Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 Read Online Free PDF Page A

long-fingered hands from his back.
                 Then
he lifted himself, rearing up on extended arms, beaming down at her, delighted
in them both. “Well, well, Miriam!" he cried. “You are all right!"
                 Irony,
briefly lost, had returned to Miriam. Stroking his cheek, smiling, she said,
“The workman is as good as his tool, dear."
                 “You
can teach me so muchl " Jack
cried.
                 Miriam's
smile turned acid, became cold amusement. “And the first lesson, dear,"
she said, “is don't be too eager."
                 “But
I am eager, Miriam," Jack cried,
laughing at the truth of it. “I'm eager for everything, I'm eager to be, to be used\” Rolling off her, sitting up
tailor-fashion, resting one hand on her lowest rib, he said, “I am a good
actor, aren't I?"
     
                 She
nodded, slowly, solemnly, treating it as a serious question. “Probably better
than you know," she said. “And you aren't even afraid of it, are
you?"
                 “Why
should I be?" he asked, astonished. “It makes me happy!"
                 “And
you are going to make me happy," she told him. “And there are no dangers
at all in the world."
                 “Not
in our world," he said.
     

7
     
     
                 How
the years collide! And here I am, after all, while the past bounces and rattles
away like tools left in the trunk of a car. How can I describe this to my
friendly neighborhood interviewer? I cannot. I will not. These are my memories. “Ah, Miriam,” I say.
                 “Miriam
Croft,” the interviewer says, and I can hear him imperfectly hide his
disapproval. But who asked for his approval? He says, “She must have been forty
years older than you.”
                 “Forty-three,
in fact,” I say, amused after all this time by that strange fact. Doubly amused by the interviewer with his narrow little views.
                 “You
had an affair with her,” says this prissy little man.
                 Disapproval
gives me strength. All at once, it is possible for me to rise to a seated
position, legs folded on the slate. I tuck the robe down between my legs—no use
offending him that way as well—and I say, “She kept me, pal. That was an off-Broadway show we were doing. Her name
wasn't that big anymore, and the pay was peanuts. But Miriam got me the job and
moved me into her Central Park South apartment. She bought me my first really
good wardrobe, she introduced me to people, and she taught me how to not be too
eager. Miriam was very good for me, and I think I was pretty good for her, too.
Brightened her last days, you might say."
                 Amusement
makes me weak. I recline again, slowly, not wanting to crack the old beano on
the slate. Very valuable slate, you know. I lie down. I smile at the sky. The interviewer
waits, so I say it: "Brightened her last moments, in point of fact."
     

           FLASHBACK 6
     
     
                 The
limousine rolling northeastward through the dusk on the New England Thruway,
that strip of high-speed road between New York City and the Connecticut state
line, was a gleaming tasteful black, with New York plates indicating it had
been either leased or rented. The chauffeur was a serious-looking white man of
close to sixty, in a black suit, white shirt, narrow black tie, and black
uniform cap. The glass partition between him and the spacious rear compartment
of the limousine was closed, and from the point of view of the front seat the
rear seemed to be empty.
                 It
was nearly eight in the evening of a midweek day in spring. The air outside was
soft, the sky pearlescent, the traffic not at all bad, considering the
realities of the BosWash Corridor. The driver was accomplished, the limousine
in excellent condition, the voyage smooth and