She told me she was glad I liked Gwen and I said again that I thought
Gwen was a good deal of damsel and I hung up.
"Nothing?" Paul had been on his chair-edge.
I shook my head. "Hattie's calm about it--and she really knows the
girl."
"Really knows Marcia? That bat-faced old strumpet? The hell she does!"
"Okay," I said. "Okay."
"Who's Gwen?"
"One of her girls. She was down here earlier. She's gone."
He jumped up and came over to the sofa where I sat with the phone.
"Fine thing! I thought you said you were here working--not cheating!"
"A slight relapse, say. What of it?"
"Relapse!" His voice was thin and high. His fists were doubled. His
face streamed as if he were shoveling in a boiler room. "Sweet guy, you
are! Oh--you've got a good brain! Even talent! But all you do is whore
around with your brains and your god-damned talent! And yourself! You
look at a woman--you just _look_ at her--and you make her feel like a
slut! You've got a wife that's too good for a good guy--and a thousand
times too good for you! So what? A weekend off--and you louse the place
up with a chippy--! Somebody tries to dig a decent, lovely girl out of
a bad spot--and you come along and roll your dirty eyes on her--!"
I said, "Look, Paul. If you're going to rage around at people for
keeping tarts in their homes, start with your own, will you?"
He swung but he didn't follow hard and I ducked it.
So he began to sob, then--back in his chair.
I went to the bathroom, broke out a clean tumbler, dumped in the
contents of three of the sodium amytal capsules Tom had prescribed for
me, added water, swished it around, slogged back to the sitting room,
poured in three fingers of whisky, and handed it to him. He took a
deep, lunging breath and drank the whole business.
He sobbed a while longer.
Then, in a low, self-pitying voice, he began a rhapsody, or maybe
threnody, on Marcia. The drink hit him, and the pills; he grew detailed
and intimate; finally he said he'd lie down for an hour before going on
with the search.
It was getting light by that time.