“Temporary insanity. My staff is doing research on it now. We already have found a quote from Dreiser about writers shouldn't be limited to one woman. We'll find... say, maybe you at Longson's can help me get some top authors to testify? Fellows like Hemingway, Faulkner, Ferber, O'Hara, Williams?”
“I doubt that. You're losing me: testify about what? You mentioned temporary insanity, but how do they...?”
“Listen, Connor,” he said and his voice made sure, you listened, “our contention will be that men like Matt Anthony are creators, the rare creatures of our banal earth. Matt is a genius. Laws and conventions can not apply to men like him, they are above such petty mundane barriers. They have a God-given gift that requires them not merely to exist, like you and I, but to really taste of life. They must be allowed to dig into life, experiment with it, if they are to write. In short, they must be allowed to look upon life freely, ordinary standards can not apply to them. Mrs. Anthony failed to understand that; she nagged him, to a point where he broke, and in a blind rage he killed to save his genius!”
I realized my mouth was open. I shut it. Then asked, “Mr. Clair, you believe that?”
“Yes! Leaf through history, every great artist either fought the shackles of convention or was smothered by them. Van Gogh, London, Shakespeare, Gauguin. Remember, even the commandment 'Thou shall not kill' is but a convention.”
“You'll never get away with that.”
He flashed his strong smile. “If I can get the jury to half-believe it, I'm in. I'm aiming at getting Matt off, and that's a long shot. But it will be a feather in my cap. Even if he gets second degree manslaughter, it will be a feather in my cap. I like feathers.” He pointed to his beaded belt. “I'm part Indian, you know.”
And I bet you milk it for all it's; worth, I thought as I asked, “Then you think he's guilty, I mean, he killed her?”
He was wearing out his rug again and he stopped as abruptly as if he'd walked into a wall. He sat down on the edge of the desk, swinging his long legs. Naturally he was wearing hand-stitched moccasin loafers. His eyes bored into me as he said, “He killed her; it would be ridiculous to think otherwise. He's confessed it.”
“Prof. Brown doesn't think so.”
Clair slapped his thigh. “That runt, he's the thorn in my case. One thing that worries me, red-baiting. Mr. Connor, what I'm about to tell you mustn't go beyond this room. I mean that I talked to Matt on Saturday for the first time. He started to babble about Francine falling—on land—and hitting her head, that he was aware of the implications of his threatening her, and so he had dragged her out to the boat to make things look more like an accident. I've defended many people involved in homicide, the scream of innocence is a natural lie. Matt was in bad shape, had a minor heart attack in his cell. I hated to be rough on him, but I told him I wouldn't buy that slop, to get another lawyer. My father, God rest his good soul, was not a material success but he was a very learned man. One of the criterions he drilled into me was—never worry about making mistakes, but be certain you never make a stupid mistake. A man would look like a fool if he said Matt Anthony didn't kill his wife. It wouldn't be fair to Matt, the jury would certainly hang him. Our defense is he was nagged to the breaking point, and in an insane fury he hit her, killed her.”
“What's the D.A.'s chances of proving it murder?”
He batted the air with his hand. “Crap. A bluff. The hick is trying to make a name. Don't pay any attention to it. Be different if a weapon were used. There's obviously no premeditation or intent here. His asking for murder 'one' is a routine bargaining point. He'll want me to settle for murder two.' I won't.”
“You mentioned manslaughter in the second degree, what's the sentence for that?”
“Maximum is 15 years and a fine up to $1000. I doubt if Matt would get more than five years, which means he'll be out in two or three. If I can get a change of venue, and I'm asking for that, he might get a suspended sentence or merely a fine. The big factor right now is money. Research is expensive, and I'll have to engage top psychiatrists. We don't have much time. How soon can Matt get a couple of grand?”
“You'll have to take that up with Mr. Long, himself. If we decide to go ahead with publication, I should think you —Matt—might be able to get an advance. Have you talked with Matt's agent?”
“Yes. Trouble with the world, too many faint-hearted people. I told him to fly out to Hollywood, raise some hell, but he's afraid of the notoriety. I told the sonofabitch he'd only get 10% of it.”
His phone rang and he said, “Jackson Clair. Yes, Ollie. Aha. That's what we expected. Of course we have to talk it through. I'll be here to five. Good, I'll expect you.”
