2

The alarm awakened me at six-thirty in the morning, and from the kitchen of Millie’s apartment came the smell of bacon frying and coffee perking. I stumbled into the kitchen and informed her that she was mad and that it was still the middle of the night.

“It’s a long ride to Big Sur.” She was dressed and fresh as a new-cut flower, plaid skirt, white sweater top, flat-heeled brown shoes. “You’d better shower and shave. You can use my razor. Do you like a big breakfast?”

“At six o’clock in the morning it’s obscene. Anyway, I am not going to shower and shave. I am going to have this out with you right now.”

“In your underwear, Al? Why don’t you shower and shave and get dressed, and then you’ll have all your wits about you and you’ll be able to convince me intelligently—won’t you?”

I showered and shaved and dressed and then sat down in a bright yellow and white kitchen to one egg, two strips of bacon, one slice of toast and black coffee.

“I usually have two eggs and corn muffins.”

“The simplest way to diet,” she said, “is to go on eating what you have been eating but cut the quantity in half.”

“I don’t want to diet. Does a condemned man diet?”

“You’ll feel better after you have your coffee. We could get to Big Sur early in the afternoon, even if we stop somewhere for lunch and don’t rush. Or perhaps we should make it brunch. There’s a lovely place I know in Montecito, just short of Santa Barbara. It’s very restful.”

“That’s reassuring. Anyway, the club is probably in the Wild Area, a dozen miles short of Monterey, and we’re not going, so it doesn’t make one damn bit of difference. We’ll get to the office early and clear up this whole dismal thing.”

“How?”

“How do we get to the office?”

“No, Al. How do we clear this up? We have been through it, over and over. Either we go to the cops and blow the publicity business and starve, or we try to work it out ourselves.”

“The hell with it! We blow the business. I’m tired of being a lousy flak anyway.”

“You’re not a lousy flak. You’re the best one in Los Angeles. And you made me a partnership offer. You can’t blow your end of the business without blowing mine.”

“You never accepted,” I protested.

“I accept now. OK? I am an ambitious, greedy, liberated woman. I am tired of living in a three-room apartment. I want a swimming pool. Any cookie in this town who goes to bed with a rich man can have a swimming pool. Why can’t I have a swimming pool?”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Like hell I am. Or do you rescind the offer? Are you copping out, or did you sincerely offer me a partnership?”

“I offered it. I’m not copping out.”

“I accepted it. Do you want to shake hands on that?”

“You’re not serious.”

“You’d better believe it.” She reached across the table. “Will you shake hands?”

I shook her hand. It was a strong, firm handshake.

“Then we have a deal?”

“We have a deal.”

“All right. Let’s do the dishes and take off for Big Sur.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You became a partner, you got responsibilities. You can’t just take off like that. There are things to do at the office.”

“What things?”

“Well, you were going to call Warren Beard—about Capestone’s wife.”

“All right. I’ll call Warren Beard. It’s after ten in New York, and he should be in his office.” She dialed New York information, asked for the North American Peace Institute and jotted down the number.

“Hold on,” I said. “It’s a long-distance call.”

“So?”

“We’ll make it at the office.”

“If we go to the office, we’ll stay in the office. You know that, Al. If out of the goodness of your heart you’re worried about my phone bill, well charge it to the firm.”

“I don’t know if I want you for a partner.”

“Too late.” She dialed the number, asked for Warren Beard, informed them that Al Brody was calling from Los Angeles and then handed me the telephone. A moment later I heard Beard’s voice, the perpetually cheery voice of a dedicated and hopeful man.

“Al Brody—by golly, it must be ten years. How are you?”

“Alive.”

“Well, that’s positive at least. I hope you’re calling to tell me that you’ve decided to make us one of your clients, on the cuff, of course. That would get this peace movement off the ground.”

“Warren, any time you say. On the cuff.”

“Great. And don’t think I won’t take you up on that. But that’s not why you called.”

“No. As a matter of fact, I’m calling in reference to Andrew Capestone. You’ve been reading about him in the papers.”

“I have. And isn’t that splendid! He’s a good man—a damn good man, brilliant, incisive, creative. He really took the Institute to his heart—and then the divorce came, and it just about destroyed him. As sordid and miserable a mess as I ever heard of. And then he dropped out of sight. I wrote to him, and the letters came back, no forwarding address. Left the law firm he was with, left his friends—just disappeared. And now I read that he’s undertaken this mission to Rhodesia. It’s so typical of him, so right for him. If there were one white man in the world the blacks could trust, it’s Andrew Capestone. Well, he’s back on the right track. What can I do for Capestone?”

“Just some information for me, Warren. I can’t ask Capestone, so I called you.”

“Anything.”

“You knew his wife?”

“Indeed I did. I am not fond of her, but I knew her.”

“Did she marry again after they were divorced?”

“She certainly did. She’s a woman who gets what she wants. But I imagine you know her.”

“Why should I know her?”

“Well, she married a man called Ronald Bellman—he’s the new senator from your state—and I presume you have enough clout to move in their circle.”

I sat there, holding the telephone, silent, my mouth open, staring at Millie.

“Al—are you there?”

“Yes, Warren.”

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“No—no, that’s it.”

“Well, I won’t ask you to keep in touch, because you can be damn certain I’ll be in touch with you. Peace.”

“Peace,” I replied, and replaced the phone in its cradle and sat and stared at Millie.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know. It’s like walking on tar. Did you ever dream that you were walking on wet tar?”

“Will you please tell me what he said?”

“Yes, yes, of course, Millie. He said that Capestone’s ex-wife is presently married to Senator Bellman.”

“No.” Millie was grinning.

“What in hell are you grinning at?”

“I have an instinct for neatness, Al. Haven’t you noticed how neat and pleasant my apartment is? Haven’t you noticed my closets? I line the shelves and edge them with frill. That’s a certain kind of mind, a place for everything and everything in its place. I do jigsaw puzzles. Do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“A pity. You should. So Capestone’s wife married Senator Bellman. It begins to make a little sense, doesn’t it?”

“No, it does not.”