things the AC labs produced (their failures), which were sent away to rot in unlighted rooms under the glossy heading of "perpetual professional care." Anyway, I turned the radio off.
And thought about Child.
And knew I should never have taken the job.
And knew that I wouldn't quit
IV
At home, in the warmth of the den, with my books and my paintings to protect me, I took the dust jacket off the book so I wouldn't accidentally see her face, and I began reading Lily. It was a mystery novel, and a mystery of a novel. The prose was not spectacular, actually intended for the average reader seeking a few hours of escape.
Still, I was fascinated. Through the chapters, between the lines of marching black words, a face seen at a party weeks before kept drifting through my mind. A face which I had been fighting to forget
Amber hair, long and straight.
"See that woman? Over there? That's Marcus Aurelius. Writes those semi-pornographic books, like Lily and Bodies in Darkness, those."
Her face was sculpted, smooth planes and milky flesh.
Her eyes were green, wider than eyes should be, though not the eyes of a mutant.
Her body was graceful, provocatively in vogue.
Her
I ignored what he was saying about her, all the foul things he suggested, and studied amber hair, cat's eyes, fast fingers touching that hair, clasping a glass of gin, jabbing the air for emphasis in conversation
When I was finished with the book, I went and made myself some Scotch and water. I am not a good bartender.
I drank it and pretended I was about sleepy enough for bed. I stood on the patio, which is slung over the side of the small mountain which I own, and I watched the snow.
I got cold and went inside. Undressing, I went to bed, nestled down in the covers, and thought about ice floes and blizzards and piling drifts, letting myself find sleep.
I said, "Damn!" and got up and got more Scotch and went to the phone, where I should have gone as soon as I finished the last page of the novel.
I could not understand the logic of what I was doing, but there are times when the physical overrides the cerebral, no matter what the proponents of civilized society might say about it.
Punching out the numbers for directory assistance, I asked for Marcus Aurelius' number. The operator refused to give me her real name and number, but I esped out and saw it as she looked at the directory in front of her:
MARCUS AURELIUS Or MELINDA THAUSER; 22-223-296787/ UNLISTED.
So I said sorry and hung up and dialed the number I had just stolen.
"Hello?"
It was a competent, businesslike voice. Yet there was a sultriness in it that could not be ignored.
"Miss Thauser?"
"Yes?"
I told her my name and said she would probably know it and then sounded pleased when she did. It was all as if someone were possessing me, directing my tongue against the will of the screaming particle of me that demanded I hang up, run away, hide.
"I've followed your exploits," she said. "In the papers."
"I've read your books."
She waited.
"I think it's time I had my biography done," I said.
"I've been approached before, but I've always been against it. Maybe like the primitive tribesmen who feel a photograph locks their soul away inside it. But with you, maybe it would be different. I like your work."
There was a bit more said, and it ended with me and with this: "Fine. Then I'll expect you here for dinner tomorrow night at seven."
I had suggested escorting her to dinner somewhere, but she had said that was not necessary. I insisted. She had said that restaurants were too noisy to discuss business. In the course of the floundering planning, I had mentioned my cook. And now she was coming here.
I went out and
And thought about Child.
And knew I should never have taken the job.
And knew that I wouldn't quit
IV
At home, in the warmth of the den, with my books and my paintings to protect me, I took the dust jacket off the book so I wouldn't accidentally see her face, and I began reading Lily. It was a mystery novel, and a mystery of a novel. The prose was not spectacular, actually intended for the average reader seeking a few hours of escape.
Still, I was fascinated. Through the chapters, between the lines of marching black words, a face seen at a party weeks before kept drifting through my mind. A face which I had been fighting to forget
Amber hair, long and straight.
"See that woman? Over there? That's Marcus Aurelius. Writes those semi-pornographic books, like Lily and Bodies in Darkness, those."
Her face was sculpted, smooth planes and milky flesh.
Her eyes were green, wider than eyes should be, though not the eyes of a mutant.
Her body was graceful, provocatively in vogue.
Her
I ignored what he was saying about her, all the foul things he suggested, and studied amber hair, cat's eyes, fast fingers touching that hair, clasping a glass of gin, jabbing the air for emphasis in conversation
When I was finished with the book, I went and made myself some Scotch and water. I am not a good bartender.
I drank it and pretended I was about sleepy enough for bed. I stood on the patio, which is slung over the side of the small mountain which I own, and I watched the snow.
I got cold and went inside. Undressing, I went to bed, nestled down in the covers, and thought about ice floes and blizzards and piling drifts, letting myself find sleep.
I said, "Damn!" and got up and got more Scotch and went to the phone, where I should have gone as soon as I finished the last page of the novel.
I could not understand the logic of what I was doing, but there are times when the physical overrides the cerebral, no matter what the proponents of civilized society might say about it.
Punching out the numbers for directory assistance, I asked for Marcus Aurelius' number. The operator refused to give me her real name and number, but I esped out and saw it as she looked at the directory in front of her:
MARCUS AURELIUS Or MELINDA THAUSER; 22-223-296787/ UNLISTED.
So I said sorry and hung up and dialed the number I had just stolen.
"Hello?"
It was a competent, businesslike voice. Yet there was a sultriness in it that could not be ignored.
"Miss Thauser?"
"Yes?"
I told her my name and said she would probably know it and then sounded pleased when she did. It was all as if someone were possessing me, directing my tongue against the will of the screaming particle of me that demanded I hang up, run away, hide.
"I've followed your exploits," she said. "In the papers."
"I've read your books."
She waited.
"I think it's time I had my biography done," I said.
"I've been approached before, but I've always been against it. Maybe like the primitive tribesmen who feel a photograph locks their soul away inside it. But with you, maybe it would be different. I like your work."
There was a bit more said, and it ended with me and with this: "Fine. Then I'll expect you here for dinner tomorrow night at seven."
I had suggested escorting her to dinner somewhere, but she had said that was not necessary. I insisted. She had said that restaurants were too noisy to discuss business. In the course of the floundering planning, I had mentioned my cook. And now she was coming here.
I went out and
Similar Books
The Good Student
Stacey Espino
Fallen Angel
Melissa Jones
Men of Anderas II: Dak the Protector
Cheryl Johnson
Dark Devotion: Dark Series 3
Lauren Dawes
The Master of the Hunt: A Paranormal Romance
Susan G. Charles
Detection Unlimited
Georgette Heyer
In This Rain
S. J. Rozan
Meeting Mr. Wright
Cassie Cross
Vampire's Thirst (The Awakening Series)
Cynthia Garner