The Best American Noir of the Century

Her eyes tensed. “That isn’t true and you know it,” she said, her voice almost a hiss. “And because of that you’re a liar, and all your books are lies.” Her voice was so firm, so hard and un­relenting, I felt it like a wind. “Here’s the deal,” she said. “If you really felt the way you write, you’d kill yourself. If all that feel­ing was really in you, down deep in you, you wouldn’t be able to live a single day.” She dared me to contradict her, and when I didn’t, she said, “You see everything but yourself. And here’s what you don’t see about yourself, Jack. You don’t see that you’re happy.”

“Happy?” I asked.

“You are happy,” Veronica insisted. “You won’t admit it, but you are. And you should be.”

Then she offered the elements of my happiness, the sheer good fortune I had enjoyed, health, adequate money, work I loved, little dollops of achievement.

“Compared to you, Douglas had nothing,” she said.

“He had you,” I said cautiously.

Her face soured again. “If you make it about me,” she warned, “you’ll have to leave.”

She was serious, and I knew it. So I said, “What do you want from me, Veronica?”

Without hesitation she said, “I want you to stay.”

“Stay?”

“While I take the pills.”

I remembered the line she’d said just outside the bar only a few hours before, I could do it with you, you know.

I had taken this to mean that we would do it together, but now I knew that she had never included me. There was no pact. There was only Veronica.

“Will you do it?” she asked somberly.

“When?” I asked quietly.

She took the pills and poured them into her hand. “Now,” she said.

“No,” I blurted, and started to rise.

She pressed me down hard, her gaze relentlessly deter­mined, so that I knew she would do what she intended, that there was no way to stop her.

“I want out of this noise,” she said, pressing her one empty hand to her right ear. “Everything is so loud.”

In the fierceness of those words I glimpsed the full measure of her torment, all she no longer wished to hear, the clanging daily vanities and thudding repetitions, the catcalls of the inferior, the trumpeting mediocrities, all of which lifted to a soul-searing roar the unbearable clatter of the wheel. She wanted an end to all of that, a silence she would not be denied.

“Will you stay?” she asked quietly.

I knew that any argument would strike her as just more noise she could not bear. It would clang like cymbals, only add lo the mindless cacophony she was so desperate to escape.

And so I said, “All right.”

With no further word, she swallowed the pills two at a time, washing them down with quick sips of vodka.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Veronica,” I told her when she took the last of them and put down the glass.

She curled under my arm. “Say what I said to Douglas,” she told me. “In the end it’s all anyone can offer.”

“What did you say to him?” I asked softly.

“I’m here.”

I drew my arm tightly around her. “I’m here,” I said.

She snuggled in more closely. “Yes.”

* * *

“And so you stayed?” my friend asked.

I nodded.

“And she… ?”

“In about an hour,” I told him. “Then I dressed and walked the streets until I finally came here.”

“So right now she’s…”

“Gone,” I said quickly, and suddenly imagined her sitting in the park across from the bar, still and silent.

“You couldn’t stop her?”

“With what?” I asked. “I had nothing to offer.” I glanced out the front window of the bar. “And besides,” I added, “for a truly dangerous woman, a man is never the answer. That’s what makes her dangerous. At least, to us.”

My friend looked at me oddly. “So what are you going to do now?” he asked.

At the far end of the park a young couple was screaming at each other, the woman’s fist in the air, the man shaking his head in violent confusion. I could imagine Veronica turning from them, walking silently away.

“I’m going to keep quiet,” I answered. “For a very long time.”

Then I got to my feet and walked out into the whirling city. The usual dissonance engulfed me, all the chaos and disarray, but I felt no need to add my own inchoate discord to the rest.

It was a strangely sweet feeling, I realized as I turned and headed home, embracing silence.

From deep within her enveloping calm, Veronica offered me her final words.

I know.

2005 ANDREW KLAVAN HER LORD AND MASTER

Andrew Klavan (1954-) was born in New York City, the son of popular radio disc jockey and talk show host Gene Klavan. He received a business degree from the University of California, Berkeley, before returning to the New York area to work as a news writer, reporter, book reviewer, and mystery novelist. His first novel, Face of the Earth (1980), was published when he was twenty-six, three years after it was completed. He has gone on to write more than twenty additional novels of mystery, crime, horror (The Uncanny, 1998), psychological suspense (Man and Wife, 2001), and, most recently, international terror (Empire of Lies, 2008). He has been nominated for four Edgar Allan Poe Awards by the Mystery Writers of America, winning twice: for Mrs. White (1983), coauthored with his brother, the novelist and playwright Laurence Klavan, under the pseudonym Margaret Tracy; and The Rain (1988), under the pseudonym Keith Peterson. He was also nominated for Best Novel for Don’t Say a Word (1991) and for Best Short Story for “Her Lord and Master” (2005). Stephen King once described him as “the most original American novelist of crime and suspense since Cornell Woolrich.” Klavan adapted his novel True Crime (1995) for a film of the same title that starred and was directed by Clint Eastwood in 1999. Two years later he wrote the screenplay for Don’t Say a Word, which starred Michael Douglas. He also wrote the screenplay for Simon Brett’s A Shock to the System (1990).

“Her Lord and Master” was written many years before it was published, his agent refusing to submit it because of its controversial subject matter. It was first published in the anthology Dangerous Women (New York: Mysterious Press, 2005), and was selected for The Best American Mystery Stories 2006.

It was obvious she’d killed him, but only I knew why. I’d been Jim’s friend, and he’d told me everything. It was a shocking story in its way. I found it shocking, at any rate. More than once, when he confided in me, I’d felt the sweat gathering under my collar, on my chest. Goose bumps, and what in a more decorous age we would have called a “stirring in the loins.” Nowadays, of course, we’re supposed to be able to talk about these things, about