Long Shot (28 page)

“It's two weeks tomorrow,” she said.

“Yeah, right,” he nodded, and flexed his hands on the steering wheel. “I think Lew Archer gets it all done in one.”

He meant the time it took to bring the killer in. She was referring to the stage they'd reached in being widowed. Just now, out of nowhere, she recalled how Jasper never flew till he knew the movie. He preferred to go up with one of his own, to watch the people watch it. He wanted to know what went over best, so as to give them more the next time round. Today, this struck her as somehow rather endearing.

She used to tell him he gave up far too much to the man onscreen, who was after all not real. But who was she to say? He was happier being Jasper Cokes, boyish redneck sexpot, than he ever was in street clothes. Contrary to Hollywood form, he went into raptures over his public image. And he took on a vast enthusiastic grace, like an athlete striking matches wherever he went. Shadowboxing, half the time, if that was the only game in town.

“I wonder if Harry was Jasper's type,” she said.

“Did he like them young?”

“I don't know. They always seemed to me, the few I saw, like men with lousy jobs. Like they worked in a liquor store.”

“I'm sure he would have found Harry too romantic.”

“Talk about him,” Vivien said, though here she was pretty sure he'd refuse.

“Well, he was always out collecting up experience,” said Greg, so easily she wondered why she'd never asked before. “That's the reason he probably went with Artie—he thought he could find out Jasper Cokes' story. He'd practically stop a person in the street. You'd think they'd take offense, but I guess they didn't. He was so earnest, you couldn't turn him down.” He paused for a moment, to catch his breath, and felt this stupid lump across his throat, as if someone had just delivered a blow to his windpipe. He said: “It was like he was writing a book. And all of us were the evidence.”

“Well, if he got
you
to talk,” she said, “he must have been something. He must have been a goddam hypnotist.”

“But that's the irony, you see. I was the one he didn't ask. Because of how he felt, I guess. I made him very shy. Everything I just told you—that's from Sid and Edna. Like I said, I hardly knew him. We only spent one night together.”

“Really?” she said. “I thought you never touched him.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Greg quietly. He hoped this part didn't sound too much like a bad apology. He willed himself to leave it at that, then blurted out one thing more. “It was just that once,” he said.

“Well, that's once more than me and Jasper,” Vivien said.

She hardly knew what she felt anymore. Three days ago, she'd have said it was nothing at all. But ever since she left L.A., there was something there—some phantom pain that cast about for a hollow spot to root in. Grief? Remorse? She couldn't say. Perhaps she saw that, if she always fled in the face of death, she would never get the hang of hating it on sight. It fed off her indifference, somehow.

They were almost there. He parked in an empty bay at Hertz and waited outside in the chilly wind while she went in and settled her account. They'd divvy it up later on. He knew he would have to be the one to bring it up, but that was part of the clumsy bargain rich men struck with poor. The reason he didn't go in, though his poor teeth chattered like a teletype, was because he couldn't stand to watch another clerk go limp with awe. It did no good to put the blame on Vivien herself. He wasn't sure she didn't lead them on, but then, they fell for it all on their own.

The air was thick with the shriek of jets. The sky was shot with a shade of gray that glimmered now with the risk of snow. He was suddenly full of doom and feeling all alone. He wished he could tell her that what he feared most just now was finishing up this case. Because then he would have no more excuse.

It would have to wait till they got on the plane. They couldn't talk right now. The Hertz girl drove them, three in the front, through the loop-the-loop to TWA. She chatted as if they were all just folks, but Greg could tell she was secretly crazed with fascination. He knew he was being ornery, of course. What were people supposed to do with Vivien, if they couldn't affect stunned silence and couldn't chitchat either? He acted as if there were some third path that he alone had mapped. He sat between them and looked out at the exit ramps and hangars, on across a plain of cars, and thought with an air of resignation:
What the hell, it's all the same
.

“You know what I left in my room?” he asked, very
sotto voce
, cutting the Hertz girl out.

