Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man - Lawrence Block [31]
Fran sent me a letter. Undated. (I wish you people would get in the habit of dating your letters. It only takes a second and simplifies things all around.)
A depressing letter, Steve. I’m enclosing a Xerox copy of it so that you can read it for yourself and see how bad things really are. I wish I had Fran’s letter here so that I could refer to it, but Rozanne took it along to the office with some other documents so that she could Xerox them. I used to do my own Xeroxing, but Rozanne pointed out that I was taking unnecessary risks by so doing. This is simpler, and saves me the trip to and from West 44th Street.
She’ll be back around five-thirty, and by then I should be done with this letter, and I’ll enclose the copy of Fran’s letter and get the works into the mail.
Read Fran’s letter, my oldest, dearest friend.
Read it and weep.
Done weeping? Good. Dry your tears, Steve, and sit back so I can do you a favor.
And I’m not kidding about this, either.
You know, both you and Fran have gone to great lengths to impugn my motives. It sort of tears me up to realize that both of you, two people to whom I have been very damned close, are so willing to believe I’m some kind of an ogre. I can’t understand it. Rozanne loves me, Jennifer loves me, the daughters of Lancaster think I’m the greatest thing since the Pill, but my wife and best friend can’t stand the written word of me.
Well, I think it’ll be pretty obvious that I have no ulterior motive in writing this letter. My motive, and there’s nothing the least bit ulterior about it, is to give you some information that will make it easy for you to restore things between you and Fran to the way they once were. More than that, I think you can actually raise your relationship with Fran to new heights.
What do I get out of this? Well, the satisfaction of having helped you both out. And the comforting knowledge that I haven’t lost my wife and best friend for nothing.
I don’t know if you know anything about Rozanne. Among the things she took to the Xerox machine this morning were a few letters to and from her, including one which I sent a carbon copy of to Lisa. (You remember Lisa.) There’s no description of Rozanne in any of those letters, largely because I didn’t know what she looked like, except for her mammary endowment, which is the first thing anyone would think of noticing about her.
I know you’ve always been partial to large breasts, Steve. That was one thing that surprised me about your running off with Fran, incidentally. Oh, she’s not flat-chested, not by any means, but a man wouldn’t take a look at Fran and automatically ask for a glass of milk. I always thought of her breasts as small but honest. For my own part, I’ve never cared that much either way. I like large breasts on large-breasted girls and small breasts on small-breasted girls. What I like, when all is said and done, is girls.
But one look at Rozanne and a guy like you would begin to salivate. The easiest way to describe it for you, Steve, is like so—picture your ultimate unattainable ideal in tits, improve on it, and you’ve got Rozanne.
(The hell you do. I’ve got Rozanne. You’ve got Fran, buddy.)
Aside from her breasts, Rozanne is just an average beautiful girl. Long black hair, dark complexion, fierce eyebrows, deep, liquid dark-brown eyes, and a strong nose and chin. A slim, supple body that is far too slim and supple for those breasts (but who’s complaining, right?) tapering to a tiny waist and widening to a perfectly round ass. Hips designed for easy childbearing and joyful childconceiving. Good legs. Not great legs, but damned good legs. A nice little Italian girl from the Bronx. A nice little Italian virgin living all by her lonesome in Chelsea and working as secretary to a eunuch who, for some unaccountable reason, never had the gumption to flip her onto her desk and fuck her eyes out.
That’s Rozanne. Now, to further set the stage, read the rest of the Xeroxed letters.