Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

Francine had been married to a little known and alcoholic novelist. Mart's name was in the columns now and then, squiring some pretty actress around, so it was a mild shock (to whomever was interested) when he married the not-so-glamorous Francine three weeks before Pearl Harbor. Months later they were both in England, Matt an accredited war correspondent for a small feature syndicate. He went to Africa, to Italy—where he was hospitalized after too much drinking hardened his liver. He made headlines again when he was attached to the famed 442nd Combat Team in Northern Italy. He had been-in a machine gun nest when a direct mortar hit had killed the soldiers and slightly wounded Matt. According to one news dispatch, Matt had gone 'fighting mad' and like a movie hero had picked up a tommy gun and charged. There was some doubt as to whether he had killed two Nazi soldiers, but he had wounded and captured a German officer and had to be restrained from killing him with his bare hands.

Since correspondents are not supposed to be shooting, Matt was returned to the States and for a time lectured on the war bond circuit. His books sold well, sales being limited only by the paper shortage. He was supposed to be writing a war book, but never finished (or started) it. After the war, except for sailing the Atlantic alone and a brawl in a Boston bar, Matt kept out of the papers. Two years ago he had packaged the television rights to five of his books for 'an undisclosed sum.'

So that was Matt Anthony. I put the file down. He must have been married to Francine the time I saw him, just before he sailed the ocean.

I glanced at the two afternoon editions of the newspapers Miss Park had left on my desk. The killing was front page with a picture of a grinning Matt being escorted out of a bar by two cops (taken in 1948) and a studio photo of him in his correspondent's uniform which seemed to be strained by the broad shoulders and heavy neck. On the inside pages there was a snap of a gray, bushy-haired little man shielding his face from the cameras: Prof. Brown leaving a subversive investigation. There was another picture of a rowboat with a new outboard and a large arrow bluntly pointing to a slight dent next to an oar lock.

Keeping an eye on the time, I raced through the stories. There wasn't anything I didn't already know, except that Joel Hunter and his wife Wilma, the other house guests, were quoted as saying that Matt had threatened to kill Francine in a 'family fight' over whether Prof. Brown should remain in the house or not.

At 12:30 I took the galley proofs and left for the gym, first telling Miss Park, “Phone Marty Kelly and ask him to get me the home addresses of the Hunters, this Prof. Brown, the maid, the detective who secured Anthony's confession, and the D.A. And I want to know who Anthony's lawyer is, if he has one yet. And ask Mag for the name and phone number of Matt's agent.”

“After lunch be all right Mr. Connor?”

“Of course. I'll be back at about three,” I said, my eyes making their usual run below her neck.

I bought a later edition of a paper as I hailed a cab. The only new item was a picture of Mrs. Joel Hunter in a bathing suit. She not only had a good figure, but there was a certain boldness to her face, the way she posed, that impressed me.

Lighting my pipe, I relaxed in the taxi seat and wondered if I should let Frank win today. Being older and a little flabby but a much better player, Frank could usually loaf in the center of the court and count upon his wicked hop serve, or his accurate ceiling and wall shots to win. But if I made him move around, which meant I had to run around twice as fast myself, I could tire Frank out and win—when I wanted to.

(Up until last night I'd really been Norman Connor, the lad who always came up with a rose in each hand. To get a little exercise I'd started playing handball at a midtown gym twice weekly. My game was energetic if not skillful, and by chance I lucked up on a steady partner—Frank Kuhn. Frank is a former football star and a $25,000-a-year account executive in one of Madison Avenue's—even if his offices are located on Park—more aggressive agencies. We made a good team, usually winning when we played for a few bucks a man. Frank and I were interested in each other outside of handball, too. For some unknown reason he had a passion for reading galley-proofs of forthcoming books. The more pencilled-in changes, the more he enjoyed the book. I was interested in Frank because he kept telling me he could double my salary if I wanted to change jobs. The truth is, he gave me a mild case of ambition.

(Frank and his high-powered blonde Texan wife lived in a penthouse, were members of several swank clubs, and entertained lavishly. They both thought Michele's accent was 'too cute,' and we could have easily become their closest friends. But Michele found them boring and I was careful not to wear out my welcome. I knew Frank was big league and I wasn't ready for that yet Up until now I had been vaguely waiting for a 'break.' Now Matt Anthony was going to be my stepping stone to a lush Madison Avenue salary.)

The locker room attendant told me Frank was waiting on the court. I undressed and dressed quickly, spraying my arm pits with a deodorant. Up in the gym I found Frank already in a sweat hitting the little black ball against the four walls. (The silly black handball had given me a taste of ambition— had it also been the wedge between Michele and me?)

Putting on my gloves I told him, “No need for you to warm up, I'll be a pushover. Michele had a cable from her folks last night. They aren't feeling up to par, high blood pressure. So she put her vacation ahead a few weeks. I was up all night helping her pack, seeing her off at Idlewild at daybreak. I'm bushed, Frank.” Mouthing the lies gave me a sudden queasy feeling, but I had to get it over with.

“Have to have you over for supper more often, Norm, when Liz learns you're a summer bachelor. We didn't get much sleep either last night. It got so damn muggy we drove up to City Island and spent the night on the boat Here, I have a new ball—try it.”

“Never mind. I've been on the go all morning. Play for serve.”

We had our usual tight game and I made a few lucky killers to win 21-17. I didn't say a word about Matt Anthony although I sensed Frank was waiting for me to talk about the mess.

Over lunch at the Ad Club, when I gave him the galleys, he finally asked, “What about this Anthony thing you mentioned on the phone?”

