“The first place you should shoot him is right in the crotch.”
“Poetic justice, eh?”
“Damn right.”
I made her a bologna sandwich.
She said, as I was making it, her head rolling around more violently than ever, “What happened to Ray Charles?”
“You weren’t listening to Ray Charles. You were listening to Miles Davis.” We liked a lot of the same jazz records.
“I was not. I was listening to Ray Charles.
“Green Dolphin Street.””
“You were listening to Miles Davis, and “Green Dolphin Street” is Tony
Bennett, anyway.”
I served her a sandwich on a saucer. “Sit up.”
“Why?”
“So you can digest this better.”
“What happened to Dakota Staton?”
Dakota being a jazz singer we both liked very much.
I decided not to go back through it. “I turned off the music.”
She stared-through a fly’s eye again, no doubt -at her sandwich, looking as if nobody’d ever before put such a thing in front of her. “Did I tell you you should shoot him in the crotch?”
“Duly noted.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means, yes, you told me, and yes, I’ll remember it.”
“What’s this?”
“A bologna sandwich.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat. Now, c’mon.”
Her head wobbled and she glanced up at me.
“How come you’re so short?”
“How come you’re so drunk?”
“Shoot him in the crotch twice.”
“Eat.”
“We should get some grenades, is what we should get.”
She ate.
Two bites. Then, “You know what I found in his billfold?”
“What?”
“Picture of her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He carries a picture of her around with him.”
“C’mon, just eat.”
“Just like she’s his wife or something.”
“Eat.”
She ate, all right. About six, seven bites alt. Then it-anda lot of the scotch-came right back up. Luckily I got her to the john in time.
There was a fan going in the bedroom window. I positioned her as comfortably as possible on the bed and then let my three cats Tasha, Crystal, and Tess-well, technically, a friend of mine named Samantha left them with me when she went to Hollywood hoping to find gold and glamour-situate themselves around her.
The next four hours were pretty boring so let’s just say that I watched some Tv, I fixed myself a couple of burgers, I fed the cats, and I looked in on Kylie every once in a while. I felt bad for her. Having chased the beautiful Pamela Forrest all those years, I knew all about heartbreak. Or at least I fancied I did. Me and Robert Ryan. But actually never having been married… wow, your mate comes home and admits that he’s seeing somebody else-which is what I guessed had happened-t was head-in-the-oven time.
The heat broke around nine. Kylie got up and went in the john. She wasn’t in there very long.
I got a glimpse of her when she came out.
She was walking that stiff-armed way Boris Karloff always does when he plays
Frankenstein’s monster. She went right back to bed.
I barely heard the knock. The fan was kicking out and the Tv was on. I wouldn’t have noticed the door at all if Tess hadn’t trotted over there. She’s kind of a watch cat.
She can’t bark but if you come in and she’s got her doubts about you, she bites you on the ankle.
He let himself in. And Tess bit him on the ankle.
“Hey!” he said.
He was tall and blond and handsome, I suppose, but in a preppy way I’ve always resented. Or been jealous of. Take your pick.
The one and only Chad Burke.
“What’s with your cat? She bit me.”
“She’s discriminating.”
He said, “She here?”
“Yeah.”
He looked around. “Where?”
“Bedroom.”
I’d gotten up and walked over to him. He started toward me now. Angry. “You didn’t screw her, did you?”
“No,” I said. “And I guess you didn’t, either. Your new girlfriend wouldn’t like that, would she?”
The anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
He ran a long, artistic hand through his curly blond hair. He looked miserable. “All I asked her for was a little time. I didn’t say I’d leave her. I just said I needed to work through it. She made a big deal of it.”
“Gee, how insensitive of her.”
“I told her when I married her, writers are pretty messed-up people. Being creative isn’t easy. You know, like actors.”
I decided not to tell him that (a) he wasn’t a writer but a grad school dabbler, (but) that even if he was a real writer it didn’t give him any license to cheat on his wife, and (can) everybody knew that most actors were morons anyway.
He said, “You really didn’t screw her?”
“I really didn’t screw her.”
“That’s what I figured she’d do. You know, go out and sleep with you. She likes you.”
“She did want to hire me to kill you. But that was for money. She didn’t mention anything about sex.”
He didn’t smile.
“That’d just make things worse,” he said, “she goes out and starts grudge-screwing people.”
“But it’s all right if you nail your student?”
“That’s different. That doesn’t have anything to do with spite. I’m half in love with her.”
“Ah. Now I get the distinction.”
He glared at me. “I’m not asking for your approval, McCain. I could give a shit what you think about me. Now, I’ve got my car out back and I’m going to go in there and get her and take her home. And you’re not going to stop me.”
“She’s your wife, Chad. But let me tell you something.”
He waved me off. “Believe me,
I’ve heard it all already. All day long I’ve heard it. She called her folks and they called my folks. All I’ve done all day is argue with people. And try and justify myself. What can I say? Diane is good for my writing.
I’m just more creative when she’s in my life.”
