“Oh, hell, Hank, that's pure bunk. I'm not trying to gild the publishing industry, God knows, but you're putting the cart before the horse. Books go in cycles, fads, and right now the public is demanding the fast-paced story that reflects the tensions of our time. If you see a dirty face in a mirror— don't call the mirror dirty.”
“That's more bunk, Norm. Big business under the slogan it's good for business always gives the public an inferior product. And that goes for publishing, of course. Don't you know they can make a nylon stocking that will wear for years? That they could seal the lubrication of an auto so that one would never need a change of oil? But think what that would do to the stocking industry, or the oil business!”
As I opened the car door, Brown was lecturing on what the auto industry supposedly did to a Mr. Tucker who was ready to build a better car. I wasn't in the mood for a lecture, nor did I believe his line. As we started to drive I managed to change the subject with: “After hearing him testify, do you still think Matt never killed Francine?”
“I don't know, it all has an unreal quality. Yes, listening to him, I still can't believe he struck her. How easy it would have been for him to simply dive over the side of the boat when Francine tried to take the diving lung from him. And these diving things are hardly flimsy, I doubt if she could have damaged it much. It's all Alice in Wonderland. Why Wagner had the first of Matt's books marked exhibit C— meaning that State had only introduced two other exhibits thus far—and they had already stated their case. In most murder trials there's dozens of exhibits.”
“Proving?”
“Nothing, except I have this feeling it's all a play, not a trial. Jackson's strutting, Wagner the villain. Matt with his crazy smile, as if he already knows what the third act will be.”
“Yeah. That grin must be annoying the devil out of the jury. What was that cobra thing?”
Brown shrugged. “Some story idea Matt's had for a long time. He told me something about it. Somehow, I smell a frame-up here.”
“Oh, Hank. How can Wagner possibly be framing Matt?”
“I don't know, but I smell it. Perhaps Matt is framing himself. Maybe he's in love with the picture of Matt Anthony, harassed genius, Jackson gave the court. The genius writing all that dung—the poor dope. All very confusing, makes me uneasy.”
“You didn't come out too badly.”
“I'm going to phone Ruth tonight, after six, to see if I'm still among the employed. And that's part of the shocking lack of reality to the whole thing: actually myself, my job, are such a very minor part of Matt's life... and suddenly it's been blown up out of all proportion. I feel as though I've stepped through the looking glass.”
“It has a never-never-land air, all right. I suppose Monday we'll be bored by Jackson's head hunters stating Matt was nuts while Wagner's lads say Matt passed his tests with colors flying. Think the jury will get the case by Monday afternoon?”
“They've exhausted all possible witnesses except me. This must set a record for speed in a murder case.”
We passed an old looking inn and parked. The restaurant was empty and we took a table with a view of the water. After we ordered, I went to phone Michele, to be sure she was taking the afternoon train. Then I called Miss Park. She had a few things I had to okay, messages from Bill and Marty Kelly. Two large midtown book stores had a big window display of Mart's book and were happily reporting brisk sales.
When I returned to the table the professor had finished his second double rye, which reassured me he was human after all. But the liquor didn't seem to loosen him up any. When I told him about Michele coming out for the weekend and that he could keep the motel, as we wanted to drive around, he took off again, asking, “You said your wife is French. Has she become a U.S. citizen yet?”
“No. We were too late for the war bride deal, but she's taken out her papers.”
“Then I shall certainly move out, not even meet her, although I would like to. Knowing me could cause her deportation.”
“Hank, relax. Don't worry about the motel. We like to bum around, perhaps spend the night some place out at the point and...”
“Norman, if you don't realize the danger, I do. Thank you, but I will find other lodgings. Town shouldn't be crowded for the weekend.”
“Do what you wish, but we still aren't going to use the motel room.”
We had a light lunch and a few more drinks. It was a lovely day, almost like summer. We drove along the waterfront to the canal, looking at the big yachts, watching people fishing from the canal banks for fluke, or maybe they were flounders. At four I drove back to Riverside and couldn't talk the old man out of moving. He found a room in a small tourist house on the edge of town. At five I was waiting at the railroad station. When Michele stepped off the train she was so chic and feminine, so continental and warm, I felt like I was seeing her for the first time. It gave me a tremendous lift to watch her glancing around anxiously, knowing she was looking only for me.
We drove to the motel to wash up, and I asked what the wanted to do first. Michele asked, “But where is this wonderful professor with the broken nose, Norm?”
I tried to explain why Hank didn't want to see her, but certain aspects of our political climate can hardly be explained to an outsider, a new American—or even to most of us old ones.
Michele placed her arms around my neck, rubbing her nose against my ear lobe as she said, “This is childish talk, Norm. Indeed, we shall drive around and sleep where we wish, perhaps out on a wind-swept beach. All the way on the dull train ride I have been thinking of but two things: the biggest lobster in the world... and you.”
“I'm glad you had us in that order.”
She said something in soft French, nibbled at my ear. I think she was saying she wouldn't mind eating me.
My very possessive hands ran over her dress as I said, “Such talk will only delay eating that lobster. Hungry?”
“For both you and the lobster I am very hungry. But almost famished for food. Norm, let us call on the silly, frightened professor, take him out to supper.”
“I don't know, honey. If he wants to be alone, I think we should let him be. After all, he isn't a child,” I said, wondering if there was a chance being with him could hurt Michele. Lord, what if she were deported as a result? It could happen, I suppose. Was there an opening for a slow-French-speaking ad manager in the Paris publishing houses?
Michele kissed me, pulled out of my arms. “Perhaps we should respect his request for privacy. Let us go, be moving... ever since you left me I have felt I am standing still. You must tell me all about Monsieur Matt on the stand today.”
“Okay. But I'm afraid the big monsieur had a rough time,” I said, packing a few things into her overnight bag.
It was still light by the time we reached Montauk but we were too late for the fishing boats. Michele thought the country quite desolate and dreary looking. She also thought Matt's wife must have been an awful woman and that his books were also awful. But she was very much in favor of the lobster dinner we had. We stopped for the night at a rather fancy motel within the sound of the ocean waves. Although we had only been apart one night, we made love with all the passion of honeymooners and when she finally let go of me I stared up at the darkness and smiled—feeling very certain I wasn't a “lousy lay.”
I had done nothing but sit around the courtroom all day and I wasn't tired enough to sleep. I thought again, with the same warm amazement, of the odd crew of characters my life had been tied up with the past months. I'd be glad to be rid of them. Sometimes when watching a TV commercial, I'd have the feeling I was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. I'd think of the thousands of dollars, the talent, and all of it for the sale of a little dime can of cleanser. It was the same way with Matt: his big house, his 'literary' life, even Francine's death, Wagner and Jackson's skills, the whole operation at Longson—all went in to producing a book about a girl kicking a guy in the groin or getting beaten on the breasts. Perhaps I was over-simplifying things, but I ran my hand over Michele's shoulders, as if she were the only real thing in the world. Yet, in a sense, our being together in this motel was dependent—to some degree—upon that kick in the groin. Maybe Michele was right about the lack of dignity in life here. But hell, the same thing was true in France; I understood Mart's books sold very well there in translation. It was all quite confusing... and embarrassing.