Read Online A Man of Affairs by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John D. MacDonald
Tags: Suspense
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over I wasn’t one millimeter closer to knowing anything at all about Mike Dean.
After dinner Mike and Fletcher Bowman disappeared, and I guessed they were in their habitual nightly communication with the man in Connecticut. The bar was open. There was a fine moon. There was high fidelity music and dancing on the shadowy veranda, for those who cared to. Guy Brainerd, Porter and Tessy Crown and Cam Duncan played bridge. Bonny Carson had taken over the record player. She selected a lot of old stuff. And she would sit there on the floor, legs crossed, eyes shut, swaying back and forth and singing the lyrics without making a sound, her highball glass handy beside her.
I danced with Puss McGann. I had never danced with her before. It was precisely what I had expected. Dancing is supposed to have sexual overtones and implications. Puss turned it into an exercise as sterile as tennis. She moved gracefully and correctly and followed well, but I could have been dancing with a sister. When Tommy and Puss danced, aside from the fact she was a little too tall for him, they were of almost professional talent. And Tommy danced very well indeed with Lolly Crown. She was smaller, and she seemed to fit his arms better than Puss did. I saw her watching them while they danced. She wore a slightly wistful expression.
Dancing with Bridget was very pleasant indeed. She was a little warm and wavery with drink, but not too much so. She had an annoying tendency to hum the melody slightly off key, but that was all right too because she smelled good and felt good and was warm against me, and her face in the moving shadows was astonishingly pretty. Warren Dodge was gone. I was surprised he had lasted as long as he had. During the day he had taken on enough liquor to drop a moose in its tracks. Little Bundy kibitzed the bridge game, turning every ten seconds to look at Bonny Carson in a worried way. I wondered if he was trying to count her drinks. I watched Jack Buck dance with Tessy Crown, and there was a certain flavor about their dancing that made me wonder whether old Port was being stupid about his daughter or about his wife. I guessed Jack Buck at about twenty-eight, and Tessy somewhere in the ripeness of her thirties. Jack Buck was closer to her in age than Port in his early sixties.
I found Louise on a big settee on the veranda and I asked her if she would dance. I had not danced with her before. She butted her cigarette and stood up obediently and came into my arms. Though she had that look of almost-tallness, she was not tall. I often have a great deal of difficulty dancing with women her size, particularly the ones who seem to feel awkward unless they can stab you in the side of the throat with their chin. But Louise had a sweet and easy and natural grace. She was feathery and lithe in my arms, tender and vulnerable and curiously precious. When the long record ended I said, “That was nice.”
“I was afraid you’d be too tall. You’re not. Why do so many big men move so lightly?”
“There’s a breeze now and it ought to keep the bugs off the dock.”
We walked down to the dock. There were mosquitoes in the grass, but when we were on the dock the wind from the northeast was stiff enough to keep them away. From the dock we could see the moon three quarters full back over the house. The silver moonlight made the house lights look orange. We climbed into the cockpit of the Try Again and sat in the two fishing chairs and I lighted our cigarettes. We were better than two hundred feet from the house and the music came down sweetly to us, nostalgic. When I looked at her the moonlight was so bright on her still face that I could see that she was crying, making a private matter out of it, crying without a sound. “Louise.”
“I’ll be all right in a minute.”
“Want to talk about it?”
After a long pause she said, “No,” so quietly I barely heard it. I wanted her to talk about it and yet I didn’t. I wanted her to talk
After dinner Mike and Fletcher Bowman disappeared, and I guessed they were in their habitual nightly communication with the man in Connecticut. The bar was open. There was a fine moon. There was high fidelity music and dancing on the shadowy veranda, for those who cared to. Guy Brainerd, Porter and Tessy Crown and Cam Duncan played bridge. Bonny Carson had taken over the record player. She selected a lot of old stuff. And she would sit there on the floor, legs crossed, eyes shut, swaying back and forth and singing the lyrics without making a sound, her highball glass handy beside her.
I danced with Puss McGann. I had never danced with her before. It was precisely what I had expected. Dancing is supposed to have sexual overtones and implications. Puss turned it into an exercise as sterile as tennis. She moved gracefully and correctly and followed well, but I could have been dancing with a sister. When Tommy and Puss danced, aside from the fact she was a little too tall for him, they were of almost professional talent. And Tommy danced very well indeed with Lolly Crown. She was smaller, and she seemed to fit his arms better than Puss did. I saw her watching them while they danced. She wore a slightly wistful expression.
Dancing with Bridget was very pleasant indeed. She was a little warm and wavery with drink, but not too much so. She had an annoying tendency to hum the melody slightly off key, but that was all right too because she smelled good and felt good and was warm against me, and her face in the moving shadows was astonishingly pretty. Warren Dodge was gone. I was surprised he had lasted as long as he had. During the day he had taken on enough liquor to drop a moose in its tracks. Little Bundy kibitzed the bridge game, turning every ten seconds to look at Bonny Carson in a worried way. I wondered if he was trying to count her drinks. I watched Jack Buck dance with Tessy Crown, and there was a certain flavor about their dancing that made me wonder whether old Port was being stupid about his daughter or about his wife. I guessed Jack Buck at about twenty-eight, and Tessy somewhere in the ripeness of her thirties. Jack Buck was closer to her in age than Port in his early sixties.
I found Louise on a big settee on the veranda and I asked her if she would dance. I had not danced with her before. She butted her cigarette and stood up obediently and came into my arms. Though she had that look of almost-tallness, she was not tall. I often have a great deal of difficulty dancing with women her size, particularly the ones who seem to feel awkward unless they can stab you in the side of the throat with their chin. But Louise had a sweet and easy and natural grace. She was feathery and lithe in my arms, tender and vulnerable and curiously precious. When the long record ended I said, “That was nice.”
“I was afraid you’d be too tall. You’re not. Why do so many big men move so lightly?”
“There’s a breeze now and it ought to keep the bugs off the dock.”
We walked down to the dock. There were mosquitoes in the grass, but when we were on the dock the wind from the northeast was stiff enough to keep them away. From the dock we could see the moon three quarters full back over the house. The silver moonlight made the house lights look orange. We climbed into the cockpit of the Try Again and sat in the two fishing chairs and I lighted our cigarettes. We were better than two hundred feet from the house and the music came down sweetly to us, nostalgic. When I looked at her the moonlight was so bright on her still face that I could see that she was crying, making a private matter out of it, crying without a sound. “Louise.”
“I’ll be all right in a minute.”
“Want to talk about it?”
After a long pause she said, “No,” so quietly I barely heard it. I wanted her to talk about it and yet I didn’t. I wanted her to talk
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