As he hung up I got to my feet, said I was glad to have talked to him. We shook hands, and he had the firm grasp I expected. I told him to call tomorrow afternoon, we would have reached a decision about the book by then.
Chambers Street was hot with home-rushing people. I didn't have any place to rush to. I didn't want to think and I didn't want to get drunk. I phoned Frank. He was just leaving the office, said he had time for a short workout, and where the hell had I been?
I took a cab to the gym and by six we had played two fast games. He wanted me to have supper with him and Liz, take in a preview of the pilot film of a new TV show, but I said I had some work to do, begged off.
I had played hard, beaten Frank both games. I was suddenly fed up with all the phony people I'd known the last few days—including myself.
Frank said, “Let's take a shower. I haven't much time and you know Liz if she has to wait a second.”
“Think I'll hang around, see if I can get a few more games in. I'm restless... without Michele.”
“How's her folks?”
“Coming along. However, she may have to stay there longer than we expected.”
“I thought we could talk over the ad campaign for Matt's book, while showering.”
“I haven't finalized that in my mind, yet,” I lied.
Frank gave me an odd look. “Okay, Norm boy. Let's have lunch in a day or so. I'm interested. Liz will be disappointed you're not coming with us, but I know how you feel. A man gets so used to a woman he feels half-alive when she isn't around.”
“That's it, Frank.”
He slapped me on the can. “I knew something was bothering you—you were playing like a hot pepper.” He headed for the showers.
I told the gym attendant to let me know if there was an open game, went over and punched the bag. Bag punching is very conducive to thinking and I saw myself very clearly —a goddam kid. I'd had it made and didn't know it. The Madison Avenue golden boy—Christ, I must have been crazy.
Michele was right... my wonderful Michele, and little me running after Wilma like a lousy dog in heat. It wasn't just the mess I was in now, but that I had been stupid enough to even chance getting into such a mess. And for what—a fast lay that wasn't worth a damn? Norm, the Golden Boy—the boy part was so damn correct! Hustling after Madison Avenue like a character in a cheap book. Michele was so right, what the devil would more money mean—two refrigerators? Big money hadn't done anything for Matt Anthony. Were Frank and Liz as happy as Michele and I... had been? Oh, God, if I can ever get out of this, if only Wilma isn't pregnant, I'll never... what the hell had Clair said, don't make a stupid mistake? I'd pulled the biggest boner of my life.
No matter what happened, I was sick of being a phony. And why should the details of Matt Anthony's cockeyed life concern me? I was sick to death of drunken Wilmas, of moronic detectives, of a joker like Joel, probably fighting latent homosexuality, a ghoulish lawyer.... I was even sick of Longson's—they wouldn't give Matt a dime until his other advances were covered. And me, the errand boy, digging in the dirt. Damn, I'd had such a pleasant even life... Michele and I would have made up. Maybe having a kid would be interesting. I was so careful not to go out on a limb in this damn ad campaign but with my own life I'd rushed out on the longest limb I could find like a real... a real goddamn jerk. A....
The gym attendant tapped me on the shoulder, and said there was an opening in a doubles game. He was staring at me... I was drenched with sweat, must have been punching the light bag for about ten minutes straight.
I played three more games and was drunk with tiredness. I showered and had a few sandwiches. The gym was the upper floor of a hotel and I took a room and was asleep before ten, didn't awake until eleven in the morning. I felt pretty good, although still full of that hunch I was in trouble. I knew one thing: I was going to stop fooling around and make things come to a head, then see what I could do with Michele.
I went upstairs and had a rubdown and a shave, ate like it was winter. I reached the office before one. Miss Park was out but the receptionist told me Long wanted to see me at once. I said to tell him I'd be right up, went to my desk and glanced at my mail as I told myself to play it cool... the one thing I wanted was to stay in the comfortable routine of Longson's.
Bill Long looked as fresh and calm as ever. He said, “Happy I caught you before lunch, Norm. Know where I was this morning? No, of course you couldn't. I was talking to Matt Anthony.”
“Where?” I asked, almost amused; I'd been out of the office for a week, could have stayed out for another few days, but Long was happy he 'caught me before lunch.'
“They brought him in from Riverside for some hospital treatment. He's suffered a minor heart attack. Matt insisted he wanted to talk to me and to his agent. The man is fantastic. He not only has been writing stories while in his cell but he wants to have one of those silent tape recorders attached to his throat—I'm hazy on the technical terms—all during the actual trial! Idea is to get his reactions to the testimony on paper—and publish it! Matt thinks it can be a sensational seller—the first real inside story of a murder trial.”
