Breathe No More My Lady

figure why I wanted an affair. Michele and I were not only able and willing bed partners, but we often reached heights of exhausting passion. Yet in the last—oh—year, especially whenever the papers played up a new call girl scandal, I had found myself thinking of having another woman. A hundred dollar a night call girl. Or Miss Park. Whenever I gave it any serious thought, I was frankly puzzled by this want and wondered if it came to all men after a half-a-dozen years of marriage. I was positive that no other woman could be as pleasing as Michele, yet... I couldn't deny I had these thoughts. With Michele away, why if she ever found out, she certainly couldn't blame me... now.

Whether it was the drink warming my insides or/and the slightly perfumed presence of the blonde beside me, I began to feel as excited as a schoolboy. When blondie groaned at an ancient joke the TV comedian pulled, I jabbed with, “He hasn't talent, merely courage.” Which was as old as his gag.

She nodded. “I swear, all I can take on TV are the fights. I simply can't stand it when they try so hard to be funny, or clever—any of that intellectual jazz.”

“I know what you mean—the high water mark of mediocrity; that's TV.” I motioned for the bartender. “Would it upset you terribly if I buy you a refill and act like a brash joker?”

She turned and gave me a coy, studied glance, then she smiled. If her teeth said she was far nearer 40, her face was also prettier than I'd thought. She said, “Yes, I think a refill will be fine. And I like your frank approach. When it comes to drinks I don't stand on convention or any of that silly old jazz...”

Mrs. Wilma Hunter

The day started wrong. In fact it started in the afternoon. I awoke at 2 p.m. feeling wretched and lost with a terrible hangover. It was another muggy day and I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, full of sweat and stale odors: the empty apartment making me want Michele so much I was afraid. I simply had this sense of fear, of foreboding.

I sat there in a haze, a whole slew of thoughts circling in my throbbing mind. Things like: Is any binge worth the hangover? How can people in love make each other so miserable? The constant thought—exactly what had I done to make Michele blow sky high? There was also the slightly sobering thought that I'd already wasted a half a day, ought to get on my horse.

The bedroom spooked me because it was so neat. I missed Michele's sloppy habit of leaving her underthings hanging on the backs of chairs and on the dresser. There was only one bright spot, I was so glad I hadn't tried to take the blonde in the bar to bed. I wasn't even sure she would have been willing, but the tenth time she said, ”... all that jazz,” I'd lost interest.

Sitting on the bed I realized I was listening intently. I didn't know for what, unless it was the sound of Michele washing up, or her footsteps in the kitchen. I told myself to cut it out A cold shower and food left me with only a faint headache. After I shaved and dressed I went to 'work.' I took out the list of people connected with Francine Anthony's death, in one way or another. Prof. Henry Brown lived in a hotel on West 99th Street, the Hunters lived a dozen blocks from me. I phoned them and didn't get any answer. Next I phoned Brown's hotel. A man answered who couldn't speak English. I kept shouting, “Prof. Henry Brown?” and he kept repeating, “Non,” or something that sounded like that. Next I phoned Matt's agent and his secretary told me he was gone for the day.

I sat by my phone, smoking a pipe, feeling a bit helpless. I walked over to the garage and drove up to 99th Street I worked up a fine sweat squeezing into a parking space that seemed to be the length of my car to the inch.

The 'hotel' was a converted apartment house full of Puerto Rican men, women and children; mostly children. Actually it seemed more like a large pension than a cheap hotel—except for the faint stink of insecticide. The desk clerk was a stooped refugee, a plump man in a loud sports shirt, his bald head almost polished. This was obviously my pal on the phone, for when I asked for Prof. Brown he shook his head and tried to tell me something in God- knows-what-language. When I shook my head he smiled and tried saying it again in Spanish. I shrugged to let him know I didn't understand, and he shrugged back, pointed to the door and let it go. I was getting rattled by this run- a-round and the heat and the insecticide weren't doing my head any good.

When I asked if he spoke French the clerk's face lit up as he rattled back in fast French which I vaguely understood to mean he was delighted to meet anybody who could speak French. I asked in my best slow French for Prof. Brown and merely talking French made me want to cry. The clerk pointed to a wall clock and rattled on. I finally got the idea: Prof. Brown always left the hotel at about ten-thirty in the morning.

I asked if I could have some stationery and he looked embarrassed, as if I'd asked a stupid question. There wasn't any stationery. I told him I wanted to leave a note for Brown and any paper would do. The clerk started a wild search for paper, hunting through a kind of receipt book for a blank piece. I finally told him to tell Prof. Brown I'd be back in the morning, or rather told him as best I could.

There was a phone booth in the lobby and I tried calling the Hunters again. Still no answer. There was a tiny fan in the booth and I sat there for a moment, enjoying the breeze. The other people on my fist were either in Riverside or End Harbor, and it was much too late to drive out there. Matt's agent was out—and actually I didn't know what I wanted to see him about. He wasn't at the house when Francine was killed. So what to do? I phoned the office and asked Miss Park if she had found out who Matt's lawyer would be. She hadn't: it seemed his regular lawyer was trying to hire a good trial man, and had promised to let us know that afternoon. I told her to call or wire me at home as soon as she knew. Miss Park started telling me about some ad in a Chicago paper that had come out badly smudged and I cut her off by telling her to take it up with Marty Kelly. When I hung up I had another bright idea. I phoned in a wire to the Hunters asking them to call me at home as soon as possible.

The desk clerk and I said good day to each other in French and I went out and got in my car. It was almost three and I didn't know what to do with myself.

I started driving down the West Side Highway, considered taking a swim, but any decent beach seemed too far away. It was fairly cool driving and I crossed the Battery Tunnel and drove along the Narrows. When I reached Coney Island I turned off and parked. I had a couple of good hot dogs and a root beer at Nathan's and felt much, much better. I bought the evening papers, strolled the boardwalk, remembering how Michele loved Coney Island. I finally found a seat out on the new fishing pier, took off my coat.

The papers had a rehash of the case on the inside pages. It was an open and shut deal, what could be new? One of them had already started the REAL MATT ANTHONY STORY. I felt sorry for the hack frantically digging through back issues, banging his brains out to keep a day ahead of a deadline. The Post said Matt would be defended by the 'famous criminal attorney, Jackson Clair.'

I watched the old people fishing. Their endless patience reminded me of the Seine fisherman; they never seemed to catch anything, either. Michele and I used to watch them.... I put my head back against the railing to get some sun, shut my eyes. I slept for a half hour and made a frantic inspection of my pockets when I came to. To my surprise I hadn't been rolled.