“So far we’ve been in agreement on every single point,” she said slowly, “but there’s one thing I’ve been wondering about. It’s easy to talk about getting rid of people, and your theories — which I share — are terribly practical. But how do I know, when it comes right down to it, that you have the courage of your convictions?”
I met her eyes and grinned. I knew the answer to that question well enough. Hadn’t I proved my objectivity when I took care of those three pesty women? But how would Lila react if I told her? Could I trust her objectivity and freedom from cultural values?
“I really must know this,” Lila said, “if we’re going to consider seriously a permanent match. I’d be hampered by someone who turned back at the crucial moment, because I believe in completing each necessary step of my convictions.”
I tightened my lips, and with a slight inward tremor, I made my decision. I would risk it! I might lose her either way.
“Well,” I began, looking down at the table, “I did have three girlfriends who passed away lately...”
Soon, I had told her the entire story of how I developed the Tradition Quotient for measuring them, how I tried to convert them to rational thinking, and how — when they proved incurable traditionalists — I refused to compromise my principles.
The mercy killings (for I had decided it was at least that) struck Lila as particularly amusing; her breath quickened as I outlined the details. Dark lashes cast fringed shadows on her cheeks.
“But how did you administer disease toxins to them?” she wanted to know. “Wasn’t it dangerous?”
“Not at all.” I straightened my shoulders under her admiring gaze and slid my chair closer to hers, so that my knee pressed against her thigh. “You see, I simply placed the isolated toxin on the point of a pin, and attached it to a corsage. Near the end of the evening, I insisted upon adjusting the corsage on their dresses. Those women were so flattered by my attentions that they never even minded when I accidentally jabbed the pin into their skin.”
She laughed aloud, shaking her long blonde hair back and forth.
“The medical diagnosis was natural death, of course,” I said.
“How traditional of you! You said it with flowers.”
I smiled, and she ducked her head to conceal the rising color in her cheeks.
“You didn’t bring me flowers,” she said.
I smiled at her coyness.
“Shouldn’t you always be prepared?”
I took her hand under the table. “Let’s not beat around the bush any longer,” I said. “Now that you see my dedication, let’s make plans for a future together.”
Her body leaned closer to me, and I felt her warm breath as she bent her face near mine. She spoke softly.
“Yes,” she breathed, “we’re a good match, an even match. My computer will be invaluable in our research and experiments, and we can do so much together. Through Computer-Mater alone, I’ve recorded the attitudes of thousands of New Yorkers, and we can reprogram the machine to tabulate them. On your own, it would take four years to find these people and to measure their T.Q.’s. But together, with my computer, we can do it in days!”
I squeezed her hand passionately. My voice rose with excitement.
“Perfect! Perfect!” I said, with more ardor than I had ever experienced. “We can’t possibly fail! I bless my rationality in ever finding you. You’re the one perfect woman to stand behind me in my plans! You will aid me and work with me as I put into effect: Operation Future!”
Was it my imagination, or was Lila withdrawing her hand from mine?
“Stand behind you?” she said.
“As a wife,” I said, oddly confused by the way her voice flattened. Perhaps she needed more reassurance. “I’ll put the plans into effect and you’ll see that things run smoothly on the home front.”
Her eyes narrowed and she shifted her body away from me. “What do you mean ‘home front’?” she asked.
“Not the literal home front.” I was afraid I’d offended her. “You know I don’t believe in that. I mean that you’d take care of background details, handling the kind of thing a woman can do best.”
Lila stood up and ran her hand through her hair. Her tongue clicked gently against the roof of her mouth. “Male supremacy is a myth,” she said. “That’s the most mindless tradition of all!”
We finished our meal slowly and in silence. This was our first quarrel; it hung heavily in the air. By the time Lila brought in the dessert, I was beside myself with apologies, but I couldn’t take back what I’d said. Anyway, I thought, defending myself as she sat opposite me with her face stony, her eyes downcast, I’m not so sure that what I said needed apologies. There are certain biological verities.
Still, I didn’t want to lose Lila Potterman. The computer had matched us — and, I confess, I was growing fond of her. I only wanted her to stop crossing and recrossing her long, beautiful legs, to stop repeating, “Mindless traditions have no place in an enlightened world!” Had she no forgiveness in her at all? Not one grain?
Finally, not knowing what else to do, I left, deciding to give her a few days to get over her anger.
That’s the end of my chronicle of what happened this evening. If I was dizzy when I started this, I’m even dizzier now, but since I’ve tried to be as objective as possible, recording all the details, I’m sure that when my head clears I’ll find the clue that will make this whole thing fall in place for me.
Oh yes, before I lie down, one more thing. It doesn’t make much sense, but maybe when I think about it... Her parting remark as she ushered me to the door was strangely traditional.
“ ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’ ” she said.
Does that mean she is interested in me?
Or does it mean I should have complimented her more on her cooking? But I couldn’t have done so in all honesty. That dessert, for instance, left a very bitter aftertaste...
You Can Get Away with Murder
by Charles Boeckman
One might, I suppose, term the right time and the right place, in specific instances, as accessories after the fact.
The Mardi Gras hysteria had faded slightly in the predawn hours. Now it was starting again. Merrymakers, looking slightly stunned, were groping their way out into the narrow streets that were littered with last night’s confetti and streamers. Parade floats were assembling. Somewhere a musician blew a forlorn, cracking note on a trumpet. The whole city was gulping tomato juice and gin, shaking off last night’s hangover and bracing itself for the madness about to erupt again in the streets of New Orleans.
“Hell, Lieutenant, I’ve never seen so much blood in one room in my life.” The uniformed officer was standing spraddle-legged on the bottom step of the courtyard stairway, like a bulldog guarding a bone.
Homicide Detective Lieutenant Mercer Basous, his long, homely face serious, cast a preliminary glance around the courtyard. The banana trees were dripping moisture. A night fog that had rolled in from the river, crossed Jackson Square and enveloped the French Quarter, had not entirely dissipated. Basous shivered. The town was chronically cold and damp — when it wasn’t hot and damp. He sometimes wondered what had possessed those 18th Century Frenchmen to pick a swamp hollow below sea level upon which to build a town.
His gaze took in the bloodstains splashed across the cobblestones to the courtyard gate in the west wall. The person or persons unknown who had shed blood in the room upstairs had enough left to splatter a trail on the stairs and courtyard.