"Then how many?" "The figure was disputed ..."
"Who disputed it? The defense attorney?" "No, the RTO." "The what?" "The company radioman. He claimed _he was the one who got the ..."
"Listen, do you have a tattoo?" she asked. "No, I ..."
"Because forty-three percent of all convicts have tattoos, you know." "I'm not a convict." "Well, an _ex-con."
"I've never been in jail in my life."
"You beat the rap, huh?"
93 "What rap? I was in the ..."
"Listen, if a jury found you innocent, that's good enough for me." "Connie, I never ..." "Do you have any children?" "No." "Do you think our lips would freeze together if you kissed me?" He looked at her again.
"I know you didn't kill anyone," she said. He kept looking at her.
"I knew it long ago," she said. "Because you stayed for Harry. A man who killed somebody doesn't hang around like that. Not to bring another person luck. That's a kind and gentle person who does something like that. That's not a murderer. Anyway, I like your cute little face," she said, and raised her arms and then draped them on his shoulders, and stepped in closer to him. "So let's try it," she said. And kissed him.
He had not kissed anyone this way since the divorce, which was exactly nine months and six days ago, the eighteenth of March, in fact, a very blustery Monday in Sarasota, Florida, he knew because he'd taken the boat out into the Gulf the moment the papers were signed, sailing off into a four-foot chop and drinking himself into oblivion the way he very often had in Vietnam, a wonder he'd got back to shore alive. Hadn't kissed anyone this way since the last time he'd kissed Jenny--well, no, that wasn't true.
The whole reason for the divorce, in fact, was that Jenny _hadn't been kissing this way anymore, or at least not kissing _him this way. It turned out that she'd been kissing the man who was the branch manager at the bank where she worked as a teller, kissed him a lot, in fact, fucked him a lot, too, in fact. Told Michael she was madly in love with the man--whose name was James Owington, the fat bastard--married him a month after the divorce became final, easy come, easy go, right?
No, Michael thought, they didn't break my spirit in any jail. The V.C. did a pretty good job of breaking it in Vietnam, and Jenny finished the job later. Kissing Connie Kee like this, he felt like
weeping. Not the bitter tears he'd wept
95 in Vietnam when his closest friend, Andrew, died in his arms, or the kind of angry tears he'd wept that day on the boat with the waters of the Gulf threatening the gunwales. He did not know whether there were any kind of tears that could express what he was feeling here and now with this beautiful girl in his arms. Were there really tears of happiness? He had read a lot about them, but he had never shed such tears in his life. He knew only that kissing Connie Kee like this, he wished their lips _would freeze together out here in the cold and the dark. He wanted to go on kissing Connie Kee forever. Or even Kee Connie.
He remembered, however, that the police in this winter wonderland of a city thought he had killed Arthur Crandall. He supposed he could go visit his old friend Tony the Bear Orso at the First Precinct, explain to him that the man who'd stolen the car was now the man who'd turned up dead in it--remember we were talking about all this, Tony, old pal, remember I showed you his card? Arthur Crandall, remember? You said it looked like a piece of film, remember? His card. Well, that's the man who's turned up dead. In the car he stole from me. So you see, Tony, I can't be the one who killed him. He stole my car, you see. And the other ones--the phony cop and his phony lawyer girlfriend--stole my credit cards and my license, so maybe it's the other ones who killed Crandall, but it wasn't me, it couldn't have been me. In fact, I was probably sitting right there chatting with you while Crandall was getting himself killed. That's a definite possibility and something you may
"Who disputed it? The defense attorney?" "No, the RTO." "The what?" "The company radioman. He claimed _he was the one who got the ..."
"Listen, do you have a tattoo?" she asked. "No, I ..."
"Because forty-three percent of all convicts have tattoos, you know." "I'm not a convict." "Well, an _ex-con."
"I've never been in jail in my life."
"You beat the rap, huh?"
93 "What rap? I was in the ..."
"Listen, if a jury found you innocent, that's good enough for me." "Connie, I never ..." "Do you have any children?" "No." "Do you think our lips would freeze together if you kissed me?" He looked at her again.
"I know you didn't kill anyone," she said. He kept looking at her.
"I knew it long ago," she said. "Because you stayed for Harry. A man who killed somebody doesn't hang around like that. Not to bring another person luck. That's a kind and gentle person who does something like that. That's not a murderer. Anyway, I like your cute little face," she said, and raised her arms and then draped them on his shoulders, and stepped in closer to him. "So let's try it," she said. And kissed him.
He had not kissed anyone this way since the divorce, which was exactly nine months and six days ago, the eighteenth of March, in fact, a very blustery Monday in Sarasota, Florida, he knew because he'd taken the boat out into the Gulf the moment the papers were signed, sailing off into a four-foot chop and drinking himself into oblivion the way he very often had in Vietnam, a wonder he'd got back to shore alive. Hadn't kissed anyone this way since the last time he'd kissed Jenny--well, no, that wasn't true.
The whole reason for the divorce, in fact, was that Jenny _hadn't been kissing this way anymore, or at least not kissing _him this way. It turned out that she'd been kissing the man who was the branch manager at the bank where she worked as a teller, kissed him a lot, in fact, fucked him a lot, too, in fact. Told Michael she was madly in love with the man--whose name was James Owington, the fat bastard--married him a month after the divorce became final, easy come, easy go, right?
No, Michael thought, they didn't break my spirit in any jail. The V.C. did a pretty good job of breaking it in Vietnam, and Jenny finished the job later. Kissing Connie Kee like this, he felt like
weeping. Not the bitter tears he'd wept
95 in Vietnam when his closest friend, Andrew, died in his arms, or the kind of angry tears he'd wept that day on the boat with the waters of the Gulf threatening the gunwales. He did not know whether there were any kind of tears that could express what he was feeling here and now with this beautiful girl in his arms. Were there really tears of happiness? He had read a lot about them, but he had never shed such tears in his life. He knew only that kissing Connie Kee like this, he wished their lips _would freeze together out here in the cold and the dark. He wanted to go on kissing Connie Kee forever. Or even Kee Connie.
He remembered, however, that the police in this winter wonderland of a city thought he had killed Arthur Crandall. He supposed he could go visit his old friend Tony the Bear Orso at the First Precinct, explain to him that the man who'd stolen the car was now the man who'd turned up dead in it--remember we were talking about all this, Tony, old pal, remember I showed you his card? Arthur Crandall, remember? You said it looked like a piece of film, remember? His card. Well, that's the man who's turned up dead. In the car he stole from me. So you see, Tony, I can't be the one who killed him. He stole my car, you see. And the other ones--the phony cop and his phony lawyer girlfriend--stole my credit cards and my license, so maybe it's the other ones who killed Crandall, but it wasn't me, it couldn't have been me. In fact, I was probably sitting right there chatting with you while Crandall was getting himself killed. That's a definite possibility and something you may
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