. I'm anxious to know what you learn about Anthony. I'll finish the galleys over the weekend, send them to your office.” Frank added this last sentence with a touch of self-importance that made me hide my smile with my napkin.

Riding back to the office I felt pretty good—for the first time since last night I'd played things exactly right. Frank would tell a few people, the right ones—probably as part of some intimate bar conversation—and Madison Avenue would be watching my campaign. Do me good to get out of the office, and there won't be any trouble with Bill. Hell, he gave me a week to decide and things are slow in the office. God, the way the unexpected can shake up your life: if I pull this off, it will be exactly what I've been waiting for—the bang to land me in a big agency. And it fits. By the time Michele returns I'll already be established, prove how right I was. Then we'll start right in having a kid.... By the time Michele returns ... it hasn't worn thin, she will return, oh Lord, she has to come back... please make her return.

I cabled Michele a dozen roses, then spent the balance of the afternoon cleaning up my desk. When I talked to Bill Long he was not only in favor of my idea of interviewing the people involved, but I knew he was impressed by it.

At five as Miss Park was leaving, I fooled with the idea of asking her to eat with me. I had this immediate dread of dining alone. My wife is out of town so let's go...! But could I explain about not wanting to eat alone...? I said goodnight to her and remained at my desk until six, cleaning up my pipes and doing other such important work. When I left at seven the night elevator operator said something about my working overtime. It was another warm evening and I had a light bite in a cafeteria. I took in a movie but my restlessness made the theater seat feel like a straitjacket Also the picture was one of the so-called 'adult Westerns,' which bore me worse than the shoot-'em-up variety. I walked out in the middle of it, wandering around aimlessly. The good feeling of the afternoon had worn away.

I dropped into a quiet Second Avenue bar that seemed cool, and started to get tight. It seemed like something to do. I sat on a bar stool, along with a few other people, and watched the TV perched high in one corner. There was a half-finished drink and a pack of cigarettes, on the bar next to me. I didn't notice them until a tall woman with an over-blonde pony tail walked out of a room cleverly marked HERS and sat on the stool beside me. She took a butt out of the open pack. I moved a little to give her room, said, “Excuse me.” She was wearing a smart and slightly clinging odd print dress, the colors light and gay. Her face could be considered pretty, and I decided she could be 30 or even 40. I was going to light her cigarette, but she said “Thank you,” and lit her cigarette—all in one motion—as she turned to watch TV. From the profile view I knew she was wearing a powerful girdle, but the upstairs didn't seem the work of any bra contraption and reminded me greatly of Miss Park.

As I sipped my drink a thought which I realized had been rattling about in the rear of my mind all day came into sharp focus: now was my chance for an affair. It had such a corny melodramatic connotation I smiled at myself in the clean bar mirror. Of course I knew the idea hadn't been born just today. But for the life of me I couldn't