Read Online The Man Who Lived by Night by David Handler - Free Book Online Page B

lap and looked from Merilee to me, then from me to Merilee.
    “It appears,” I said, “as if this isn’t going to work out very well. I suppose it was unrealistic to expect it would.” I looked around for our waiter.
    “No,” she said, placing her knife and fork down on her plate. “Wait, Hoagy. Let’s not do this, okay? Let’s not talk about the past, the future, any of it. Can’t we just enjoy now? Enjoy each other?”
    I got lost in her green eyes for a second. “We can sure try.”
    “Good. But first I have something very serious to ask you.”
    “Yes, Merilee?”
    “What are we having for dessert?”
    We had a positively immoral concoction of cake topped with whipped fresh cream, and finished it off with coffee and port.
    Then we walked, Merilee’s hand on my arm, her gait as long and loping as my own. Lulu ambled happily a few feet ahead of us, so busy showing us off to the passersby that she didn’t notice we were being followed. Nor did Merilee. I wasn’t absolutely sure myself—I’m not exactly what you’d call an expert on trench-coat surveillance—but I swore I sensed somebody walking a careful half block or so behind us, staying stride for stride with us, measuring us.
    “Hoagy, are we one of those awful couples who can’t get along together but can’t get along apart either?”
    That one caught me flat-footed—pleasantly so. I hadn’t known we were anything to her anymore, except dead.
    “We’ve never not gotten along in London,” I pointed out.
    “That’s right,” she exclaimed, squeezing my arm. “Get me drunk?”
    “With pleasure.”
    She thought we’d be pulling in at the Anglesea, a fine old pub on Selwood Terrace with rough wooden floors and Ruddle’s on tap. We’d had fun there on our honeymoon. But I steered us past it to a fairly undistinguished looking family pub on Old Brompton Road.
    It was crowded and smoky in there, and it smelled of beer and fried fish. The working-class clientele gave us the eye as we worked our way through them toward the bar—me for the tux, Merilee for being Merilee. I ordered pints of heavy Guinness draft for us and a piece of finnan haddie for Lulu. The meaty Hungry Horse menu hadn’t much appealed to her. When our mugs were set before us we clinked them and drank deeply. Merilee then swiped delicately at the creamy foam on her upper lip and made a little noise akin to a discreet hiccough. Among her many gifts she happens to possess the world’s most elegant belch.
    The barman treated us to our second round in exchange for an autograph, which Merilee happily signed. As she handed the prized napkin back to him, she pointed to a sign prominently displayed over the bar.
    “Tell me,” she said, “why is tonight called Poultry Night?”
    The barman flushed with embarrassment. “Well, miss, it’s because … uh …”
    “Because?” she pressed.
    “Every woman … she gets a free …”
    Merilee yelped.
    “… goose.”
    “Splendid custom,” I declared, raising my mug to the quick-fingered drinkers behind us, as well as glancing about for a familiar face, or a shifty-eyed face, or for anyone who looked like he didn’t want me to spot him. No one.
    Three pale, knobby-knuckled workmen at the end of the bar bought us our third round. We returned the favor. Then I decided it was time to test those tapping feet.
    “Shall we?” I asked, indicating the two square feet of vacant floor beside the jukebox.
    “I thought you’d never ask, darling.”
    I made my song selection and gathered her in my arms. A little shudder went through her when Ray Charles’s version of “Georgia on My Mind” came on. It was our song—the one we danced to over and over again that first night, at a Polish seaman’s club on First Avenue and Ninth Street, where we drank up peppery vodka and each other, and then went home and didn’t leave the bed for six weeks.
    She was gazing at me now, her eyes brimming. “How did you know they had it?”
    “Easy—I