Chapter 10
Art Pitts walked past his secretary with a jaunty step, disappeared into his private office and closed the door. He glanced casually at the mail on the desk, decided it could wait, sat down, and lit a cigarette as he gloated over his triumph of the night before. God but Mike's wife was a luscious creature, and even better in the sack than he had anticipated. It hadn't been hard to get her there, either. A little sympathy and a lot of liquor, and there she was, legs spread wide and naked cunt open to welcome him. Of course, he'd laid his plans well, he admitted to himself admiringly. Planned his lays well, too, he punned, and burst out in a gale of raucous laughter at his own joke. He was a clever guy-he was doing okay. And then he brushed aside thoughts of the previous night to concentrate on the one to come.
Same time, same place, same station, he mused. And the same characters, too. Sally, he was willing to concede, might be a bit more difficult to persuade than she'd been the night before-he couldn't really pull off the sympathetic lawyer bit with her after what had happened. Still, he would find a way. As for the others, it would be a breeze. Listen to Mike Hole the way he'd listened to Sally-play again the role of Kind Ol' Lawyer Pitts helpful and wise-and Mike would snap at the bait. He could count on him to bring that young Danish chick along, too, and he was looking forward to meeting her. He definitely was. Art licked his lips lasciviously, thinking of the fun the four would have at the little surprise party he was planning.
He glanced at the ticking clock on the marble mantle; nine o'clock-and all was well. Just then the buzzer on his desk rang and Miss Leland announced, "Mr. Hole to see you, sir."
So Mike was right on time. Well, Art had expected that. "Show him in," he told Miss Leland. He glanced at the clock again: nine-o-one. and all was even better.
He stood behind his desk as Mike, his face drawn and haggard, his eyes listless, shuffled across the room, took Mike's hand and shook it lethargically. The smirk was gone from Pitts' face, now, replaced by a gentle, understanding smile, a gaze that assured Hole of his deep sympathy. "What is it, Mike?" he asked unctuously. "My God, man, you look like someone's giving you a hard time."
Mike sat down heavily in the chair opposite Art. shaking his head. "They sure are, Art," he said at last. And then, in a voice filled with despair, he added, "I guess it's my own damn fault."
You're damn right it is, Pitts thought. But he merely nodded his head sagely and folded his hands in front of him. "Suppose you tell me about it."
Mike reached for the mahogany cigarette box on the desk-"Mind if I smoke?"-fumbled for matches, lit up at last and inhaled deeply. "It's about me and Sally and Kirst-she's our new au pair girl, he said, blowing a smoke ring into the air.
Art lifted his eyebrows, pretending bewilderment. "Au pair? I didn't know you had one."
"She's new," Mike said miserably. "Her name is Kirst. She's from Denmark."
"Well," Art said brightly, "that must be quite a help for Sally."
Mike shook his head. "Sally hasn't seen her yet." No, he thought, that wasn't true. But he wasn't ready to go into those details yet. "You see, Art," he said, a plea for understanding in his voice, "Sally's sister Mona-Mona Bitt-was in an automobile accident last Thursday, and Sally went up to take care of her. And that was the day-Thursday-when Kirst, she's the au pair, came to stay."
Art nodded his head gravely as if he were just beginning to get the picture. "So you were alone with, uh, Kirst, then?"
Mike swallowed, then said in a very low voice, "That's right."
Pitts thought for a moment, and then shook his finger waggishly at Mike. "And there was a little hanky panky, without Sally there. Is that it?"
"Well, yes," Mike admitted. "There was some ... some hanky panky."
Art gave Mike a reassuring smile. "Well, Mike," he said, "That isn't so bad. I'll bet there would have been with any man-any normal man-" he was careful to add, "under the circumstances." He lit a cigarette himself. "I'm sure everything will be okay, as long as Sally doesn't find out, of course."
Mike shifted his weight in the chair, then cleared his throat. "Sally did find out," he said miserably.
"Good Lord, man! You didn't tell her, did you?"
Mike shook his head. "No."
"Well, then, why do you think she knows?"
"Because she saw us!"
"She saw you"
"I think so, Art. At least the other night, when Kirst and I were ... " his voice trailed off in embarrassment.
"Screwing?" Art asked. An almost imperceptible smile played about his lips for a moment and then, carefully, he masked it. God, he was enjoying this! Seeing Mike Hole squirming in embarrassment, confessing his transgressions like a school kid hauled in before the principal.
"Screwing," Mike admitted. He stared at the floor in confusion.
"So," Art said, his voice cold and accusing now, "Sally saw you. She walked in on the two of you, found Kirst with her pants down and you with your pecker up. It that it?"
"Yes," Mike nodded, swallowing hard. "No. I don't know. Oh, for Christ's sake, Art, I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything anymore.
Art rose, as if to say the interview was over, as if Mike was welcome to leave. "How do you expect me to help, you, Mike, if you're not going to level with me."
"I am leveling with you," Mike said desperately. "Oh, God, Art. I'm doing the best I can."
"Well, then, just tell it to me the way it happened."
Mike took a deep breath, while his eyes swept the room, lingered to stare out the window, then at last, filled with anguish, met Art's. He began his story again, in a low, choked voice. "Well, Kirst arid I were up in the bedroom ... Sally's and mine ... "he paused.
"Fucking," Art prompted.
"Okay. Fucking. And I don't know what happened, except that that's what they were doing ... " he caught Art's scowl, " ... well, fucking. And then," he said, "this morning, when I went down to breakfast, I found Sally's shoes on the stairs. So naturally I guessed she'd been in the house. And, naturally, I guess she saw us ... "
"Fucking?"