“Lord, how commercial can you get?”
“He wanted an advance on the idea. I'm having the legal department check whether it's possible. But I doubt if we can use it—too sensational. However, I told him we'd be glad to consider it when it's finished.”
“How is his heart?”
“Good as can be expected. It was a terrible ordeal for me. Matt would be talking in his usual loud, foul-mouthed manner, then suddenly he'd get hysterical. Unnerves one to see a man that big crying. I mentioned the possibility of reissuing one of his books and it cheered him considerably. Have you reached a decision on that, and the ads?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir. Start the press run soon as you wish. Have you seen the cover of the book we'll print?”
“I don't recall it.”
“The jacket is an eye-catching pink with a girl who looks like a fashion model leaning against an adobe hut. The expression on her face can mean anything—even nothing. Of course we'll have to update the style of her clothes, the cover is about ten years old. She'll be dressed in smart slacks and a shirt... could be a Vogue ad, except she's also wearing a neat hip holster and a gun. I plan to run that as the ad—run it all over the country.”
“Will that be the first advertisement?” he asked, his face puzzled.
“That will be the only ad. Bill, I've been getting a clear picture of Matt Anthony and what happened out at End Harbor these last few days. This murder indictment is so much hot air. Actually her death was an accident, as his confession implies. His lawyer is a sharp character and will either set Matt off scott-free, or with a suspended or light sentence. The point is, it wasn't murder. No matter how we advertise I'm convinced our reputation won't suffer. But I plan to play it doubly safe—the ad will be just a routine advertisement. At the same time, with Kelly's help, we'll plant a few items with the syndicated columnists. One will be about Longson really putting out the book to help Matt raise money... a publisher aiding one of his writers. Another will be—in a behind the scenes vein—a hint there was a long battle in our offices about reissuing the book; we didn't want to capitalize on the headlines, beneath the dignity of Longson and all that. But at the same time we felt a man is innocent until proven guilty, and we also had a duty to stand by our authors, etc., etc. I think we can build up interest without committing the house to a damn thing. The column plants, actually rumors and gossip without any possible backfire, will carry our real message. Almost consider it institutional advertising.”
He fooled with his moustache, stroked it. “Are you certain we can reach the columnists? Seems to me it all hinges on that.”
“I'm certain. I haven't discussed it with Marty Kelly yet, but it won't be any problem. Do you like the whole idea, Bill?”
“I do. But this is still your responsibility, Norm, you understand that?”
I headed for the door. “I understood that from the Jump. I'll start the wheels going, sir.”
Back in my office I blended some tobacco, was tossing out the ads in my mail when Miss Park returned. She said, “Mr. Connor, why didn't you tell me you were coming back? I would have bought an extra jelly doughnut for this afternoon—”
“I'll share yours. Bring your book in, I have some memos to get out.”
“Yes, sir.” She stopped in the doorway. “Mr. Kelly wants you to call him. And... oh, your wife has been calling all morning.”
“From Paris?”
“Paris?” she repeated blankly. “Why, no. She said for you to phone your house—”
I was put of the office before she could finish the sentence.
Michele
It was the most welcome sight of my life to see Michele's clothes strewn around the bedroom, to almost smell her warm odor. But she wasn't home and I sat around impatiently, wondering where she could possibly have gone... and I also had this good feeling that now we were together again, things would work out. I didn't know how, but just having Michele back was a tremendous shot in the arm. And when she walked into our apartment a few minutes later carrying a bag of groceries, the very normalcy of it all delighted me.
She gave me a faint nervous grin as I rushed over to hug her, groceries and all. She looked tired, pale. We kissed like hungry kids and I ran my tongue over the tiny soft hairs of her “moustache.” My hands slid over her green cotton dress and she pushed me away, said, “No, Norm-man. Not for a few days. Sit down, we have to talk.” She finally put the grocery bag down.
“Honey, I've been crazy since you've gone. Darling, no matter what happens, we can never part again. Call the school, your friend will tell you I'm buying the house. It was to be a surprise for you and... oh, Michele, Michele!”
I took her in my arms again. She placed a finger on my lips. “Don't, Norm-man. You sound like a repentant husband, I am the one who has been... wrong.”
“No! It isn't a question of right or wrong, but of our very existence, of our—”
