Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 Read Free

"Oh,
sure, Buddy!"
                 Putting
down the shovel, Jack searched his rags for his wallet, found it, and handed Buddy
a bill. Buddy took it without comment, stowed it away in a pocket, and said,
"Maybe she's got a pal for you, if you ever get outa here." Grinning,
teasing with a little conspiratorial wink, he added, "And if you behave yourself."
                 Suddenly
sheepish, Jack fiddled with the shovel, moving it from hand to hand."/
know how to handle girls," he said.
                 With
an ironic laugh, Buddy said, “Yes, you do."
                 From
the stage, the director, with a thin, high-nettled whine in his voice, called, "Mister Pine, could you manage to
rejoin us, do you suppose?"
                 "Oh, sure!" Shouldering his shovel, Jack grinned
at Buddy, said, "Luck with Linda," and hurried back to the middle of
the stage, facing the exasperated director with his sunniest and most amiable
smile. "Sorry," he said. "Here I am."
                 "So
I see. We're going to try reversing the roles. You know the lines?"
                 "Oh,
sure I do," Jack said. "They're all my cues."
                 "I
don't," said the football player. He was now reduced to smoldering
resentment.
                 "You'll
read," the director told him, pushing the paperback into the football
player's midsection. The football player took it like a handoff. The director
gave them both an arch look, said, "From the top," and returned to
his seat in the auditorium.
                 Jack
and the football player left the stage; Buddy was already gone. After a moment
they re-entered, this time Jack in front. The football player was stiffer than
before, sullen anger visible in his expression and posture. This time, Jack was
primmer, fussier. He kept smoothing and tidying the rags he wore. There was a
hint of pursed- lipped pickiness in his expression and manner, and he sounded
aggrieved when he said, “‘Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully
seeks her own salvation?"'
                 “I
tell thee she is,'" the football player read, one word
at a time, ‘"and therefore make her grave straight. The crowner
hath sate on her, and finds it Christian burial.’"
                 ‘"How
can that be,'" Jack demanded, taking personal affront, “
‘unless she drown'd herself in her own defence?'"
                 ‘"Why,
'tis found so,'" read the football player.
                 Jack
was baffled by this. He took the shovel from his shoulder and stood it on the
floor, then leaned on it, thinking the situation over. Shaking his head, he
said, “ ‘It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else.'" He turned so that the
shovel stood between himself and the football player,
then treated the shovel as though it were a lectern and he the lecturer.
‘"For here lies the point,'" he told the
unlistening football player. ‘"If I drown myself wittingly, it argues an
act; and an act hath three branches—it is, to act, to do, and to perform;
argal, she drown’d herself wittingly.'" Having proved the point to his
satisfaction, he released the shovel and spread both hands in accomplishment.
The shovel stood poised, then began to topple, then was caught by Jack with a
flowing movement that picked it up and placed it back on his shoulder.
                 The
football player read, ‘"Nay, but hear you— '"
                 ‘‘Hold
it!" cried the director from the auditorium. He was on his feet again,
coming now to the edge of the stage, looking up at his actors, saying, ‘‘That's it, we’ll keep it that way. You," he said,
gesturing at Jack, ‘‘come here."
                 Jack
went over to the edge of the stage, carrying the shovel on his shoulder. He went
down on one knee, looking down at the director, saying, “Yes, sir?"
                 Quietly,
but smiling, the