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Authors: John D. MacDonald
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their hands. Makes me feel sick, sort of. I use bugs.”
“Hold it. Hung up something.”
I held my breath. Then I heard him say, “Solid bottom. Rocks again. Swing it the other way, Virg.” And after a moment, “O.K. It come free.”
I had a hell of a mood. I wanted sad flamenco guitars and Spanish types singing through their noses while I swayed and snapped my fingers and let the big pearly tears roll down my damask cheeks. I sat there a long time and then went up to the house and went to the kitchen and begged a monstrous sandwich off Rosalita, she of the face like a family vault. Emotion gives me hunger.
It was nearly dawn when they got her. I went down to the dock. They did a fumbling job of getting her up out of the boat and they dropped her. I expected Wilma to sit up and give them hell for being so clumsy. But she was dead. Not a messy death. Not like on that South Carolina road when Gabby, in the sedan ahead of us, turned out into the path of the lumber truck. They were a mess. All of them. Mitch went into shock, I guess. I can remember him trotting up and down the shoulder of the road, picking up the sheets of the arrangements that were blowing all over, making a neat pile of them, looking at each one to see if he’d found any part of “Lady, Be Good,” because he’d paid Eddie Sauter to do that one for us in between those good Good-mans.
No, this one was a lot cleaner. Noel was there too. I wondered what she was thinking, looking at the body. That body was a trap that had caught Randy and Gilman Hayes without question, and probably Steve Winsan and perhaps Wallace Dorn. And Paul? That thought hit me and it did bad things to the digestion of my sandwich. If Paul belongedon the list too, it gave Wilma a perfect batting average on her house guests. No, I thought. Not Paul. The sandwich subsided. And I wondered why that sort of fidelity had suddenly meant so much to me. It was Mavis’ lookout, not mine. I had no claim. A kiss in a car? In Wilma’s set a kiss in a car was as consequential as combing your hair. But, damnit, I was not of that set. I was there only because it was bread and butter.
And then I remembered it was exactly the same thing for everybody else. Including Paul.
It was genuine, if feeble, daylight when they herded us into the so-called lounge and the one named Fish made a little speech. As I listened to him say that Wilma had been “stobbed” in the back of the head I wanted to say, “Oh, come now!
Dragnet
does better than this. Your routine is corny. Get some new writers. Get a bigger budget.”
And then it hit me that it was true. It wasn’t an act. It was murder. The taking of a life. I went cold all the way through. It wasn’t any game. The taking of a human life. I looked around at the others. My God, we were pretty people. I could eliminate myself. And Paul. But that was all. Six people left, and six good reasons. And six opportunities. It had been a dark, dark night.
Noel walked out of the room. She seemed so darn calm. If you had to pick a guilty-looking one, you’d pick Randy. He was a jittering shambles. Mavis was still blubbering. I couldn’t figure out where she got all the water. Paul looked grave and sobered. Our eyes met. It made warm things run up and down the Jonah spinal column. Wallace Dorn stood there with the disapproving expression of a master of hounds who has just seen a farmer shoot the fox. Steve wastalking his way into a PR pitch. That suddenly rang some bells. Judy Jonah guest at murder party. TV comic in nude revel. Wild party ends in murder. Cosmetic Queen Slain. Wow! The networks have a code. I would be cooked like a White Tower hamburg in spite of having been a very good girl. It would be a more effective bounce job than Wilma, living, could have managed. Gilman Hayes sat on the floor reading a picture book.
Apparently we had to wait for the big shots to arrive. The big trooper sidled over to me, subtle as a hippo. By daylight he was younger
“Hold it. Hung up something.”
I held my breath. Then I heard him say, “Solid bottom. Rocks again. Swing it the other way, Virg.” And after a moment, “O.K. It come free.”
I had a hell of a mood. I wanted sad flamenco guitars and Spanish types singing through their noses while I swayed and snapped my fingers and let the big pearly tears roll down my damask cheeks. I sat there a long time and then went up to the house and went to the kitchen and begged a monstrous sandwich off Rosalita, she of the face like a family vault. Emotion gives me hunger.
It was nearly dawn when they got her. I went down to the dock. They did a fumbling job of getting her up out of the boat and they dropped her. I expected Wilma to sit up and give them hell for being so clumsy. But she was dead. Not a messy death. Not like on that South Carolina road when Gabby, in the sedan ahead of us, turned out into the path of the lumber truck. They were a mess. All of them. Mitch went into shock, I guess. I can remember him trotting up and down the shoulder of the road, picking up the sheets of the arrangements that were blowing all over, making a neat pile of them, looking at each one to see if he’d found any part of “Lady, Be Good,” because he’d paid Eddie Sauter to do that one for us in between those good Good-mans.
No, this one was a lot cleaner. Noel was there too. I wondered what she was thinking, looking at the body. That body was a trap that had caught Randy and Gilman Hayes without question, and probably Steve Winsan and perhaps Wallace Dorn. And Paul? That thought hit me and it did bad things to the digestion of my sandwich. If Paul belongedon the list too, it gave Wilma a perfect batting average on her house guests. No, I thought. Not Paul. The sandwich subsided. And I wondered why that sort of fidelity had suddenly meant so much to me. It was Mavis’ lookout, not mine. I had no claim. A kiss in a car? In Wilma’s set a kiss in a car was as consequential as combing your hair. But, damnit, I was not of that set. I was there only because it was bread and butter.
And then I remembered it was exactly the same thing for everybody else. Including Paul.
It was genuine, if feeble, daylight when they herded us into the so-called lounge and the one named Fish made a little speech. As I listened to him say that Wilma had been “stobbed” in the back of the head I wanted to say, “Oh, come now!
Dragnet
does better than this. Your routine is corny. Get some new writers. Get a bigger budget.”
And then it hit me that it was true. It wasn’t an act. It was murder. The taking of a life. I went cold all the way through. It wasn’t any game. The taking of a human life. I looked around at the others. My God, we were pretty people. I could eliminate myself. And Paul. But that was all. Six people left, and six good reasons. And six opportunities. It had been a dark, dark night.
Noel walked out of the room. She seemed so darn calm. If you had to pick a guilty-looking one, you’d pick Randy. He was a jittering shambles. Mavis was still blubbering. I couldn’t figure out where she got all the water. Paul looked grave and sobered. Our eyes met. It made warm things run up and down the Jonah spinal column. Wallace Dorn stood there with the disapproving expression of a master of hounds who has just seen a farmer shoot the fox. Steve wastalking his way into a PR pitch. That suddenly rang some bells. Judy Jonah guest at murder party. TV comic in nude revel. Wild party ends in murder. Cosmetic Queen Slain. Wow! The networks have a code. I would be cooked like a White Tower hamburg in spite of having been a very good girl. It would be a more effective bounce job than Wilma, living, could have managed. Gilman Hayes sat on the floor reading a picture book.
Apparently we had to wait for the big shots to arrive. The big trooper sidled over to me, subtle as a hippo. By daylight he was younger
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