Breathe No More My Lady

business, goes by the rules. Don't worry, that confession will stand up in court Must have been fifty photographers taking his picture the same night I brought him in—and not a mark on the smart bastard, either. He just saw I was on to him.” He raised his arms to his head and yawned—even his teeth were stubby. “Is there any chance of my seeing Anthony?”

“How long you been a reporter, bud? Ought to know you can't see no prisoner without a special okay.”

I thanked him again and walked out—fast. I headed for New York and it took a long time for the sun to warm me up.

Joel Hunter

I was back in New York before one, feeling absolutely wretched. I still had no idea as to what I should do about Wilma, yet I had the feeling I should be doing something. I dropped into the apartment to change my suit and shave. The apartment gave me an acute guilt feeling, and I found myself doing such dopey things as suddenly trying to decide where I'd put the crib.

I made a few calls. Miss Park said she had received my card and how did I like Montauk? There wasn't anything happening at the office. Frank had returned the galley proofs that morning. Marty Kelly asked me to phone. I told Miss Park I'd be in touch and phoned Kelly, who wanted me to okay space in a couple of literary quarterlies for one of our books. Marty looked like a woman chaser, and I was tempted to ask him for the name of a doctor but didn't.

Phoning the school, I talked to this Edith, the teacher who had the house, and told her I wanted to buy it. “Have you been up to see it?”

“No, but... you know Michele had to go to Paris, her folks are ill, and I want to give it to her as a surprise when she returns.”

“If you want to drive up, I can get the keys over to you and—”

“Michele saw it. And I'm pretty busy.”

“As you wish. I think it's a good house. I don't know about deeds and titles and the rest. Suppose I phone my lawyer and have him call you to settle the details?”

“That will be fine. I'll be is the office tomorrow. Let me send you a check as a binder.”

“Oh, that won't be necessary, Mr. Connor. It's yours.”

After I hung up I mixed some tobacco and finally told myself to stop stalling: I phoned Wilma. A deep man's voice answered, said she was out. “This is Joel Hunter. Who's calling?”

“Norman Connor. I merely wanted to—”

“Say now, this is something. I phoned your office less than an hour ago, and they said you were out of town. I'm ready to talk to you, Mr. Connor.”

The last person I wanted to talk with was Joel Hunter, but I had to ask, “When are you free?”

“My hours are my own. Name the time.”

“Well... eh... how about now?”

“Splendid.”

“I'll be over in a half hour.” I felt lousy: facing the cuckolded husband, or whatever the expression—I had never had cause to use it before. Still, I did want to see what Joel was like. Wilma might be in later and... what the devil would I say to her?

As I left the house I phoned Jackson Clair. His secretary told me I could see him at four. The whole damn ad campaign seemed so unimportant now.

I don't know what I expected but Joel Hunter didn't fill the picture. He opened the door wearing narrow, black dungarees, brushed-ivory loafers and a deep blue Italian pull-over. His white hair was crew-cut so short it seemed etched on his dome. He wore thick, black-framed glasses and his face was a furious pink, but his eyes said he wasn't an albino. Hunter was built like an actor; small, narrow shoulders, his face and head the largest part of him. He reminded me of the young men taking over the midtown bars on Second and Third avenues: it takes one a little time to decide if they are fags or not—if that matters.

We shook hands hard and for some reason I felt relieved upon seeing him. Whatever Wilma and I decided to do, well, we wouldn't have to bother consulting Joel.

I followed him down the narrow hall of an old fashioned apartment with all the small rooms opening on the hallway. The walls had a few colorful travel posters and bullfight signs on them. I passed one room painted an unbelievable deep purple, had a fast glimpse of an old fashioned stuffed couch and a small hi-fi on a table. The living room had the proper foam-rubber, wrought-iron furniture, an interesting wall rug and several masks on the walls. As we sat down he asked if I wanted a shot and I said it was too early, which seemed to amuse Joel. He certainly had a deep voice for such a slight frame. I wanted to get the conversation around to Wilma, not sure what I'd ask, but felt it would be a jerky thing to do.

He smiled, said, “Sorry I missed you the other day. I suppose Wilma has told you about my little journeys out of time.”

“I think she mentioned it.”

“It makes her furious because it's the sort of thing one has to do alone. Really, it's quite good for me. You'd be astonished at the mood, the heady drunk, one can get into by listening all day to Peggy Lee or Billy. How lost you get in Artie Shaw, the Duke... the lift it can give you. After a day or two you come out completely refreshed.”

“Sounds interesting,” I said, thinking I could sure use something like that myself.

“Now, Norman—you don't mind my calling you that? I think last names are ridiculous.”

“I don't mind, Joel.”

“Of course, Wilma has told me what you want. I'd like to help Matt but I must warn you, I can't get any more