Bill Long looked as fresh and calm as ever. He said, “Happy I caught you before lunch, Norm. Know where I was this morning? No, of course you couldn't. I was talking to Matt Anthony.”
“Where?” I asked, almost amused; I'd been out of the office for a week, could have stayed out for another few days, but Long was happy he 'caught me before lunch.'
“They brought him in from Riverside for some hospital treatment. He's suffered a minor heart attack. Matt insisted he wanted to talk to me and to his agent. The man is fantastic. He not only has been writing stories while in his cell but he wants to have one of those silent tape recorders attached to his throat—I'm hazy on the technical terms—all during the actual trial! Idea is to get his reactions to the testimony on paper—and publish it! Matt thinks it can be a sensational seller—the first real inside story of a murder trial.”
“Lord, how commercial can you get?”
“He wanted an advance on the idea. I'm having the legal department check whether it's possible. But I doubt if we can use it—too sensational. However, I told him we'd be glad to consider it when it's finished.”
“How is his heart?”
“Good as can be expected. It was a terrible ordeal for me. Matt would be talking in his usual loud, foul-mouthed manner, then suddenly he'd get hysterical. Unnerves one to see a man that big crying. I mentioned the possibility of reissuing one of his books and it cheered him considerably. Have you reached a decision on that, and the ads?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir. Start the press run soon as you wish. Have you seen the cover of the book we'll print?”
“I don't recall it.”
“The jacket is an eye-catching pink with a girl who looks like a fashion model leaning against an adobe hut. The expression on her face can mean anything—even nothing. Of course we'll have to update the style of her clothes, the cover is about ten years old. She'll be dressed in smart slacks and a shirt... could be a Vogue ad, except she's also wearing a neat hip holster and a gun. I plan to run that as the ad—run it all over the country.”
“Will that be the first advertisement?” he asked, his face puzzled.
“That will be the only ad. Bill, I've been getting a clear picture of Matt Anthony and what happened out at End Harbor these last few days. This murder indictment is so much hot air. Actually her death was an accident, as his confession implies. His lawyer is a sharp character and will either set Matt off scott-free, or with a suspended or light sentence. The point is, it wasn't murder. No matter how we advertise I'm convinced our reputation won't suffer. But I plan to play it doubly safe—the ad will be just a routine advertisement. At the same time, with Kelly's help, we'll plant a few items with the syndicated columnists. One will be about Longson really putting out the book to help Matt raise money... a publisher aiding one of his writers. Another will be—in a behind the scenes vein—a hint there was a long battle in our offices about reissuing the book; we didn't want to capitalize on the headlines, beneath the dignity of Longson and all that. But at the same time we felt a man is innocent until proven guilty, and we also had a duty to stand by our authors, etc., etc. I think we can build up interest without committing the house to a damn thing. The column plants, actually rumors and gossip without any possible backfire, will carry our real message. Almost consider it institutional advertising.”
He fooled with his moustache, stroked it. “Are you certain we can reach the columnists? Seems to me it all hinges on that.”
“I'm certain. I haven't discussed it with Marty Kelly yet, but it won't be any problem. Do you like the whole idea, Bill?”
“I do. But this is still your responsibility, Norm, you understand that?”
I headed for the door. “I understood that from the Jump. I'll start the wheels going, sir.”
Back in my office I blended some tobacco, was tossing out the ads in my mail when Miss Park returned. She said, “Mr. Connor, why didn't you tell me you were coming back? I would have bought an extra jelly doughnut for this afternoon—”
“I'll share yours. Bring your book in, I have some memos to get out.”
“Yes, sir.” She stopped in the doorway. “Mr. Kelly wants you to call him. And... oh, your wife has been calling all morning.”
“From Paris?”
“Paris?” she repeated blankly. “Why, no. She said for you to phone your house—”
I was put of the office before she could finish the sentence.
Michele
It was the most welcome sight of my life to see Michele's clothes strewn around the bedroom, to almost smell her warm odor. But she wasn't home and I sat around impatiently, wondering where she could possibly have gone... and I also had this good feeling that now we were together again, things would work out. I didn't know how, but just having Michele back was a tremendous shot in the arm. And when she walked into our apartment a few minutes later carrying a bag of groceries, the very normalcy of it all delighted me.
She gave me a faint nervous grin as I rushed over to hug her, groceries and all. She looked tired, pale. We kissed like hungry kids and I ran my tongue over the tiny soft hairs of her “moustache.” My hands slid over her green cotton dress and she pushed me away, said, “No, Norm-man. Not for a few days. Sit down, we have to talk.” She finally put the grocery bag down.
“Honey, I've been crazy since you've gone. Darling, no matter what happens, we can never part again. Call the school, your friend will tell you I'm buying the house. It was to be a surprise for you and... oh, Michele, Michele!”
I took her in my arms again. She placed a finger on my lips. “Don't, Norm-man. You sound like a repentant husband, I am the one who has been... wrong.”
“No! It isn't a question of right or wrong, but of our very existence, of our—”
“Norm-man, I've lost our baby.”
“Our... what?” Fear came all over me, clear and so damn strong. Could there be any doubt about it now? Wasn't this the working plot of a stupid novel, the jacket blurb of my future? 'His wife lost his baby but another woman was carrying his child.'
“You're angry, hurt. I felt you stiffen. Oh, Norm, can you ever forgive me?” Her voice was a high moan.
I kissed her, a numb kiss, my head ready to explode. I heard myself saying, “I can forgive you anything but I don't know what you're talking about.” I walked her to the couch, sat down, tried to pull her on my lap. She turned and sat at the end of the couch; seemed to shrink, her face full of misery. “Now tell me in basic English—or basic French— what has happened.” How far away and strange-sounding my voice was.
She stared at me, her face almost blank, hysteria mounting. I moved over, held her tightly as I whispered, “Michele, I'm the one who should be asking forgiveness.”
“No!”
I damn near told her about Wilma then and there. Instead, I stroked her soft hair, said, “All that matters is you are with me again. Do you understand, nothing else matters!”
“I lost our baby.”
“Honey, were you pregnant when we battled....?” I suddenly laughed, an insane chuckle that brought me back to reality. “And we were always so damn careful!”
“I thought I was pregnant,” Michele said, her voice dull and flat. “I wasn't sure. You know how I am often late. I was trying to tell you... when things got out of hand.”
“But that was only a week ago, less. What makes you think...?”
“The moment I landed in Paris I went to a doctor—a French rabbit said I was pregnant. My mother convinced me how wrong I was to be apart from you. It was your child, too. I was lucky to get a cancellation... if one can call it luck. All the rushing and traveling... flying makes me nervous. Yesterday I... I came around. And spending all that money for a few days.”