Slam the Big Door Read Online Free PDF

merely empty, in a way that seemed to comfort her. He had been writing dirty words on the sidewalk, out of a kind of compulsion. As if, when Buttons had died, patience had died with her. The world was crummy, and they came at you from all angles lately. Have to watch it.
    He changed the subject by focusing his specialized attention on a couple by the pool—a man, dry and brown as a corpse left too long in the sun, sitting angularly on a pool-side cushion talking privately to a rounded blonde in a pink suit who lay on a chaise lounge with her face upturned toward the sun. He soon realized they were quarreling, slowly, quietly, viciously, with long silences between the unforgiveable things they were saying to each other. He did not change expression and barely moved his lips when he spoke to her. When she answered her face would change. She had prettiness, marred by too small a mouth and a piggy little nose. She looked spoiled, petulant, bored, and bitter when she answered him. The lines would go away when she again composed her face for the beat of the sun.
    Married, he decided. And he’s twenty years older, and it’s probably a second one, and he was so charged up about those tits he didn’t stop to think of what they’d find to do outside of bed, and now she’s started fooling around a little, and he can’t prove anything but he’s suspicious as hell. She was twenty-five when she married him and now she’s thirty—five years older and fifteen pounds heavier—and afraid he’s going to live forever.
    The last outpost of gracious living. But informal.
    He went over to the bar and found gin and collins mix and made himself a tall strong drink.
    As he started to turn away from the bar Troy said, “Party pooper.”
    Mike turned and looked up at the taller man. Troy had grown a lot heavier in five years. The hair was thin and blonde-gray. There were dark pouches under his eyes.
    “I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Don’t kid me. I wasn’t missed.”
    Troy started to build himself an Old Fashioned. “I should have folded when you did. How are you coming along?”
    “Adequate. I just ate like a pig.”
    “Mary says you were swimming early.”
    “You know how it is with us athletes. What the hell does the ‘D’ stand for?”
    “What? Oh, ‘D’ for ‘Dexter.’”
    “Dexter Troy Jamison. My, my!”
    “Looks juicy on that blue mailbox, doesn’t it?”
    “Real rich. I’ll call you Dex, like I was a friend.”
    “Try it. One time.”
    They took their drinks over and sat on a bench on the far side of the pool.
    “The Sunday routine,” Troy said. “If I recover fast enough maybe we’ll take the boat out, but probably no. There’ll be a group on the beach. There’ll be some ways you can lose money. Or you can play tennis at the Laybournes or the Key Club. Or just drink.”
    “I won’t be playing tennis at the Laybournes.”
    “No?”
    “Marg Laybourne tried to work me over. But she wasn’t used to a counterpuncher.”
    “Same old Mike. Same old war against the phonies. Surprised you bothered with her.”
    “So am I. It was too easy. No challenge.”
    “In a little while I’m going to see if I can make it all the way to the Gulf.”
    “Say, are you used to a counterpuncher, old Troy?”
    “Am I a phony?”
    “How can I tell?”
    “What do you mean by that, Mike?”
    “Let me put it this way. I got here Monday. You got a fine place. And, let me add, a dandy wife. I like Mary. But I get the polite, gracious, impersonal routine from you, boy. I’m maybe somebody you met in a club car and invited down here to this last outpost of gracious living. We met seventeen years ago, Troy. Remember me? Chrissake, I don’t want hugs and kisses, but I don’t like you being on guard.”
    “On guard?”
    “That’s the impression you give. Damn if it isn’t. Are you self-conscious about all this? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? And you were on your way to making it one way, and you goofed yourself out