“No, what?” she asked. As far as she could tell, he'd left the sum of his worldly goods. She'd decided, though, that it wasn't her affair to ask. At least they had the diamond and the leather-bound Thoreau. The rest was probably expendable.

“It's this perfume, made out of lilies,” he said. “I picked it up on the island. It's just junk—only cost a buck and a half. I wasn't planning to
wear
it,” he insisted, mocking himself with the queerness of the thought. “I got it to prove how far I went. Like Columbus, bringing a load of spices back to Spain.”

“Mid-Ocean,” she replied.

She meant the brand. She wasn't plotting coordinates. In fact, she knew the very shop he must have gone to, half a mile down the St. George's road from the house. The lilies were out of her very own field.

They came in under the swooping wing of the terminal. Now he saw they were going public with a vengeance. Vivien got out first. As he followed, he planned to call to the trio of skycaps standing by. But before he could draw the breath to do it, he saw they were already zombie-eyed. They'd seen her in a flash. One now came to greet her. The second went round to the trunk, to fetch the luggage. The third picked up the phone and called ahead. It was all in all like a princess making an entrance. The skycaps even dressed the part of footmen.

Greg got very tongue-tied, feeling so left out. He brought up the rear as best he could, while she walked on ahead, flanked by bearers left and right. One had her overnighter. The other, her bag of country goods. Greg fished his pocket for a proper tip. He'd carried his own bags, unassisted, through all the terminals of his life. He would no more have hired a bearer here than he would have let another man shine his shoes. Certain things a person did himself, if only to keep two feet in the real world.

The skycaps could probably spot the type a mile away. It was doubtful they chalked up the dollar lost to higher principles. All Greg had was eighty cents in change and a crinkled five. He was heavily armed with traveler's checks and credit cards, but so what? As they reached the check-in counter and the porters wished her well, he knew he would have to lay out the fin, for want of a couple of singles.

The two men turned in a friendly way. He palmed the bill to the older one—discreetly, so he wouldn't have to watch them trade an antic look. The five, he thought, would have bought him a shot of Bristol Cream, as well as the headphones for the movie.
For Christ's sake, let it go
, he thought. As he sidled into place beside her, he saw that Vivien—huddled in league with the airline clerk—was already plotting their transcontinental phase. She put out a hand and rested it on Greg's arm, then spoke his name for the second reservation. Greg smiled wanly at the lanky clerk. He didn't begrudge the two guys their tip. For all he knew, a five was peanuts nowadays. Jasper probably tipped in twenties.

“Yes, Mr. Cannon, here you are,” said the clerk. A bit like Henry Fonda, way back when.

What was it in his voice that alerted Greg to something fishy? Some note of gravity had crept in—as if they all had better things to do. He peered over Vivien's shoulder at the code thrown up by the IBM. His boarding pass was clearly marked with an F—like he'd flunked the final in English Lit.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I believe I'm flying coach.”

“What? But I thought you were going out together,” the clerk threw back defensively. He looked to Vivien for support.

“Greg,” she said evenly, putting an arm across his shoulder like a quarterback, “I appreciate your attitude—the simple life and all. I'm sure the whole of TWA would appreciate it if they knew. But I'm not free like you are. If I travel coach, the press will pick it up. Do it my way, will you?”

“Sounds a little paranoid, if you ask me,” said Greg.

Of course he knew exactly what she meant. But he'd had enough of being eyed and treated VIP. The longer he stuck around, the more he found himself preempted. People were much too nice when they got within her orbit. They seemed, like stiffly mannered kids, to keep mum unless they had something good to say. If he once agreed to fly first class, they'd stuff him like a Strasbourg goose.

“I think we better call it a draw for a while,” he said.

The road had forked at last. He smiled so wide it hurt, so eager was he to show there were no hard feelings. He didn't for a moment think she ought to change the class she flew for
him
. It wasn't a case of right and wrong. After all, he thought, the irony was no greater in their flying separate fares than it was in a hundred other things, from their household goods to their bank accounts. They'd have plenty of time to sort each other out when all of this was done. For now, they simply had to go the way they came. Not like a couple in
Vogue
.

