Read Online The Quick Red Fox by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online

in the head. He did not die. He is permanently comatose, Mr. McGee, with tubes for feeding and elimination, and the alcohol rubs to keep bed sores from rotting him away. It is a medical miracle, of course. That was four years ago. I need that fifteen thousand. It is barely enough for me and my family. If Lysa Dean is going down the drain in a messy way, it is my responsibility to leave her before it happens and go where an equivalent job has been offered. The job might not be open if I was in any way connected with scandal. Yes, Mr. McGee, the world can get a little grim from time to time.”
    “What can I say?”
    “Nothing, of course. I thought it would be easier to tell you now before you said more things you might regret later, that’s all. You haven’t hurt me. I’m not certain anything could hurt me, actually. I am sorry it is all so soap opera. I haven’t the … self-involvement necessary to make moral judgments. Lee was terribly foolish. The pictures offend me because they are vulgar. And they endanger me. If you can’t work things out for her, I will have to leave her. I think she senses that.”
    “Maybe you could be some help.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Drink?”
    Her smile was small, and perfectly polite, and totally automatic. “Bourbon, if you have it. Weak, with lots of ice and water.”
    I do not think she wanted it, but knew I wanted a chance to pull myself together, get the taste of my own foot off my frontteeth. I had looked at that empty reserve and guessed repression and disapproval. She was merely burned out. Wires had crossed and a lovely machine had fuzed and quit, become a useless lump for her to carry around the rest of her life. I felt like a jackass adolescent who’d tried to tell a dirty joke in front of real people.
    When I went in with the drinks, she was standing with her back to me, feet apart, sturdy calves braced, fist on a rich curve of Mediterranean hip, head cocked, looking at a painting.
    “Like it?”
    She turned with a swift grace. “Very much.”
    “Syd Solomon. He lives over in Sarasota. It’s part of a Bahama series he did a few years back.”
    “It’s very rich. Are you a collector?”
    “Sometimes. I’ve got about five things aboard and maybe a dozen in storage. Every so often I switch them around.” She sipped her drink. “Is that all right?”
    “Yes. Thank you. What do you drink? What is that?”
    “Lately Plymouth gin on the rocks with two drops of bitters.” I could almost hear the little click as she filed that away. I had acquired a drinkmaker.
    She went back to the upholstered locker and sat and said, “By the way, my expenses won’t come out of what I brought you. Is there anything I can start doing today? My desk is fairly clean and the girl won’t be in until later.”
    I left her there and went to the safe and took out the envelope. I put Lysa Dean’s pictures back in the safe and brought out the ones Gabe had made. I handed them to her. She looked at three of them, and then looked at me with faint surprise and fainter approval. “You had this done, or did it, since you left her yesterday?”
    “I had it done.”
    “It’s quite clever. I see, I think, what you have in mind. These are no danger to her. Are the others safe?”
    “Yes.” I waited until she had glanced through the set and put them aside. “Would you take down a few things?”
    A note book, gold pen and attentive expression appeared with impressive speed. I gave her Gabe’s full name and address. “Make out a check for a hundred and mail it to him for the photo work. The checkbook is in the desk drawer over there. See if you can get a line on a Carl Abelle, possibly a ski instructor at the Mohawk Lodge in Speculator, New York, previously at Sun Valley. Phone him and fake it so that he won’t be left with a lot of curiosity. If he is there, find the best way to get there, and reserve us through for Tuesday.”
    “To stay at that lodge?”
    “Let’s save that until we