Read Online Cancel All Our Vows by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John D. MacDonald
Ads: Link
get caught? I wonder, sometimes. We’ll let them wine us and dine us tonight and give our regrets in the morning. One year, I’d guess, and we’ll make an offer to the Receiver in Bankruptcy.”
With the pressure off him and transferred to Stanley Forman, Fletcher unwound a bit too far. The applicationof intense concentration over a three-day period had left him in a state of nervous exhaustion. And the drinks had hit too soon, and too hard. The executives of the thermostat firm had spread the royal carpet. The evening, for Fletcher, had soon begun to blur, with one club, one night spot, merging into the next with no memory of going from place to place. Stanley disappeared somewhere along the route. Fletcher found himself with a tall, knowing redhead, and he found that he was being exceptionally witty and charming. He was entrancing her with very little effort. It gave him a feeling of vast power. The other men were gone and he was alone with the redhead in a small place where the music was too loud, and he had his hand on her under the table.
And then, again without memory of transition, they were in his hotel room. There was a towel to subdue the bedside lamp, and she lay beside him, a wise-eyed, sleek-hipped girl with astonishingly small hard breasts, set wide apart. In a moment of clarity he accused her, fumblingly, of being paid off by the thermostat firm. She asked him if, at this particular moment, it actually made a hell of a lot of difference. It was an argument he couldn’t seem to answer.
She was patient, and practiced, and adept. She got to him, through the mists of alcohol, and he slid from her into sleep. The jarring sound of the telephone woke him in the morning. He had the feeling it had been going on for some time. His head was a blue-white agony as he groped and found it and mumbled into it.
Stanley’s voice was sharp and angry. “Goddamn it, Wyant, where the hell are you? This plane is going to take off in ten minutes. I’ve been calling you all morning.”
Fletcher looked behind him. The redhead was gone. He tried to make his voice clear and decisive. “Sorry, Stanley. I can’t make the flight.”
“And just why the hell can’t you make the flight?”
“Because, goddamn it, I got drunk and I just woke up, and if I stand up right now, it’s going to kill me.”
Stanley was silent for a few moments. “All right. Catch the next one if you can. Better phone your wife, or she’ll meet the plane. I wired this morning. The office will let her know. I told them the deal is off. You should have heardthe tears and sobs of anguish. See you later this afternoon then, Fletch.”
He hung up the phone and barely had time to lurch to the bathroom before being wrenchingly ill. He went back to the bureau and looked at his wallet. His money was all there. His watch was running. It was fifteen minutes after ten. He groaned with semirelief as he lay back on the bed. There was a faint scent of the redhead in the room. A scent of her, mingled with the faint odor of love. He hoped he wouldn’t be sick again. He rubbed his eyes. Time to call Jane. Better think of something, first. And his voice had a telltale huskiness. While he was wondering what to say, he fell asleep again. He woke up at three. He felt better. But his health began to dissolve as he realized that Jane had already met the plane, had talked, no doubt, to Stanley Forman, who might be just mad enough to tell the truth.
He phoned his home. Jane answered. Her voice was chilly.
“I’ve been trying to get you, darling. The circuits have been busy.”
“Is that right?”
“Of course, darling. And I missed the plane this morning because I had a slight touch of food poisoning. Thought I’d better lie down here in the room for a while.”
“With whom?”
“What? Aw, honey, don’t say things like that. You know they’re not so.”
“Where do the lies stop, dear?”
“What do you mean?”
“I met the plane at one. Stanley Forman
With the pressure off him and transferred to Stanley Forman, Fletcher unwound a bit too far. The applicationof intense concentration over a three-day period had left him in a state of nervous exhaustion. And the drinks had hit too soon, and too hard. The executives of the thermostat firm had spread the royal carpet. The evening, for Fletcher, had soon begun to blur, with one club, one night spot, merging into the next with no memory of going from place to place. Stanley disappeared somewhere along the route. Fletcher found himself with a tall, knowing redhead, and he found that he was being exceptionally witty and charming. He was entrancing her with very little effort. It gave him a feeling of vast power. The other men were gone and he was alone with the redhead in a small place where the music was too loud, and he had his hand on her under the table.
And then, again without memory of transition, they were in his hotel room. There was a towel to subdue the bedside lamp, and she lay beside him, a wise-eyed, sleek-hipped girl with astonishingly small hard breasts, set wide apart. In a moment of clarity he accused her, fumblingly, of being paid off by the thermostat firm. She asked him if, at this particular moment, it actually made a hell of a lot of difference. It was an argument he couldn’t seem to answer.
She was patient, and practiced, and adept. She got to him, through the mists of alcohol, and he slid from her into sleep. The jarring sound of the telephone woke him in the morning. He had the feeling it had been going on for some time. His head was a blue-white agony as he groped and found it and mumbled into it.
Stanley’s voice was sharp and angry. “Goddamn it, Wyant, where the hell are you? This plane is going to take off in ten minutes. I’ve been calling you all morning.”
Fletcher looked behind him. The redhead was gone. He tried to make his voice clear and decisive. “Sorry, Stanley. I can’t make the flight.”
“And just why the hell can’t you make the flight?”
“Because, goddamn it, I got drunk and I just woke up, and if I stand up right now, it’s going to kill me.”
Stanley was silent for a few moments. “All right. Catch the next one if you can. Better phone your wife, or she’ll meet the plane. I wired this morning. The office will let her know. I told them the deal is off. You should have heardthe tears and sobs of anguish. See you later this afternoon then, Fletch.”
He hung up the phone and barely had time to lurch to the bathroom before being wrenchingly ill. He went back to the bureau and looked at his wallet. His money was all there. His watch was running. It was fifteen minutes after ten. He groaned with semirelief as he lay back on the bed. There was a faint scent of the redhead in the room. A scent of her, mingled with the faint odor of love. He hoped he wouldn’t be sick again. He rubbed his eyes. Time to call Jane. Better think of something, first. And his voice had a telltale huskiness. While he was wondering what to say, he fell asleep again. He woke up at three. He felt better. But his health began to dissolve as he realized that Jane had already met the plane, had talked, no doubt, to Stanley Forman, who might be just mad enough to tell the truth.
He phoned his home. Jane answered. Her voice was chilly.
“I’ve been trying to get you, darling. The circuits have been busy.”
“Is that right?”
“Of course, darling. And I missed the plane this morning because I had a slight touch of food poisoning. Thought I’d better lie down here in the room for a while.”
“With whom?”
“What? Aw, honey, don’t say things like that. You know they’re not so.”
“Where do the lies stop, dear?”
“What do you mean?”
“I met the plane at one. Stanley Forman
Similar Books
