The Loo Sanction

one another more. The only people you can really trust are women named Maggie. Someone once told me that the name Maggie, while not melodious, was at least substantial. You could always trust good old Maggie.'

'All right. I give up.'

'Good.' He rose and started back toward the inn.

She followed. 'There is one thing, though.'

'Let me guess. You'd give anything in the world if you hadn't had to set me up. You could almost weep when you think of me, lying there in the deep sleep of the sexually exercised and satisfied—probably a boyish smile on my face—while you slipped out of bed and opened the door to let the Loo men in and gutshoot that poor bastard on my crapper.'

'Really, I didn't know—'

'Certainly! After all, I was just a cipher to you at first. But later, it was different. Right? After we'd exchanged trivial confidences and fucked a bit, you discovered deeper feelings. But by then it was too late to back out. Maggie!...' He reined his anger and lowered his voice. 'Maggie, your actions lack even the charm of new experience for me. I was nailed once before by a lady. The only difference is that she was in the major leagues.'

Her eyes had not left his, and she had not flinched through his tirade. 'I know, Jonathan.'

He realized that he had reached out and was grasping her upper arms tightly. He released her, snapping his hands open. 'How do you know?'

'Your records. CII sent us your entire file, and I was required to study it carefully before...'

'Before setting me up.'

'All right! Before setting you up!'

He believed the shame in her sudden rush of anger. Suddenly he felt very tired. And he regretted his loss of control. He looked away from her and forced his breathing to assume a lower rhythm.

She spoke without temper and without pleading. 'I want to tell you this.'

'I don't need it.'

'I need it. I didn't know what they had in mind. I thought they were going to set you up with a drug plant or something. When they appeared at the door with that poor man, I... I...'

'He was alive at that time.'

She swallowed and looked past him, down the road gleaming faintly in the ghost light of moon above fog. Talking about it required that she pick at the painful scab of memory. 'Yes. He was badly doped up. He couldn't even stand without help. And he was wearing that horrid grinning mask. They had to carry him in and put him onto the... But he was aware of what was happening. I could see it in his eyes—just the eyes behind the cutouts in the mask. He looked at me with such...' She blinked back the tears. 'There was such sadness in his eyes! He was begging me to help him. I felt that. But I... Lord God above, it's a terrible business we're in, Jonathan.'

He drew her head against his chest. It seemed the only reasonable thing to do.

'Why didn't they kill him cleanly?'

She couldn't speak for a while, and he heard the squeaking sound of tears being swallowed. 'They were supposed to. The Vicar was very angry with them for bungling it. They went into the bathroom while I waited outside. Then you turned over in your sleep and made a sound. I was frightened you might wake up, so I tapped at the door, and at the same moment I heard a popping sound.'

'A silencer.'

'Yes, I suppose. They rushed out immediately, but one of them was swearing under his breath. My knock had startled him and spoiled his aim.'

He rocked her gently.

'I crept back into bed, trying not to wake you. I didn't know what to do. I just lay there, staring into the dark, concentrating as hard as possible, trying to keep dawn from coming.'

'But no luck.'

'No luck at all. Morning came. You woke up. Then... I just couldn't make love when you wanted.'

He nodded. That was to her credit. 'Come on. Let's take a walk around the inn before turning in.'

She sniffed and pulled herself together. 'Yes, I'd like that.'

They strolled slowly, arm about and arm about, each accommodating for their difference in stride. 'Tell me,' he said, 'why didn't you throw the cigarette case away?'

'You know about that? Well, I suppose the real question is why didn't I leave it behind in your room, as I was supposed to do. I don't know. At the moment, I thought I might be protecting you by denying them the films. But directly I had time to think it out, I realized that they were determined to get you. There was no point in denying them the films. They'd only have set something else up, and you would have had to go through that.'

'I see.' He looked down, watching their shoes step out in rhythm. 'Who were the men who came to my flat?'

'The two you rode here with in the Bentley. Not Yank, the other two.

'And who did the shooting?'

'The Sergeant.'

'Figures.' He added another line to the bill The Sergeant was running up with him. The payoff became inevitable.

They walked without speaking for a time, breathing in the moist freshness of the night air.

'It may be silly,' she said at last, 'but I'm glad you didn't take Sylvia up on it.'

'Who is Silvia?'

'The girl who works here. You know, Henry's friend.'

'Oh, her. Well, she isn't my type.'

They were at the door again. She turned to him and asked, 'Am I your type?'

He looked at her for several seconds. 'I'm afraid so.'

They went in.

'I'm sorry about that,' she said out of a long silence. She was sitting up, braced against the carved oaken headboard, and she had just lit another cigarette.

He hugged her around the hips and put his cheek into the curve of her waist. They had made love, and slept, and made love again, and now his voice was ragged with sleepiness. 'Sorry about what?'

'About that last bit—those internal contractions when I climax. I can't help them. They're beyond my control.'

He growled and mumbled, 'By all means, do let's talk about it.'

She laughed at him. 'Don't you like to talk about it afterward? It's supposed to be very healthy and modern and all.'

'I suppose. But I'm old-fashioned enough to be sentimental about the operation. For the first few minutes anyway.'

'Hm-m.' She took a drag on her cigarette, her face briefly illuminated in the glow. 'Your kind of people are like that.'

He turned over. 'My kind of people?'

'The violent ones. They tend to be sentimental. I guess sentiment is their substitute for compassion. Kind of a surrogate for genuine feelings. I read somewhere that ranking Nazis used to weep over Wagner.'

'Wagner makes me weep too. But not from sentiment. Go to sleep.'

'All right.' But after a moment of silence: 'Still, I am sorry if my little spasms ruined any plans you had for epic control.'

'Sorry for me? Or sorry for yourself?'

'Oh, you are feeling a bit bristly, aren't you? Do you always suffer from postcoitus aggression?'

He rose to one elbow. 'Listen, madam. It doesn't seem to me that I started any of this. The only thing I'm feeling at this moment is postcoitus fatigue. Now good night.' He dropped back on his pillow.

'Good night.' But he could tell from the tension of her body that she was not prepared to sleep. 'Do you know what I wish you suffered from?' she asked after a short silence.

He didn't answer.

'Intracoitus camaraderie, that's what,' she said, and laughed.