1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place Read Free

balance. I left the bank, feeling like a man who has shifted a ton of cement off his back.
    Although I had been determined to talk to Linda about our finances, we had stayed so late with the Mitchells, the opportunity didn't arise. We were both slightly drunk on our return and we flopped into bed. I had tried to make love, but she had moved away, muttering, “Oh, for God's sake . . . not now.” So we had drifted off to sleep and she was still sleeping when I got up, made myself coffee and she was still sleeping when I left for the office.
    The morning was spent putting the magazine to bed. I decided that because of the attack on the Chief of Police I would increase the printing order by 15,000 copies.
    After a desk lunch, I settled down to plan the next issue.
    While I was planning, the thought that I would have to talk to Linda tonight kept creeping into my mind.
    This mustn't happen again. I'm bailing you out. If you can't control the situation from now on, you're not the man for me.
    I recognised this as a warning and I knew Chandler always meant what he said. So, tonight, I had to talk straight to Linda and she would have to accept the fact that we could not go on living at our present standards.
    The coming battle - and it was going to be a battle - with Linda made creative thinking impossible. I shoved aside my chair, got up and began to move around my big office. I could hear the faint clack of Jean's typewriter. I also could hear Wally Mitford's voice as he dictated into a Grundig. I looked at my desk clock. The time was 16.15. I had two hours yet before I could go home and talk to Linda.
    I lit a cigarette and moved to the big window that gave me a view of the city. Smog made it necessary for the cars to turn on their headlights. I looked across at the Chandler building. The penthouse, where Chandler worked, was a blaze of lights.
    The buzzer sounded. I walked over and flicked down a switch.
    “There is a Mr. Gordy here, Mr. Manson,” Jean told me.
    “He would like to see you.”
    Gordy? The name rang no bell.
    “What does he want?”
    There was a pause, then Jean said, her voice sounding a little troubled, “He says it is personal and confidential.”
    “Send him in in three minutes.”
    This would give me time to put a tape on the recorder, switch on the mike, settle myself behind my desk and light another cigarette.
    Jean opened my door and stood aside as a tall, thin man, wearing a well-worn, but neatly pressed suit, came into my office. He was around forty years of age, balding with a broad forehead, tapering down to narrow jaws, a thin nose, deep-set eyes and an almost lipless mouth.
    I stood up to shake hands. His hand felt dry and hard.
    “Mr. Gordy?”
    “That's right. Jesse Gordy.” He smiled and showed small yellow teeth. “You wouldn't know me, Mr. Manson, but, of course, I know you.”
    I waved him to a chair.
    “Please sit down.”
    “Thank you.” He settled himself in the chair, took out a pack of Camels and lit up. There was something about his movements, his expression, his arrogant, confident ease that began to bother me.
    “Was there something?” I moved some papers to give him the hint I hadn't time to waste.
    “I think I have information for you, Mr. Manson that would make an interesting article.” He again revealed his yellow teeth in a tight smile. “I have been reading your magazine: quite first class: quite the thing this city needs.”
    “I'm glad you think so, Mr. Gordy. What is this information?”
    “First, let me introduce myself. I am the manager of the Welcome Self-service store on the Eastlake estate. I don't believe you come to the store, but your wife shops with us I am happy to say.” Again the lips lifted, again I saw the small yellow teeth: they began to make me think of a rat.
    “Every lady living at Eastlake shops with us.”
    I had a growing feeling that there was something menacing behind this smooth talk and I was careful to look interested, to nod