"Yes," Mike said impatiently. "Fucking. So I got kind of scared about the whole thing and I put a call through to Mona's house-Mona Bitt's-and there wasn't any answer. Then I called the hospital to see if maybe-just maybe-Sally was there."
"And she wasn't," Art said sorrowfully.
"And she wasn't. The nurse said she'd left last night to drive back here. Said she'd been worried because I didn't answer the telephone when she called."
"Where is Sally now?" Art asked, his voice full of solicitude.
"God only knows!"
"That's bad," Art said. "But it could be worse." He gave Mike a disarming smile before-sadistically-he moved in for the kill. "What," he asked, "if Kirst had been under age?"
Mike sat in the chair opposite Art for a very long time. He heard the interminable ticking of the clock, saw the sun dance across Art's desk, even heard the telephone ring once. He knew that his jaw was hanging slack, his mouth open, that he struggled for words but that none came. After an eternity had passed, he managed to croak, "She is."
It seemed that another eternity passed as Mike sat watching the expressions change-like the lights at a psychedelic show-on Art's face. Later, he was aware that Art-good old Art Pitts, he thought, he's a real friend-was pouring him a drink from the bottle he took from the liquor cabinet that was disguised as a set of law books, was loosening his tie, was patting his shoulder helpfully. Then he saw that Art was shaking his head gravely. "That's bad, Mike," he said. "That's very bad, you know."
"Yes," Mike said wretchedly. "I know."
They watched each other again. Art began to glance openly at his watch, to busy himself with papers on his desk. He excused himself, and went through his mail, opening letters, reading them, making notes on some. God damn, Mike thought. He's trying to get rid of me.
Well, he wasn't going. Not until Art promised to help him out of this mess. How the hell could he go to his own office, sit there all day with a sword like this dangling over his head. How?
Art pulled a pair of horn-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket, clapped them on, got out a law book and began to leaf through it. Once his eyes, peering over the rims of his glasses, met Mike's with a look that said, as plain as day, "Why the hell are you still here? Can't you see I'm busy?" Then he buried himself again in his book.
Mike cleared his throat, and Art looked up. "Yes?" he asked.
"What the hell am I supposed to do, Art?" Art shook his head. "I don't know, Mike. Just hope for the best, I guess. Hope no one learns about the way you fucked this kid; they'll throw the book at you, you know, for screwing a minor." He paused, and deep furrows wrinkled his brow. "You're in real trouble, Mike.
"Christ!" Mike half rose from his chair and pounded his clenched fist on the leather-covered desk. "I know that. That's why I came to see you, for Christ's sake."
Art ignored the outburst of anger and went on, speaking calmly. "And as for Sally-well, I guess there, too, you'd better just hope. Maybe she'll come back-maybe shell forgive and forget-maybe not." He sighed, and plucked his glasses from the bridge of his nose. "I just don't know, Mike. I just don't know."
He put his glasses on again, shuffled the papers on his desk, found a letter to be signed and wrote his name across it, watching Mike out of the corner of his eye the whole time. He had lit another cigarette, taken a couple of puffs snubbed it out, lit another. Scared silly, Art thought gleefully. Well, that was just the way he wanted him.
Mike lit another cigarette, snubbed it out angrily, sighed, then wearily pushed his chair back. "I suppose you want me to go?"
"Well," Art said, his voice contrite, his manner apologetic, "I am rather busy this morning." He put down the sheaf of papers he was holding, got up and walked across the room with Mike. At the door, Mike whirled around to demand again.
"What the hell am I supposed to do?"
"Don't do anything right now, Mike," Art said in an avuncular tone.
"But ... " Mike began.
Art interrupted him. "Let me think about it. Okay?" He clapped Mike on the shoulder.
"Okay."
"Good. And look, Mike, why don't you come over to my place tonight. You and Kirst? We can talk some more."
"God, yes," Mike said, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "We'll both be there."
As the door closed, Art's mouth twitched in a sadistic grin. It had been good before, he told himself; then it had been better. But this was best of .all. In fact, it was damn near perfect. He'd played his cards well, and he got what he wanted.
He walked back to his desk singing "Everything's going my way."
The first time Miss Leland buzzed Art to say "Mrs. Hole is on the line," he told her to say he was out. She would call back, he thought. If she'll call once, she'll call back. And he had been sure she would call, too. They always did. Partly because they were scared, but partly, too, because they wanted more of the same, although, God knows, they'd never admit it. Idly, Art wondered what pretext Sally had thought up for the telephone call.
The second time Miss Leland announced "Mrs.
Hole," Art said, "Tell her I'm in a conference. Tell her to call, me later."
But in a moment Miss Leland buzzed again. "Mrs. Hole wants you to call her, when you're free," she said. "She left her number."
"Okay," Art said. He'd call, all right, but not right away. Let her sweat it out a while. Make her easier to handle, later.
He let more than an hour pass before he dialed the Hadley Arms and asked for Sally's room. He noted, with satisfaction, that she answered the telephone on the first ring. That meant she'd been sitting there waiting for him, which was just what he'd expected.
She began to stammer when she heard his voice-he'd expected that, too-and when Art said, "Sally? Sally! Are you there?" she burst into tears.
"Sally! What's the matter with you?"
"Oh, God!" She sobbed. "I can't talk to you. I just can't."
"Sally, I want to see you."
"NO!"
"When?"
"NEVER!"
"Okay," Art said. "I'll pick you up at seven tonight. We'll have dinner together." And before Sally could protest, he hung up.