In an off-hand manner I told him about Bill Long's pitch, what the deal was. I ended with, “So there it is, a minor matter blown all out of proportion by this biddy stockholder, and dumped square in my lap.”

Frank toyed with a cigarette and shook his silver-white crewcut head. “I'd forget it. Difficult to gauge the public reaction to such an ad campaign. The biddy will find something else to make a stink about anyway, so no sense in hanging yourself.”

“No, I'm going ahead with the campaign,” I said softly. “What the hell, Bill Long practically ordered me to. He hinted at some big plans he wants to carry at the next stock-holders meeting, so if we can lick this... well, it is important. And I want to do it. Keep my mind off Michele. (I put in the proper, light chuckle.) Seriously, Frank, I have about a week's leeway and I'm going to interview everybody connected with the killing. I have to determine in my own mind if Matt is guilty.”

“I'm not reading you, son. The man has admitted it.”

“What I mean is, was it one of those things or real murder?” I said, taking a small breath and plunging in. “I know I hardly have to tell you of all people, Frank, that advertising has a creative, intrinsic quality. A fellow has to believe in what he's selling to do a job. Sure, one can peddle anything, and it will be a routine campaign. Well, this can't be routine. I can't afford a mistake or I ruin Longson. So I have to first believe in my product. Even though the D.A. is calling this murder, I have to make up my own mind, be damn certain—without any reservations—that it was... well, an accident. In a moment of rage any of us might punch somebody, even a — a... wife. And if she bangs her head in falling, to me and the public that's not murder but a tough break. No matter what any D.A. claims. After all, even though you and I may know differently, part of the pitch has to be that we're helping Matt raise money for his defense. Therefore, I have to make the public feel that by buying his book they are also helping a worthy cause, so to speak. To do that, and I'm certainly not judging the man, I first have to be certain he has a defense. In short, if it really was murder, I wouldn't blow my nose to help him.”

I was stirring and playing with my coffee as I talked, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Frank nodding in agreement. Frank said, “I like your feeling of loyalty to Longson, Norm, and your slant about advertising integrity. Certainly a man has to sell himself first. I once saw Anthony in action at some yacht club dance. A hell of a big bruiser, and what's more, he looked like a mean customer. I wouldn't want to tangle with him.”

“What sort of 'action' was he in?”

“Nothing much actually happened. He drank a few too many and pushed somebody around. Now that I think of it, Francine Anthony was there too. I'd give odds he's taken a fist to her before.”

“A bitch?”

Frank nodded. “I hate that word. I also hate to go by first impressions, but she struck me as the Bitch.” He motioned for the check.

I finished my coffee quickly, added, “Of coarse all I've told you is off the record, Frank.”

“I know. Look, we're going away for the weekend, that Liz will phone you early in the week for supper. And maybe we'll get in a few games before that. I'm anxious to know what you learn about Anthony. I'll finish the galleys over the weekend, send them to your office.” Frank added this last sentence with a touch of self-importance that made me hide my smile with my napkin.

Riding back to the office I felt pretty good—for the first time since last night I'd played things exactly right. Frank would tell a few people, the right ones—probably as part of some intimate bar conversation—and Madison Avenue would be watching my campaign. Do me good to get out of the office, and there won't be any trouble with Bill. Hell, he gave me a week to decide and things are slow in the office. God, the way the unexpected can shake up your life: if I pull this off, it will be exactly what I've been waiting for—the bang to land me in a big agency. And it fits. By the time Michele returns I'll already be established, prove how right I was. Then we'll start right in having a kid.... By the time Michele returns ... it hasn't worn thin, she will return, oh Lord, she has to come back... please make her return.

I cabled Michele a dozen roses, then spent the balance of the afternoon cleaning up my desk. When I talked to Bill Long he was not only in favor of my idea of interviewing the people involved, but I knew he was impressed by it.

At five as Miss Park was leaving, I fooled with the idea of asking her to eat with me. I had this immediate dread of dining alone. My wife is out of town so let's go...! But could I explain about not wanting to eat alone...? I said goodnight to her and remained at my desk until six, cleaning up my pipes and doing other such important work. When I left at seven the night elevator operator said something about my working overtime. It was another warm evening and I had a light bite in a cafeteria. I took in a movie but my restlessness made the theater seat feel like a straitjacket Also the picture was one of the so-called 'adult Westerns,' which bore me worse than the shoot-'em-up variety. I walked out in the middle of it, wandering around aimlessly. The good feeling of the afternoon had worn away.

I dropped into a quiet Second Avenue bar that seemed cool, and started to get tight. It seemed like something to do. I sat on a bar stool, along with a few other people, and watched the TV perched high in one corner. There was a half-finished drink and a pack of cigarettes, on the bar next to me. I didn't notice them until a tall woman with an over-blonde pony tail walked out of a room cleverly marked HERS and sat on the stool beside me. She took a butt out of the open pack. I moved a little to give her room, said, “Excuse me.” She was wearing a smart and slightly clinging odd print dress, the colors light and gay. Her face could be considered pretty, and I decided she could be 30 or even 40. I was going to light her cigarette, but she said “Thank you,” and lit her cigarette—all in one motion—as she turned to watch TV. From the profile view I knew she was wearing a powerful girdle, but the upstairs didn't seem the work of any bra contraption and reminded me greatly of Miss Park.

As I sipped my drink a thought which I realized had been rattling about in the rear of my mind all day came into sharp focus: now was my chance for an affair. It had such a corny melodramatic connotation I smiled at myself in the clean bar mirror. Of course I knew the idea hadn't been born just today. But for the life of me I couldn't 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.