I realized my mouth was open. I shut it. Then asked, “Mr. Clair, you believe that?”
“Yes! Leaf through history, every great artist either fought the shackles of convention or was smothered by them. Van Gogh, London, Shakespeare, Gauguin. Remember, even the commandment 'Thou shall not kill' is but a convention.”
“You'll never get away with that.”
He flashed his strong smile. “If I can get the jury to half-believe it, I'm in. I'm aiming at getting Matt off, and that's a long shot. But it will be a feather in my cap. Even if he gets second degree manslaughter, it will be a feather in my cap. I like feathers.” He pointed to his beaded belt. “I'm part Indian, you know.”
And I bet you milk it for all it's; worth, I thought as I asked, “Then you think he's guilty, I mean, he killed her?”
He was wearing out his rug again and he stopped as abruptly as if he'd walked into a wall. He sat down on the edge of the desk, swinging his long legs. Naturally he was wearing hand-stitched moccasin loafers. His eyes bored into me as he said, “He killed her; it would be ridiculous to think otherwise. He's confessed it.”
“Prof. Brown doesn't think so.”
Clair slapped his thigh. “That runt, he's the thorn in my case. One thing that worries me, red-baiting. Mr. Connor, what I'm about to tell you mustn't go beyond this room. I mean that I talked to Matt on Saturday for the first time. He started to babble about Francine falling—on land—and hitting her head, that he was aware of the implications of his threatening her, and so he had dragged her out to the boat to make things look more like an accident. I've defended many people involved in homicide, the scream of innocence is a natural lie. Matt was in bad shape, had a minor heart attack in his cell. I hated to be rough on him, but I told him I wouldn't buy that slop, to get another lawyer. My father, God rest his good soul, was not a material success but he was a very learned man. One of the criterions he drilled into me was—never worry about making mistakes, but be certain you never make a stupid mistake. A man would look like a fool if he said Matt Anthony didn't kill his wife. It wouldn't be fair to Matt, the jury would certainly hang him. Our defense is he was nagged to the breaking point, and in an insane fury he hit her, killed her.”
“What's the D.A.'s chances of proving it murder?”
He batted the air with his hand. “Crap. A bluff. The hick is trying to make a name. Don't pay any attention to it. Be different if a weapon were used. There's obviously no premeditation or intent here. His asking for murder 'one' is a routine bargaining point. He'll want me to settle for murder two.' I won't.”
“You mentioned manslaughter in the second degree, what's the sentence for that?”
“Maximum is 15 years and a fine up to $1000. I doubt if Matt would get more than five years, which means he'll be out in two or three. If I can get a change of venue, and I'm asking for that, he might get a suspended sentence or merely a fine. The big factor right now is money. Research is expensive, and I'll have to engage top psychiatrists. We don't have much time. How soon can Matt get a couple of grand?”
“You'll have to take that up with Mr. Long, himself. If we decide to go ahead with publication, I should think you —Matt—might be able to get an advance. Have you talked with Matt's agent?”
“Yes. Trouble with the world, too many faint-hearted people. I told him to fly out to Hollywood, raise some hell, but he's afraid of the notoriety. I told the sonofabitch he'd only get 10% of it.”
His phone rang and he said, “Jackson Clair. Yes, Ollie. Aha. That's what we expected. Of course we have to talk it through. I'll be here to five. Good, I'll expect you.”
As he hung up I got to my feet, said I was glad to have talked to him. We shook hands, and he had the firm grasp I expected. I told him to call tomorrow afternoon, we would have reached a decision about the book by then.
Chambers Street was hot with home-rushing people. I didn't have any place to rush to. I didn't want to think and I didn't want to get drunk. I phoned Frank. He was just leaving the office, said he had time for a short workout, and where the hell had I been?
I took a cab to the gym and by six we had played two fast games. He wanted me to have supper with him and Liz, take in a preview of the pilot film of a new TV show, but I said I had some work to do, begged off.
I had played hard, beaten Frank both games. I was suddenly fed up with all the phony people I'd known the last few days—including myself.
Frank said, “Let's take a shower. I haven't much time and you know Liz if she has to wait a second.”
“Think I'll hang around, see if I can get a few more games in. I'm restless... without Michele.”
“How's her folks?”
“Coming along. However, she may have to stay there longer than we expected.”
“I thought we could talk over the ad campaign for Matt's book, while showering.”
“I haven't finalized that in my mind, yet,” I lied.
Frank gave me an odd look. “Okay, Norm boy. Let's have lunch in a day or so. I'm interested. Liz will be disappointed you're not coming with us, but I know how you feel. A man gets so used to a woman he feels half-alive when she isn't around.”
“That's it, Frank.”
He slapped me on the can. “I knew something was bothering you—you were playing like a hot pepper.” He headed for the showers.
I told the gym attendant to let me know if there was an open game, went over and punched the bag. Bag punching is very conducive to thinking and I saw myself very clearly —a goddam kid. I'd had it made and didn't know it. The Madison Avenue golden boy—Christ, I must have been crazy.
Michele was right... my wonderful Michele, and little me running after Wilma like a lousy dog in heat. It wasn't just the mess I was in now, but that I had been stupid enough to even chance getting into such a mess. And for what—a fast lay that wasn't worth a damn? Norm, the Golden Boy—the boy part was so damn correct! Hustling after Madison Avenue like a character in a cheap book. Michele was so right, what the devil would more money mean—two refrigerators? Big money hadn't done anything for Matt Anthony. Were Frank and Liz as happy as Michele and I... had been? Oh, God, if I can ever get out of this, if only Wilma isn't pregnant, I'll never... what the hell had Clair said, don't make a stupid mistake? I'd pulled the biggest boner of my life.
No matter what happened, I was sick of being a phony. And why should the details of Matt Anthony's cockeyed life concern me? I was sick to death of drunken Wilmas, of moronic detectives, of a joker like Joel, probably fighting latent homosexuality, a ghoulish lawyer.... I was even sick of Longson's—they wouldn't give Matt a dime until his other advances were covered. And me, the errand boy, digging in the dirt. Damn, I'd had such a pleasant even life... Michele and I would have made up. Maybe having a kid would be interesting. I was so careful not to go out on a limb in this damn ad campaign but with my own life I'd rushed out on the longest limb I could find like a real... a real goddamn jerk. A....
The gym attendant tapped me on the shoulder, and said there was an opening in a doubles game. He was staring at me... I was drenched with sweat, must have been punching the light bag for about ten minutes straight.
I played three more games and was drunk with tiredness. I showered and had a few sandwiches. The gym was the upper floor of a hotel and I took a room and was asleep before ten, didn't awake until eleven in the morning. I felt pretty good, although still full of that hunch I was in trouble. I knew one thing: I was going to stop fooling around and make things come to a head, then see what I could do with Michele.
I went upstairs and had a rubdown and a shave, ate like it was winter. I reached the office before one. Miss Park was out but the receptionist told me Long wanted to see me at once. I said to tell him I'd be right up, went to my desk and glanced at my mail as I told myself to play it cool... the one thing I wanted was to stay in the comfortable routine of Longson's.