Read Online (1982) The Almighty by Irving Wallace - Free Book Online
Authors: Irving Wallace
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less stomach for it.
Fork in hand, she asked weakly, ‘Who was Wilson Mizner?’
Who was Wilson Mizner?’ Ramsey repeated, a bit dimly,
slightly drunkenly. ‘Now there’s a question that - that’s hard
o answer. He was a writer and gambler and lots of other
dungs. He was mostly a wit. He was mostly cynical, which is
why I like him. He never lived up to his potential, which is
another reason I like him. He once said to a small, no-goodnik
guy, “You’re a mouse studying to be a rat.”’
Victoria couldn’t help but laugh.
Recovering, she considered her plate once more. ‘You asked something,’ she said, ‘so I guess I can ask it, too. What about your love life?’
‘No comment.’
‘Not fair.’
‘I have no love life,’ he said, ‘only a sex life. In my lexicon, love is a four-lettered word. Don’t ask me to explain my troubled past. If you ever regard me as a love object, forget it.’
‘Don’t grow old worrying about that.’
‘Love and news, two four-lettered words.’
Picking at her salad, she observed him out of the corner of her eye. He was drinking steadily, bemused.
‘If you dislike journalism so much,’ she said, ‘how come you’re in it?’
‘How come a whore’s a whore?’ he retorted.
‘That’s no answer.’
‘And that’s no question you asked.’
‘I mean, something got you into journalism. What got you
into it?’
‘That’s a question,’ he decided. He set down his glass and began to eat his salad reflectively. ‘I was born in Oakland,’ he said. ‘Ever know anybody born in Oakland?’
‘No,’ admitted Victoria. ‘All I know about Oakland is what Gertrude Stein said about it. “When you get there, there’s no
there there.”’
Ramsey eyed her with bleary respect. ‘Exactly,’ he said. He concentrated on his salad, then seemed to recall what he had been speaking about. T was no good at sports, but good at writing. Not from my parents - they had a clothing store. Writing was a natural gift. I intended to write books. Those writers seemed to live well and independently. But after two years at a junior college I was given a scholarship to the School of Journalism at the University of Wisconsin. That was my downfall.’
The salad plates had been removed, and they were being served rack of lamb, with new potatoes and fresh peas. Ramsey considered the food, and finished his drink.
He became aware of his partner. ‘Where was I?’ he asked.
‘In Madison, Wisconsin.’
‘Yes. I was a feature writer on the Daily Cardinal. I was very gifted, too gifted. A magazine in New York - forget its
name - gave me a freelance assignment. An expose about Big Ten football. Recruitment. Did I tell you it was an expose?’
‘You were starting to.’
‘It was very good. Result, the New York Times hired me. Features. Some by-lines. Result, the Giant - E. J. Armstead -he offered me more money. About ten years ago. Been on the Record ever since.’
‘So what’s bad about that?’ Victoria wanted to know.
‘Books,’ Ramsey mumbled. ‘Always wanted to do books.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I did. Wrote one.’
‘You did?’ She was surprised. ‘You wrote a book that was published? What about?’
‘Novel about Rousseau. Not Jean Jacques. Henri, Henri Rousseau. French primitive painter, died 1910. A real primitive, toll inspector, sometimes postman, turned painter.’
‘I’d like to read it. What was it called?’
‘The Postman Always Rings Twice. Naw, I’m kidding. Never mind what it was called.’
T would like to read it, Nick.’
‘Unavailable, even in rare-book stores. Sold 344 copies.’
‘Why don’t you write another one?’
‘Would you, with that kind of encouragement?’
Victoria nodded her head vigorously. T would, if that’s what I wanted to do most in the world.’
He snorted. ‘You would. You’re a romantic. You even think newspapers are romantic. You think there are big beats around every corner, derring-do,
Fork in hand, she asked weakly, ‘Who was Wilson Mizner?’
Who was Wilson Mizner?’ Ramsey repeated, a bit dimly,
slightly drunkenly. ‘Now there’s a question that - that’s hard
o answer. He was a writer and gambler and lots of other
dungs. He was mostly a wit. He was mostly cynical, which is
why I like him. He never lived up to his potential, which is
another reason I like him. He once said to a small, no-goodnik
guy, “You’re a mouse studying to be a rat.”’
Victoria couldn’t help but laugh.
Recovering, she considered her plate once more. ‘You asked something,’ she said, ‘so I guess I can ask it, too. What about your love life?’
‘No comment.’
‘Not fair.’
‘I have no love life,’ he said, ‘only a sex life. In my lexicon, love is a four-lettered word. Don’t ask me to explain my troubled past. If you ever regard me as a love object, forget it.’
‘Don’t grow old worrying about that.’
‘Love and news, two four-lettered words.’
Picking at her salad, she observed him out of the corner of her eye. He was drinking steadily, bemused.
‘If you dislike journalism so much,’ she said, ‘how come you’re in it?’
‘How come a whore’s a whore?’ he retorted.
‘That’s no answer.’
‘And that’s no question you asked.’
‘I mean, something got you into journalism. What got you
into it?’
‘That’s a question,’ he decided. He set down his glass and began to eat his salad reflectively. ‘I was born in Oakland,’ he said. ‘Ever know anybody born in Oakland?’
‘No,’ admitted Victoria. ‘All I know about Oakland is what Gertrude Stein said about it. “When you get there, there’s no
there there.”’
Ramsey eyed her with bleary respect. ‘Exactly,’ he said. He concentrated on his salad, then seemed to recall what he had been speaking about. T was no good at sports, but good at writing. Not from my parents - they had a clothing store. Writing was a natural gift. I intended to write books. Those writers seemed to live well and independently. But after two years at a junior college I was given a scholarship to the School of Journalism at the University of Wisconsin. That was my downfall.’
The salad plates had been removed, and they were being served rack of lamb, with new potatoes and fresh peas. Ramsey considered the food, and finished his drink.
He became aware of his partner. ‘Where was I?’ he asked.
‘In Madison, Wisconsin.’
‘Yes. I was a feature writer on the Daily Cardinal. I was very gifted, too gifted. A magazine in New York - forget its
name - gave me a freelance assignment. An expose about Big Ten football. Recruitment. Did I tell you it was an expose?’
‘You were starting to.’
‘It was very good. Result, the New York Times hired me. Features. Some by-lines. Result, the Giant - E. J. Armstead -he offered me more money. About ten years ago. Been on the Record ever since.’
‘So what’s bad about that?’ Victoria wanted to know.
‘Books,’ Ramsey mumbled. ‘Always wanted to do books.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I did. Wrote one.’
‘You did?’ She was surprised. ‘You wrote a book that was published? What about?’
‘Novel about Rousseau. Not Jean Jacques. Henri, Henri Rousseau. French primitive painter, died 1910. A real primitive, toll inspector, sometimes postman, turned painter.’
‘I’d like to read it. What was it called?’
‘The Postman Always Rings Twice. Naw, I’m kidding. Never mind what it was called.’
T would like to read it, Nick.’
‘Unavailable, even in rare-book stores. Sold 344 copies.’
‘Why don’t you write another one?’
‘Would you, with that kind of encouragement?’
Victoria nodded her head vigorously. T would, if that’s what I wanted to do most in the world.’
He snorted. ‘You would. You’re a romantic. You even think newspapers are romantic. You think there are big beats around every corner, derring-do,
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