“As long as it's not the money,” she said.

“Money? What's that?” he retorted. “Didn't you know? I carry a bag of cloves and gold dust. I barter my way from place to place.”

“But why do you go in steerage?”

“To keep a low profile, of course. I don't want anyone wondering who I am.”

“But I thought you
liked
celebrity. Haven't you got a franchise?”

Somehow, she hadn't realized—not till now—how much of their time together had passed in private. If he'd been her lover instead, they'd have surfaced in a dozen places where cameras clicked and the walls had ears. Because that was the nature of love. And this was something else.

“We're both so cute when we're mad,” he said. “We ought to do it more often.”

His manner, just then, was so easy, it seemed he ought to be signing on, not off. But that was the catch, she thought. Since they weren't together to fall in love, since they had no deals in effect between them, their freedom was what they shared. They were free to break off, whenever they wished—for however long. Mid-sentence, if need be.

“I'll think of you,” she said dryly, “while I'm picking at my lobster.” She opened her lizard bag and drew out Emerson's old Thoreau. “This is yours,” she said, as she handed it over. “I don't suppose you're insured for a thing like this.”

“Not a penny,” he said, as he tucked it under his arm and stepped up close to the counter. He handed the clerk his original ticket.

“Wouldn't do you a bit of good,” she said. “There isn't but just this one. How could you put a price on it? It's just what it is.”

This was begging the question some, since she'd dropped a little over seven thousand for it, Friday afternoon on the way to the airport. She'd started to write out the check before the dealer could say the price. But she probably would have defended the casual nature of it all. For a woman with money to burn, what difference did it make? Freely given away like this, it meant the one particular
Walden
could go back to what it ought to be. Worth what it said inside.

While the clerk put Greg through the computer, he turned and smiled serenely at her. If he hadn't made the first move, she thought, she'd have never guessed how relieved she'd be to be left alone—just her and the public. Nobody understood, not even Greg, what care she took to give them something back. Some minimal return for all that humanness.

“I'll see you at the other end,” he said, for his papers were all in order.

He sounded chipper, like they were going off to battle and mightn't make it through. He fluttered one hand in a cheery wave and sauntered off to the gate. The hunting shirt was so bright, she followed him like a cardinal, darting away in the woods.

“Who's that?” asked the clerk conspiratorially. He seemed to mean that anyone walking in with Vivien Cokes ought to be some big shot.

“That,” she said, “is the last of a breed. I don't think it answers to a name.”

“How come he has no luggage?”

“Oh, but he does,” she said, as her face flowered open in a sudden smile. She threw down a credit card,
slap
on the counter, to bring them back to business. “With him,” she said, “it's all in his head.”

chapter 7

“
OH
,
ARTIE
,”
SHE SAID
, as the Rolls swung over and pulled to the curb to let her out. “I forgot—it's Monday. You got a show tonight.”

“
Two
shows,” Artie answered automatically, smiling wanly in the rear-view mirror.

“You think we can have a drink after?” she asked.

She sounded as if she'd only thought of it now. Already the kid who valeted the cars had come to hold her door, so the moment couldn't last. They had to get the date down fast. Her entrance was in progress.

“Sure,” he said, “why not? You'll wait up for me?”

“Of course. What time should I expect you?”

“One, one-thirty,” he said, but as if to apologize for the lateness of the hour.

“Fine,” she smiled.

She was out of the car so fast that he had no time to ask her why. He was amenable, of course. After all, she'd been away three days, and he hadn't dreamt of asking where. Saturday morning, when Erika called hysterical from the dock, he'd produced all the proper excuses. The fielding of other people's outrage came to him second nature. Sudden had always been Vivien's way. He'd learned to keep his remarks to a brief hello when she finally got back from the places she went. Just as he had this morning, when he came in the kitchen and found her frying bacon, like she'd been there all along. It was Artie's perfect feel for accommodation—ready to pick up where they left off—that let him drive away now and leave her be. They had an understanding.