All done. And the old strike force had dropped away, one at a time. Stanley Silverstaff first, taking the best of the outstanding offers. Then Stannard going back into private practice. Then Haines leaving to go into that think-tank mystique in California at a fifth of what he was worth in industry.
Just as well. That team had been geared to acquisition, to making the careful stalk, the daring pounce. Different ball game now. Chop away at all the costs, direct and overhead. Expand existing markets. Improve the products and services. Needed a different type. Dogged, methodical men. No noisy celebrations in the private jet on the way home from victory. In fact, no company jets at all. Dwindling need. Cut the costs.
No need for the hearty devices that create the kind of team spirit that used to be so useful. Stay remote. It is too difficult to fire your friends. Easy to fire uneasy strangers. Set the goals. Promote the men who can meet them, fire those who can’t. And keep upping the goals.
Heard the stealthy key in the lock. Door opened. Geri Housner came in. Dark blue bikini with white ruffles. Canvas beach bag. Last one left. Incomparably loyal and efficient executive secretary. Incomparably elegant lady, slender and cool and unconsciously provocative. Four years of her executive secretarial services had left him, at times, in such a rage of desire it had taken the last fragment of self-control to keep it all on the polite, affable, impersonal basis which guaranteed her continuing efforts.
She was one of the rare ones, so good at any task he gave her that he knew he would never find another as useful. And he was all too aware of the implacable rules of the game. The day you tumbled a good one into bed was the day you started to lose her. The office marriage was a transient arrangement. It might take a year, or two, or possibly three at the most. Then she would leave or you would crowd her out.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re awake, darling.”
“Just about to come beach-walking, looking for you. Have a good swim?”
“Lovely. Absolutely lovely. Have a nice nap?”
“Not so lovely.”
She patted her dark hair and came toward him with a look of concern. “What do you mean? What’s wrong, Wyatt?”
“A dream. A dumb dream. Woke me up tired.”
“Poor darling.”
He caught her wrist and tugged, sat on the bed and stood her in front of him, between his knees, hands on her slender tanned waist. He grinned up at her, watched with clinical interest the way her mouth softened and sagged open, the way her head seemed to become too heavy for the slender throat. She had been so constrained, so stiff and awkward and shy, for the first week he had begun to think that her look of sensuality held under control had been ironic illusion. And then, all in a rush, she had come on, found it all, relished it all, living on that edge of readiness that needed only his touch to start the flowering.
“I should take my shower,” she said in a small blurred voice.
He pulled her across him, onto the bed, and in the lazy light of the late afternoon, peeled her out of the bikini and slowly, indolently, knowingly made love to her. In one slow, sweet, cantering pace, the time when a ubiquitous commercial song about manly cigarettes would sometimes come into his head, instead there came the Ruth-Mary Lou voice saying, “Maria gets so all gloomy and dramatic when there’s any kind of family trouble, especially financial problems. Especially fye-nance-you-wull. Fye-nance-you-wull. Fye-nance-you-wull.” Timed to thrust and riposte.
Grab at some other nonsense phrase to drive the first one away. Like singing a song to get rid of a song.
“Guilty of hannenframmis,” he said.
“What? What, darling?” she asked, speaking up out of motion and lostness.
“Nothing.”
“Guilty of something.”
“Hush, darling. Come on, now.”
He had sensed that she was close, but his idiot phrase had shifted her concentration. She was working, but not making it back to where she had been. He knew that he could not wait, and did not want to stop, so he rocked to the side and gave her a great ringing stinging slap on her sea-salty, sweat-salty elegant haunch. So she yelped, leaped like a racing mare, clung, and came thundering home.
So later, dazed face frowning down at him, propped up on her elbow. “What was it you said about guilty?”
“Guilty of hannenframmis.”
“What did they used to call that? Double-talk. Yes. Why did you say it then?”
“It came into my mind, I guess.”
“Why would it come into your mind?”
“For God’s sake, Geri! Nobody knows what makes things come into your mind.”
“There’s always a reason, they say.”
“Okay. I don’t know the reason. It was something in the dream I had.”
“You dreamed I was guilty of... whatever that is?”
“I was guilty. I was in court. They gave me three life sentences.”
“Darling, I don’t want you to be troubled. I don’t want you to have bad dreams. I don’t want us to think about anything but us. There’s only three more days.”
“I’m not troubled!”
“You wouldn’t be cross to me if you weren’t.” She got up with quiet dignity and went into the bathroom and closed the door. Soon he heard the shower.
“Fye-nance-you-wull. Fye-nance-you-wull. Fye-nance-you-wull.” Get over it, baby. Marry well. Take good care of the boys.
He sighed and got up and went into the bathroom and made jokes and scrubbed her narrow lovely back, and she was in a good mood and wearing a pretty dress when they went up to the hotel, had rum drinks, watched the sunset, ate steaks, danced.
They walked on the beach and then went back to the cabana. He had brought a newspaper back from the hotel. While she got ready for bed he looked at the stock market reports. Kallen was in the high forties, up a point and a half on the day in high volume. She came over in sheer shorty nightgown, spicy aroma of perfume, dark eyes shining, kissed him meaningfully, told him to come to bed, kind sir. Right away, ma’am.
The lights were bright in the bathroom. He could smell her soap and lotions, and the lingering steamy-sweet odor of her body. He tried to summon desire, but there was none. None at all.
Finished brushing teeth. Examined teeth in mirror. Turned toilet lid down. Sat on it. Had feeling he was looking for something and would not know what it was unless he happened to see it. Or see something that reminded him of what it was he was looking for.
He saw his dark red robe on the hook on the back of the door. The belt was a thick white cotton rope. He got up and pulled the white rope out of the loops. He turned and looked up over the tub at the brace which held the high window open. A very sturdy brace. Well made.
So two nonsense things could be fitted together into double nonsense. “Fye-nance-you-wull hannenframmis.” It did not sound right said aloud, but he discovered he could say it inside his head effectively. Fast or slow. High or low. Loud or soft.
Slip knot. Stand on edge of tub. Wedge knot firmly into narrow end of brace. Give tug. Now keep saying it all inside your head, fellow, because big Ruthie McGann is standing back there somewhere shouting, trying to get through. And she is yelling something about meaning it or not meaning it and not knowing if anything means anything. Crap like that you can do without. So fye-nance-you-wull-hannenframmis the hell out of her. Throw up a cloud of it. Wet the rope. Makes the knot harder. Good thought. Edge of tub. Erection? Why erection when the elegant lady doesn’t do a thing for it tonight? Keep that old double nonsense coming, fellow. Loud and fast and all inside the head. Yank tight. Take step. And keep it loud and fa—