“My pleasure.”
“What time is it now?”
“Almost ten thirty.”
“Gee, isn’t it too late to get anything to eat?”
“I checked. We serve steak sandwiches in the cocktail lounge from ten until midnight.”
“Hmmm. Will you serve me like about seven of them?”
“Growing girl.”
She stood up. “Growing older, Mr. B. Growing wiser, maybe.” She stood in front of him, close to him, hooked her two index fingers around his belt. Her eyes were almost on a level with his, not more than half an inch lower. She looked into his eyes, one and then the other, her pupils making a little back and forth motion, swift and searching. “Who are we, my darling?” she asked softly. “Tell me who we are. Please.”
“Aldo and Liz. Friends. Lovers.”
“I know. Lovers. Can a person love two people very much, for different reasons, at the same time?”
“It can happen. Can you handle the situation with Lee when he comes back tomorrow morning?”
“Yes. Because I know it’s important to you. We weren’t trying to hurt anybody. Not the first time. We gave and took pleasure. The second time was to keep from hurting somebody else. You were right.”
“I’m glad.”
“I would have thought... if I thought about it at all... you’d be too old for me, way too old. But you’re not at all. You’re so awfully damned good about making love to me it scares me. Both times it was so much it scares me. It makes me love you. Is that what you want?”
“As long as we can handle it, honey. Without hurting anybody.”
“Stay near me. It will sort of help.”
“Will do.”
“I want to sort of trust you, Aldo. You know?”
“I know.”
She tugged, kissed him lightly on the lips, released him and said, “You will be the man sitting at the bar and I will be the girl who comes in and says, ‘Why hello there, Mr. Bellinger! Gee, what a surprise!’ ”
“And how are you this evening, Mrs. Bellinger?” “Confused, sir. Confused all to hell.”
She walked over to the chair and picked up her underthings, and turned slowly and walked toward the bathroom. She passed close to the desk lamp and turned and smiled at him. She was on conscious display for him, her figure smooth and rich and lovely. She disappeared into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind her.
The pattern as expected. The pattern as before. Submissive, dubious, troubled, curious. They always wanted the reassurances. They always had to label it and justify it and ask the question with their pretty eyes, and wonder if it would be the same if it happened again, when it happened again. They had to be provocative to make certain it would happen again. The familiar syndromes of the married mistress, not yet knowing how soon she will feel contempt for the man she has chosen to lie to.
He felt such a wrench of regret when he thought of Anne Faxton that it was like physical pain. He opened the corridor door and paused before shutting it behind him and looked through the living room and bedroom, at the closed door to the bathroom.
Aldo wished with all his heart that he would never have to look at her again, kiss her again, fondle her again, mount her again. But he knew he would, many times. Because she was of trophy caliber, deserving of plaques and awards, and of a secure place high on the list of all the memories.
Double Hannenframmis
He came in alone on the executive jet, Gus and Kelly up front. First time he had ever been the lone passenger. Wyatt Ross all alone, amid the leathery black luxury of the lounge chairs. Strange not to have the members of the strike force along. Geri Housner, incomparable executive secretary. Stanley Silverstaff, knowing ratios and leverage and cash flow. Stannard on legal. Haines on systems analysis, product mix, production potential. Nucleus of the team, other experts added as needed.
Tried to read over the transcript of the last hearing, looking for hidden tricks in the questioning, looking for inconsistencies in his own answers. Slowed his skilled speed-reading down to minimum, down to subvocal level, but comprehension still fractional. Put it back into the dispatch case. Concentration will be impossible until this thing is settled, solved, brushed under a high-cost rug.
Pressure change in the ears. Change in pitch of jet engines and wind whistle. Lazy voice on the intercom, “Coming in, Mr. Ross.”
Tighten the belt and look down at the tilting earth, at the gaudy jumble of the toy hotels of the resort city. Bright blue water in morning sun. Improbable green of the golf courses, and the endless tan and rust and solitude of the desert all around.
At rest on the apron for private aircraft, rotors whining down into silence, heat striking through the metal carapace. Gus came back and undogged the door, cranked the steps down, carried the suitcase and dispatch case out to the wire gate. Wyatt Ross waved a taxi over, told Gus to tell Kelly to count on takeoff at nine tomorrow morning.
Ross went blank at the driver’s question, felt a panic out of all proportion to the seriousness of the small lapse of memory. Felt he could as readily forget the name of the city he was in, wife’s name, names of the two small sons. Took out the black notebook. Hotel Contessa Royale, please.
Rocks and ferns, pools and fountains, upward swoop of driveway to stop in the shade of architectural redwood, and there he was handed over to doorman, bell captain, bellhop, desk clerk.
W. R. Ross. Dallas. “Yes sir, that will be 911. I hope you will enjoy your stay with us. Yes, there is one message. Here you are, sir. Desk! Take Mr. Ross to 911, please.”
Large room, tufted yellow rug, sliding glass opening onto a small sun terrace. Hushed, chilly, asceptically clean. Dressing room. Ice maker. Bidet. Color television. Many mirrors.
He kept seeing himself in the mirrors, seeing movement and turning with a start and seeing Wyatt Ross. Just like the pictures which had appeared over the past six years in Business Week, Forbes, Time, Newsweek. With the adjectives. Vital. Daring. Imaginative. Fast-moving. Aggressive.
And just like the newspaper photographs recently. Wyatt Ross subpoenaed in Senate hearing on stock manipulation. Securities & Exchange Commission launches investigation of misuse of insider information. Justice Department blocks acquisition of Kallen Equipment by Wyro International Services, Inc. Board of Governors of the NYSE suspends trading in Wyro. Attorneys for Kallen Equipment claim that Wyatt Ross, chief executive officer of Wyro, made fortune in dummy margin accounts in three brokerage houses.
He opened the sealed envelope he had been given at the desk. Feminine handwriting. Hotel stationery.
Mr. Ross:
I will expect you at eleven this morning in 938. Do not phone my room, please.
Twenty minutes. He unpacked too quickly. Once again he tried to read the transcript of the last hearing. Just words, without meaning. He prowled, not looking into any of the mirrors. At two minutes before eleven he put the five-inch reel of tape into the side pocket of his suit coat and walked down the corridor to Miss McGann’s room.
She opened the door a few inches and looked out at him, and then pulled it wide to let him in. A tall woman, younger than he had expected. Strong-bodied, big-bosomed blonde with a pretty and impassive face, cool blue eyes, careless hair, brief green skirt with a big brass buckle, yellow sleeveless blouse, yellow sandals.
“Mr. Russo asked me to check and be sure you have a good reason to be here,” she said.
“One of the men on my board lives here. Sam Wattenberg. He isn’t well. He doesn’t travel. He has a large stock interest in Wyro, and he’s very upset. I’m seeing him at his home at five this evening.”