“Of course I'm happy for you... Clay, I've been so sick at the thought of your leaving.”
“Get will, you skinny dope, with this money we may go to Australia, see what cooks on your land!”
Her small face came awake—slowly. “Oh God! Clay, this isn't more of your bloody talk, is it? I couldn't take it if...”
“Syd, if I swing the deal fast, I may wire you at your pension here before the week is out! If not, I'll write you in London, care of the American Express.”
Syd looked bewildered. “Clay, you do mean this?”
“Of course. A few hours ago, before the wire, well—I didn't think we could make it because I was stony, couldn't put up my share. Now it's a new deck of cards—with the happy ending due on the next deal.”
She took my hand, kissed it, began to weep gently. “You do love me!” Syd mumbled, almost to herself.
Pulling my hand away, I told her, “Stop it, honey, I hate public scenes. The score is—some rich cat (I had to grin) who's pee'd off at a modern art museum for not placing him on their board of directors, —plans to open his own. He's buying up paintings—secretly—if it gets out the other museums might put the screws on artists not to sell to him. All very complicated. The point is, with all the artists and Americans around Nice, don't talk about the deal, not a word about the... eh... money, my contacting you, our going to Australia. It's such an unexpected break, I wouldn't want anything to spoil it.”
“Not a peep from me, darling,” Syd said, reaching for my hand again. “Time your talent was recognized, the blasted critic bastards!” She sighed. “Darling, how I wish we had time to go to my room!”
“We haven't and everything depends on your playing it cool,” I said, wondering how all this nonsense I was spouting could make any sense to her. “A week or two, at the most, and we'll be set for life...” I saw Parks coming our way. “Remember now, mum's the word.”
I introduced her to Parks and even clean-cut type from the U.S. consulate was on hand. Parks and I went to the boarding gate. I certainly looked a character, my wavy hair needing a haircut, sloppy clothes, holding the silly cat statue as if it was a loving cup I'd won... but I merely grinned at the other passengers: I could afford to look this way now—I was the richest joker in line.
We were traveling first class: waving at Syd as I boarded the front of the jet, I wondered how many of 'them' were also watching me. Once we were seated, I insisted on holding the cat between my feet, which amused Parks. He looked absolutely normal, including his eyes, and while the plane taxied to the end of the runway and the cool babe in the chic hostess uniform gave us a practiced smile—made sure we fastened our safety belts... Parks again went into the routine of thanking me for coming, offered to pay me. In the grand manner of the newly rich, I told him to forget it.
I always sweat out take-offs, and I suddenly had a hunch this was the outside event—the damn jet would crash and so would my last chance of leaving the rut which was strangling me! And how many other people were also sweating out my takeoff?
But we left in a smooth rush, a brief glimpse of the lights on the Promenade before turning out to sea to gain altitude. We unlocked our seat belts and Parks lit a cigarette. The hostess came around with champagne which Parks refused, but I had a drink of the fizz, relaxed—a little. An hour later we had a compact, if lush, supper, including steak and lobster. Parks ate as if he hadn't seen food before, while I forced myself to put it away. Robert talked about his writing, the little literary magazine he'd hoped to start in Italy—probably to publish his own poems—finally talked himself asleep.
Trying to be casual I studied the other passengers, wondering if one of 'them' was tailing me. All the first class cabin people looked exactly that—plump tourists, business types.
I must have dozed off: I awoke suddenly—thighs cramped from hugging the hard head of the cat. Parks was breathing heavily, saliva bubbling at the corners of his thin mouth, which curved downward in pain. The silly face was very pale. We still had three hours flying time.
Standing to stretch my legs, I sat down again quickly—afraid the plane might hit an air pocket, the cat would tumble to the floor and break. Staring at the cat's face sticking up between my knees —the bright eyes seeming to stare back at me—I thought of New York City. Would it be possible—and safe—to give whoever contacted me the wrong cat? He might break open the statue to be sure he had the right one before paying off—in which case my pay would be a bullet. Picking up the cat, I examined it carefully—again—couldn't find any mark or coloring which stamped it as different from the other one in my luggage.
Of course what was worrying the hell out of me in the double-cross line, was the cute thought I might be paid off with a slug in any event. It would be a simple way of saving 'them' fifty big bills, plus making sure I never talked. Or if Stanley Collins was flung out of a hotel window, who would know or care whether it was suicide or not? Still, taking 'their' view, murder was messy and why screw three million bucks for a lousy fifty grand? But I couldn't dismiss the idea—the second cat might well be my guarantee I wouldn't be rooked or...
Robert suddenly bent over as* if about to vomit, beads of sweat on his forehead, eyes glassy, hands pressed to his flat belly. Stupidly, I asked, “What's wrong?”
“A fiery cramp... in my guts!” Parks gasped.
Reaching into his pocket, I took out a box of the ersatz junk. Parks shook his head. “No, man... I'll never be able... get anything... down.”
The stewardess came over to ask if she could help—did we want any airsick pills? I told her we could manage and Parks motioned he wanted to go to the john. We stood, and holding him with one hand, I reached for the cat with the other mitt. Robert snarled, “Goddamn it, man, can't you forget that dumb toy for a lousy moment!”
I could have cracked that the 'toy' contained what he wanted most out of life at the moment. Those passengers still awake were watching us and I realized it would look odd if I made too much of a fuss over the cat.
Leaving the statue against the back of my seat, I walked Parks into the head. For a long time he leaned over the commode, trying to throw up. Opening the door, I glanced down the aisle—saw the tips of the pointed glass ears sticking above my seat. Closing the door, I asked, “Sure you can't swallow these pills?”
Shaking his head, he looked sicker than ever. “Parks, we have to get them inside you fast—suppose I crush a couple in a cup of water and you drink 'em down?”
Making a retching sound, he frantically opened his collar and tie, eyes popping. All that happened was he began sweating more than ever, mouth open like a fish sucking air. Straightening up, he leaned against the wall, glaring at me wildly.
I was feeling sick myself—three million bucks alone on my seat outside. I gave him a slight poke in his belly. Parks doubled up, vomited a horrible mess the color of yellow ochre. I put five of the pills in a paper cup of water and when he stood up again, panting, I told him, “Drink this and keep it down.”
He shook his head.