Read Online Split Images (1981) by Elmore Leonard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elmore Leonard
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"The only reason you don't like it is because I do. I'm going back out for Easter."
"Your snooty pals are gonna miss you."
"Tell them I may come down for the polo matches. I'll see."
"The jock," Robbie said. "What've you got out west, another ski instructor?"
She stared at him, posed, pert blonde in folds of champagne silk by Halston, boat-neck design good on her for a few more years, flowing lines to conceal thick legs; in ski pants or tailored clothes, an aristocratic fragility above the waist, a peasant's big-ass sturdiness below: the halves of two different women in one.
She said, "Do you want to compare notes? How about your writer friend--she still around?"
"Angela? Come on."
"I forgot. She must be ten years over the hill."
"Maybe I'll go out to Aspen with you."
"I'm going to bed."
"Jealous husband shoots--what is he, Austrian?
Swiss? . . . Jealous husband shoots ethnic ski instructor." Robbie grinned. "Wait a minute. You like that suave foreign type, what about Walter?
You could have an affair with Walter, you wouldn't even have to leave the house."
She said, "Are you serious about hiring Walter?"
"Of course I am."
"The servants don't know what to make of him.
They don't know which side he's on."
"I like him," Robbie said. "Walter's solid, good Hamtramck stock. Speaking of which, not only Dodge Main is no more, Lynch Road's gone.
Chrysler's going down the toilet and Lee Iacocca hangs in there like a hemorrhoid. You see him in the TV ads? He's a fucking storm trooper. Buy a Chrysler product, you son of a bitch, or I'll kill you."
"Good night," Patti said.
"Wait a minute. There're some papers you have to sign, on the desk."
Patti straightened, moved toward the glow of the brass, green-shaded lamp. She seldom came into Robbie's study; it had all the hallowed solid-oak charm of the Detroit Athletic Club, where men in dark suits talked solemnly about ten-day reports and women were admitted through a side entrance.
She looked at the pages of legalese and picked up Robbie's gold pen.
"What're we up to now?"
"Some more of the liquidation," Robbie said.
"Within four days a Jewish auctioneer will have wiped out seventy-five years of nuts and bolts for the automotive industry. And you know what the best part is? The goddamn Japs'll probably buy half the equipment. No more Daniels fascinating fasteners. That's not bad, I could've used that. I see things in headlines lately. Fastener firm finally says fuck it. Daniels--no. Foremost Chrysler ass-kisser closes its doors."
"Sells out," Patti said. "Buying the Cadillac was sort of a tip-off. Rolls and Mercedes don't count."
"Just sign the papers . . . I don't know why I stayed in as long as I did. He'd come down to the plant, his arm hanging, dragging his leg, he'd come down and sit among his bowling trophies and blackframed memories . . . Knudsen, Sloan, Tex Colbert, he even had Horace Dodge up there, Christ, while he stared at me through those fucking glass partitions.
Go to Schweizer's for lunch. Dad went every single day for forty-five years. I'd say, let's go to Little Harry's for a change. No, Schweizer's. I'm never gonna eat another potato pancake as long as I live."
"Poor baby," Patti said.
"What I'm gonna do, sell every machine in the plant except one. I think a Waterbury Farrell Automatic Thread Roller, a big Number 50. Paint it black and stand it out on the front lawn with a plaque that reads: 'It's an ugly fucker, but it sure made us a pile of money' . . . I'd love to do that."
Patti said, "It's too bad you don't have the balls." She signed the papers and left.
"You lied to me," Angela said.
The first thing he thought of: you left the razor blade on the sink.
She had come out of the bathroom and was standing in the hall doorway, holding what looked like a magazine under her arm. "You're not forty.
You're thirty-seven or -eight. Which?"
He said, "I'll be thirty-eight in October," relaxing a little but still uncertain, until she held up, not
"Your snooty pals are gonna miss you."
"Tell them I may come down for the polo matches. I'll see."
"The jock," Robbie said. "What've you got out west, another ski instructor?"
She stared at him, posed, pert blonde in folds of champagne silk by Halston, boat-neck design good on her for a few more years, flowing lines to conceal thick legs; in ski pants or tailored clothes, an aristocratic fragility above the waist, a peasant's big-ass sturdiness below: the halves of two different women in one.
She said, "Do you want to compare notes? How about your writer friend--she still around?"
"Angela? Come on."
"I forgot. She must be ten years over the hill."
"Maybe I'll go out to Aspen with you."
"I'm going to bed."
"Jealous husband shoots--what is he, Austrian?
Swiss? . . . Jealous husband shoots ethnic ski instructor." Robbie grinned. "Wait a minute. You like that suave foreign type, what about Walter?
You could have an affair with Walter, you wouldn't even have to leave the house."
She said, "Are you serious about hiring Walter?"
"Of course I am."
"The servants don't know what to make of him.
They don't know which side he's on."
"I like him," Robbie said. "Walter's solid, good Hamtramck stock. Speaking of which, not only Dodge Main is no more, Lynch Road's gone.
Chrysler's going down the toilet and Lee Iacocca hangs in there like a hemorrhoid. You see him in the TV ads? He's a fucking storm trooper. Buy a Chrysler product, you son of a bitch, or I'll kill you."
"Good night," Patti said.
"Wait a minute. There're some papers you have to sign, on the desk."
Patti straightened, moved toward the glow of the brass, green-shaded lamp. She seldom came into Robbie's study; it had all the hallowed solid-oak charm of the Detroit Athletic Club, where men in dark suits talked solemnly about ten-day reports and women were admitted through a side entrance.
She looked at the pages of legalese and picked up Robbie's gold pen.
"What're we up to now?"
"Some more of the liquidation," Robbie said.
"Within four days a Jewish auctioneer will have wiped out seventy-five years of nuts and bolts for the automotive industry. And you know what the best part is? The goddamn Japs'll probably buy half the equipment. No more Daniels fascinating fasteners. That's not bad, I could've used that. I see things in headlines lately. Fastener firm finally says fuck it. Daniels--no. Foremost Chrysler ass-kisser closes its doors."
"Sells out," Patti said. "Buying the Cadillac was sort of a tip-off. Rolls and Mercedes don't count."
"Just sign the papers . . . I don't know why I stayed in as long as I did. He'd come down to the plant, his arm hanging, dragging his leg, he'd come down and sit among his bowling trophies and blackframed memories . . . Knudsen, Sloan, Tex Colbert, he even had Horace Dodge up there, Christ, while he stared at me through those fucking glass partitions.
Go to Schweizer's for lunch. Dad went every single day for forty-five years. I'd say, let's go to Little Harry's for a change. No, Schweizer's. I'm never gonna eat another potato pancake as long as I live."
"Poor baby," Patti said.
"What I'm gonna do, sell every machine in the plant except one. I think a Waterbury Farrell Automatic Thread Roller, a big Number 50. Paint it black and stand it out on the front lawn with a plaque that reads: 'It's an ugly fucker, but it sure made us a pile of money' . . . I'd love to do that."
Patti said, "It's too bad you don't have the balls." She signed the papers and left.
"You lied to me," Angela said.
The first thing he thought of: you left the razor blade on the sink.
She had come out of the bathroom and was standing in the hall doorway, holding what looked like a magazine under her arm. "You're not forty.
You're thirty-seven or -eight. Which?"
He said, "I'll be thirty-eight in October," relaxing a little but still uncertain, until she held up, not
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