A Brush With Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

huh?” he murmured, in a tone that had nothing to do with philosophy. “Sure I can't convince you to ...''
    “Don't tempt me. Give me four hours."
    He glanced at his watch. “That'll be just about dinner time. Why don't you study here, and..."
    Quite apart from the fact that my books were at my apartment, I knew how much studying I'd get done if I stayed. “I'll take the subway home, John. Don't bother driving me. You probably have some scheming to do."
    “There are a couple of guys I have to call. I better get in touch with the office. I might just give Parelli a toot as well. I don't want to get all tied up with badges, but I could use an unofficial pipeline. It's Christmas, and he might have a few days off. He works out of Toronto, but his home's in Montreal. Some backup will come in handy, since there are at least three guys to contend with. You remember Gino Parelli? He was a nice guy."
    “The Mountie?"
    “That's right, the guy that helped me catch Ronald. I'm sure you haven't forgotten your old friend, Ronald.” He challenged me with a laughing eye.
    Ronald was the SOB who kidnapped my uncle and tried to get the Stradivarius in Toronto last summer. He was a boyfriend before that. John was always a little jealous of him.
    “How could I forget Ronald? So handsome,” I sighed.
    “And so stupid."
    “I'll meet you here around eight-thirty,” I said.
    “Take a taxi, will you? I don't want you on the subways after dark."
    “This isn't New York, you know."
    Knowing my love of luxury, he said, “Are you okay for dough?” His hand was already sliding toward his wallet. “I don't want to step on any feminist toes, but we are engaged."
    “I'm okay. Since you're feeding me, I can afford taxi fare. See you."
    He came to the door with me, kissed me again, and I left reluctantly to hotfoot it to the Metro station. Actually coldfoot it would be a more appropriate word. A bitter wind had blown down from the North Pole while we were indoors. It laughed at my pitiful attempts at holding it off. Sheepskin and suede didn't begin to do it.

CHAPTER 4

    As I studied, I came to the conclusion that Existentialism wasn't for the nineties, or if it was, it showed us a very sad picture of mankind. In that philosophy, there is no ideal man or human nature or God. We're each in it alone, in our discrete time and place, destined to define humanity by our actions. Human nature is the sum total of human actions, always in the making, never established. And in the last few decades, we were writing a sorry definition of mankind. It seemed ironic that the lifeworks of a die-hard idealist like Van Gogh should become the prey of robbers and criminals.
    I tried to concentrate on my work, but “the case” was always there, at the periphery of my mind. So was John. I was happy he was here, even if he hadn't come specifically to see me. Would he have called if he hadn't been coming? For three weeks he hadn't bothered to pick up the phone. Even if I could afford it, which I couldn't, I couldn't call him because I never knew where he was. I was going to get this situation straightened out before he left. His work was dangerous. He could be dead, floating in a canal in Amsterdam or in the Seine, and I wouldn't even know it till his bloated body was fished out of the water. Or almost as bad, he could be with another woman.
    I wanted to tie that down too. Was he seeing other women? We hadn't discussed it. I didn't sit home every night, but I made it a point never to go out with the same man more than twice. It was so easy to meet men at the university that this was no problem. With John though, he'd probably only meet one or two women in any city he happened to be in. Was he having little flings in various capitals? Was that what accounted for those occasional weeks that passed without a phone call? Tonight, for sure, I'd get an answer.
    I wanted to look ravishing enough that he desired no one but me, and to this end I set aside the books early