see Elias Renthal pass behind him and enter a coffee shop, carrying a briefcase.
Inside the bookshop he could see Matilda Clarke, looking at the latest books with Arthur Harburg, the proprietor. He walked in.
“I’m sick, sick, sick to death of reading about the Mitfords,” said Matilda.
“There’s
Judas Was a Redhead
,” suggested Arthur.
“I’ve read that. I even went to Nestor Calder’s publication party at Clarence’s.”
“Have you read
Inspired by Iago?
”
“Heavens, no!”
“It’s not what you think. It opens in a trailer park.”
“Right away you’ve lost me. A little trailer park goes a long way with me.”
“What do you like?” asked Arthur Harburg, patiently. He was used to dealing with his spoiled clients.
“I like a book with short chapters,” said Matilda. “I love to be able to say. ‘I just want to finish this chapter,’ and do it. Such a feeling of accomplishment. What have you got with short chapters, about rich people?”
“There’s always Trollope,” said Gus, breaking in. “He writes short chapters.”
“Gus Bailey,” said Matilda, with a laugh. “Trollope indeed. You missed such a good weekend in the country.”
“Sorry about that.”
“How was your mystery weekend in the other direction?”
“Oh, okay.”
“This man leads a mystery life, Arthur.”
In Gus’s bathroom, Matilda went through his medicine chest. It interested her to know what men kept intheir medicine chests. To her surprise, behind the boxes of his English soap and talcum powder, she found a package of Ramses, a prelubricated prophylactic, according to the copy on the box. She had not thought of Gus Bailey in terms of sexual pursuits. There was always that wife somewhere in his past whose photographs were in his apartment, and the tragedy people talked about, whatever it was. Opening the package of three, she saw that two were missing and was consumed with curiosity to know the kind of women who came to his apartment. She placed the remaining prophylactic in her evening bag and returned to Gus’s living room.
There was classical music on the stereo, and Gus was settled into the chintz-covered chair that was obviously his regular chair, leafing through a copy of
Judas Was a Redhead
. For the first time she noticed him in a different way and wondered what he was like as a lover.
“Did you find everything?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, not taking her eyes off him. With both hands she patted the back of her hair. Nearing fifty, she still wore her hair in the same pageboy style that she had worn as a debutante of eighteen. “Find your style and stick with it,” she was often quoted as saying when the fashion pages of the papers were still quoting her, before Sweetzer died.
“Drink?” Gus asked, sensing a change in the atmosphere. He rose.
“I’ll have a whiskey, with a splash of water,” she said. She looked around the sitting room. “Well, how nice this is, your little apartment. It’s so chic.”
“Hardly chic,” said Gus.
“Well, cozy. I meant this run-down look you have. It’s so English-second-son sort of thing.”
Gus laughed. In the kitchen he made her a scotch with a splash of water. Gus was precise in all things. He refilled the ice tray, put it back in the freezer, and sponged the wet off the kitchen counter before returning to his sitting room.
“It’s my first drink since New Year’s Eve,” she said, taking it from him. “Spirits, that is. Only wine since then, but I don’t count wine. What are you having?”
“Oh, bottled water, I suppose. I keep a variety to choose from.”
“Bottled water? That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t drink?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
“Did you ever?”
“Yes, but I stopped.”
“Why?”
“I just did.”
“By yourself, or with help?”
“With help.”
“Oh, so you’re a drunk!” she chortled, feeling better about herself.
“No more. Cured in Minnesota,” said Gus, smiling. He
Inside the bookshop he could see Matilda Clarke, looking at the latest books with Arthur Harburg, the proprietor. He walked in.
“I’m sick, sick, sick to death of reading about the Mitfords,” said Matilda.
“There’s
Judas Was a Redhead
,” suggested Arthur.
“I’ve read that. I even went to Nestor Calder’s publication party at Clarence’s.”
“Have you read
Inspired by Iago?
”
“Heavens, no!”
“It’s not what you think. It opens in a trailer park.”
“Right away you’ve lost me. A little trailer park goes a long way with me.”
“What do you like?” asked Arthur Harburg, patiently. He was used to dealing with his spoiled clients.
“I like a book with short chapters,” said Matilda. “I love to be able to say. ‘I just want to finish this chapter,’ and do it. Such a feeling of accomplishment. What have you got with short chapters, about rich people?”
“There’s always Trollope,” said Gus, breaking in. “He writes short chapters.”
“Gus Bailey,” said Matilda, with a laugh. “Trollope indeed. You missed such a good weekend in the country.”
“Sorry about that.”
“How was your mystery weekend in the other direction?”
“Oh, okay.”
“This man leads a mystery life, Arthur.”
In Gus’s bathroom, Matilda went through his medicine chest. It interested her to know what men kept intheir medicine chests. To her surprise, behind the boxes of his English soap and talcum powder, she found a package of Ramses, a prelubricated prophylactic, according to the copy on the box. She had not thought of Gus Bailey in terms of sexual pursuits. There was always that wife somewhere in his past whose photographs were in his apartment, and the tragedy people talked about, whatever it was. Opening the package of three, she saw that two were missing and was consumed with curiosity to know the kind of women who came to his apartment. She placed the remaining prophylactic in her evening bag and returned to Gus’s living room.
There was classical music on the stereo, and Gus was settled into the chintz-covered chair that was obviously his regular chair, leafing through a copy of
Judas Was a Redhead
. For the first time she noticed him in a different way and wondered what he was like as a lover.
“Did you find everything?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, not taking her eyes off him. With both hands she patted the back of her hair. Nearing fifty, she still wore her hair in the same pageboy style that she had worn as a debutante of eighteen. “Find your style and stick with it,” she was often quoted as saying when the fashion pages of the papers were still quoting her, before Sweetzer died.
“Drink?” Gus asked, sensing a change in the atmosphere. He rose.
“I’ll have a whiskey, with a splash of water,” she said. She looked around the sitting room. “Well, how nice this is, your little apartment. It’s so chic.”
“Hardly chic,” said Gus.
“Well, cozy. I meant this run-down look you have. It’s so English-second-son sort of thing.”
Gus laughed. In the kitchen he made her a scotch with a splash of water. Gus was precise in all things. He refilled the ice tray, put it back in the freezer, and sponged the wet off the kitchen counter before returning to his sitting room.
“It’s my first drink since New Year’s Eve,” she said, taking it from him. “Spirits, that is. Only wine since then, but I don’t count wine. What are you having?”
“Oh, bottled water, I suppose. I keep a variety to choose from.”
“Bottled water? That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t drink?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
“Did you ever?”
“Yes, but I stopped.”
“Why?”
“I just did.”
“By yourself, or with help?”
“With help.”
“Oh, so you’re a drunk!” she chortled, feeling better about herself.
“No more. Cured in Minnesota,” said Gus, smiling. He
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