Love's lovely counterfeit - James M. Cain [47]
"Are you that close to Jansen?"
"No, but if I had to be, you'd be perfectly willing. If it was a choice between my honor and the money, you'd rather have the money, wouldn't you?"
His face darkened and he lit a cigarette. Then he began the restless marching around that seemed to be his main occupation these days. After a few minutes he stopped in front of her, gave her foot an affectionate little kick. "What's the use of having one of these every week, anyhow? You know I don't want you to do anything with Jansen. You know that, because I've told you so—"
"Ben, keep quiet or I'll scream!"
Ben filled both glasses, emptied ashtrays, did as many little things as he could think of, then at length sat down. She had been staring at the ceiling, and now began to talk in a dull, lifeless way. "His wife died today."
"Whose?"
"Jansen's."
"When?"
"Just now. Before I came over here."
"I—haven't seen the papers."
"He asked me to step down to his office, as he had something to tell me. I went down there, and this was it. He was terribly broken up about it. I did what I could to help him. Then—he asked me to marry him. He hadn't intended to, then. He was going to wait till after the funeral. But it was the first time I had kissed him, and he broke down, and said it. And I said I would. And that was what I came over to tell you—"
"Hey, wait, this affects me."
"Oh, don't worry. That was optimism, over there in his office. I'll not marry him. How could I, after what I've done to him? After what you and I have done to him? After all that he'd find out about me, that a hundred people would tell him, if I were ever fool enough to do this to him?"
Apparently there was more, but she couldn't go on. She broke down into low, hopeless sobbing, which went on for some time. Then she jumped up and threw her glass at him.
Chapter 9
Emerging from the bathroom in white shorts, Ben started the immemorial rite of donning a white tie, while Lefty lounged in the bedroom armchair, a fascinated witness. It was not, on the whole, an uninteresting performance, as Ben went through with it. For one thing there was Ben himself, as he stooped over the bed, putting studs into the shirt, checking collar, tie, and socks. Great muscles rippled in his torso, in his arms, in his shoulders, then disappeared. There was that curious accuracy of movement that seemed to mark everything he did: the sure way his fingers managed tiny problems, like buttonholes; the instinctive order that he achieved, so that nothing seemed to get lost. And then there was the absurdly brief investiture itself, the actual putting of the garments on. This show seemed to be all preparation, for once the harness was ready, it went on in a few seconds, even to tying the tie. Lefty missed no single detail, and even admitted he would give anything to be able to wear such an outfit. When he looked at his watch he started. "You going to a show you better shake a foot. It's after nine o'clock already."
"Show? This is a party."
"Oh—must be some shindig."
"June's giving it."
"You still see her?"
"Now and then, mostly then. Her old lady crossed her up on Christmas. 'Stead of having her and her sister home, she decided she and the sister would visit June. So they came, and June had to throw them a party."
"You heard anything about her and Jansen?"
"No, I haven't."
"They say they're thick."
"Who says?"
"It's going around."
"You couldn't prove it by me."
For a moment Lefty had watched Ben narrowly, but if the inquiry meant anything to him, Ben gave no sign. He led the way into the living room, got out Scotch, ice, and soda, and turned on the radio. Dance music came in.
"You know one thing, Lefty? The best thing about the night after Christmas is you don't have to listen to those