“Anything else I’ll need to know?”
“Only the commonsense things. I’ll have a gun in my purse. Use it if you need it.” She smiled. “I know. I’m putting you through a lot when the chances are a million to one against trouble. But you know it’s not wasted effort.”
“I know,” he said. The practice was never wasted. He had to learn to work with her, and it would have to be her way, if she was to provide the cover.
At the door to the motel room, Maureen prepared to enter first, her hand shuffling busily in her purse as her eyes darted about. He carried the bags, but set them down at the door to search for the key. He watched Maureen as she settled her eyes on the slightly opened curtains behind the window. She nodded and he opened the door, and then she pushed in ahead, her hand still in the purse. He breathed a sigh that he fancied could be the sigh of a husband setting down heavy luggage. He locked the door, regretting that there was no chain, then watched as Maureen made her inspection. She brought a hairbrush out of the purse, walked over and knelt in front of the television, and turned it on. Then she began the talk again, stood up, and walked into the bathroom, still carrying her purse.
He listened to her, waiting for some signal that all was well. “And that waiter,” she was saying. “I was waiting for him to pour your coffee all over the table and wipe it up with your tie. How can they always get the orders switched when there are only two people at the table?” The bathroom door closed.
He forced a chuckle, and stared at the screen, where a detective was grandly wrapping up his case, as he did weekly, by accusing his client of the crime. The client, as always, produced a pistol from nowhere, and jeered as he admitted everything in detail. In a moment the client would be running away from the detective, stopping occasionally to fire a shot or two in the general direction of his pursuer, then turning to run again, always up a stairway or fire escape, higher and higher until he was trapped. At the top he would run out of ammunition, hurl his pistol at the head of the detective, and lose the ensuing fistfight. In any case he would be on the pavement below in time for the commercials. He glanced idly at the bed as he took off his coat and loosened his tie. There were wrinkles on the bedspread. Were they the same?
In a moment the bathroom door swung open and Maureen came out, her head cocked to the side. She said, “I’d like to have the recipe for the stuff they put on the asparagus, though.” He didn’t bother to answer. As he watched, she gave her head a toss, and began brushing her hair with her left hand. He had to force himself not to whirl his head around to look for it. What was it? A microphone? A camera? What? Watch her. He grunted and waited for her to move.
She stood firm in the doorway brushing her hair, but she seemed to be pondering. She said, “I’m going to try to make it myself. But you’ll have to help test it, because I want to get it right on the first try.” Then she smiled a too-broad smile, almost a wince, and added, “God, the way the prices have gone up, we can’t afford to miss the first time.” She still hadn’t moved from the bathroom doorway. Then that was it. It had to be in there. He could see that light perspiration stains were beginning to appear under her arms. But still she held the grin and went on talking and brushing.
He said, “I’m no cook. You said so yourself.”
She answered, “Yes, but everybody should learn. It’ll keep you alive if the real-estate business falls apart and you can’t eat out anymore.”
Did she mean the cover was no good? She must. But that they wouldn’t be able to run. He said, “Okay, now let me in the bathroom.” He picked up his toothbrush and toothpaste and headed for the door. She stepped aside and said, “All right, but save the shower for morning, okay?”
He froze in the doorway, not believing at first what he knew he felt. She had stopped brushing her hair. He looked at her eyes, which now held an approximation of a coquettish half-lidded sidelong glance, but there was behind it a kind of terror. The hand that held the hairbrush was trembling. He didn’t bother to look down at the hand that was fondling his genitals.
He smiled and said, huskily, “Jesus, I think I’ll get that recipe myself. Give some to the girls at the office.”
Maureen turned and slipped away, and tossed the hairbrush on the table. As he brushed his teeth, he looked around him with an air of casual curiosity. The only thing that looked like a possibility was that there was no medicine cabinet. The mirror was attached directly to the wall. She had made a point of the shower. Was there something in it? Better not look. But it didn’t make any sense. If there were a camera and microphones, they would be trained on the bed. And they would both have to be there in a minute.
When he returned to the bedroom he was still confused, not knowing where to look. He was afraid that his eyes would rest on the spot, and they would know he was looking for something. Then he wondered if they would notice he was moving his eyes around too much. Only Maureen was safe to look at. She was sitting on the bed with her legs tucked under her, still brushing her hair with her left hand and smiling faintly to herself. He picked up his coat and started to hang it on the chair next to the bed. It had to be near, or he would never reach the Beretta in time. Maureen was busily turning back the covers, when she seemed to notice him again. She said, “Mind if I check our finances?”
“Not at all,” he answered, and she sat back on the bed and whisked the coat to her. She fumbled for a moment in the pockets, then found the wallet. She dropped it on the floor. As she leaned down to pick it up, keeping the other hand on the bed for balance, he thought he saw a swift movement under the coat. Then both hands reappeared and she was peering into the wallet, moving her lips as though counting.
“Not bad,” she said. “We should be okay at least until we get to Miami. Then we can use the traveler’s checks.”
“That’s what I figure,” he said. Miami. What else was there to say? He engaged himself in unbuttoning his shirt.
She tossed his coat back to him. When he caught it he was sure. The gun was gone. “How about my wallet?” he said, and she tossed it to him. He set it on the nightstand and continued to undress. Somehow his mind resisted. For some reason his alarm had eddied and swirled around inside him and had finally solidified as a reluctance to be trapped naked. Yet he knew that the surest way to convince whoever Maureen thought was watching that he was something out of the ordinary was to remain fully dressed. He knew Maureen must have slipped the gun into the bed somewhere, but now she was on the other side of the room, rummaging in her purse.
For a moment he was terrified. She couldn’t reach the gun, and he would need precious seconds to find it. If she had seen something, what—but then he remembered the gun in her purse. She hadn’t forgotten. She was standing guard over him until he could get into the bed and find the pistol. He quickly finished undressing and slipped in between the cool, fresh sheets. He pretended to stretch, and in one motion grasped the Beretta in his left hand and pulled it down next to his thigh. Then he lay on his back with his arms folded behind his head, looking at Maureen.
She moved to her suitcase, then took out a filmy white negligee. He had forgotten about that—that it was her turn now, and it must be harder for her. If someone was watching, it was a man. He resolved to make it easier for her if he could. He turned out the lamp beside him, leaving only the one on her side. If she wanted that out, she could turn it off easily and naturally. He said, “What do you think we ought to do first in Florida? I mean besides shopping.”
“I thought you were so excited about going deep-sea fishing,” she said, looking at him as she began to unbutton her blouse.
“Yeah,” he said. “But what about you? What will you do while I’m out there hauling in the big ones?” He wanted to keep her talking, busy playing the part until the hardest moments were over and she could slip into bed and pretend to sleep. He tried not to stare as the blouse came off and she stepped out of the skirt.
She looked into his eyes from across the room, her lips turned up in a little smile as though she knew what he was thinking and thanked him for his two contradictory wishes. “Oh, I’m going with you,” she said as she reached behind her and unhooked her bra. “I’m the bait.” As she spoke she shrugged it down off her shoulders, and he couldn’t help watching her firm round breasts jiggle slightly, the pink nipples standing out like tight little buds. When she slipped the silk underpants down her thighs he tried unsuccessfully to keep his eyes off the dark triangle of hair.
He said, “And what if the fish don’t like girl meat?”
She stopped in the middle of reaching for the wisp of nightgown, smiled again, and said, “Then there’s always the fisherman.” He could feel himself blush hotly as he realized that she was looking at the place where the thin
