Not My Thing

1

A tall, handsome man, in his late thirties, with dark curly hair, paused in the doorway leading to the élite gambling room of the Paradise City’s casino. Immaculately dressed in an off-white suit, a dark-blue shirt and a blood-red tie, he surveyed the scene.

The time was 22.30. This room, containing only three roulette tables, was reserved for the high rollers. The lowest stake came at $500, and the tourists and the little gamblers kept well away. The ornate room was crowded for Paradise City, Florida, was the billionaires’ playground.

Known in the underworld as Julian ‘Lucky’ Lucan, the tall man nodded his approval. Somewhere in this crowded room there would be a woman who would satisfy his greed for money.

Lucan’s speciality was middle-aged women or elderly widows who had more money than sense. He led a life of luxury. If he had to bed with some fat old woman, he bedded her, giving her a late-life thrill, but he always saw the price was right, and it always came high.

He had been in Paradise City for the past three days. No matter how much money he received for his services, he was continually short. This didn’t worry him. Lucan lived well and played the horses. Money was made to be spent. So far, he had been successful in finding a generous old woman, but these past three days hadn’t produced anyone rich enough to be worthy of his charm. Lucan was an optimist. It was a matter of patience and circulating, but he was aware that his capital was dwindling. Why had he put $5000 on a nag that had come in last?

His bright blue eyes scanned the women seated at the tables. Maybe that fat one with the blue rinse and smothered with diamonds might be interesting. Or there was that skinny old woman who must have had at least five face-lifts, wearing interesting rubies and emeralds. Both these women looked bored and lonely as they pushed $1000 plaques onto the table. The time to pounce was when they won, and then they would be in a receptive mood. He moved further into the room, took out a gold cigarette-case, given him by a French countess, selected a cigarette and lit it with a gold, diamond-encrusted lighter, given him by an aging Roumanian millionairess.

‘Mr Lucan, I think?’

Lucan stiffened. A man’s voice: curt and hard. He turned swiftly to find himself confronted by a powerfully built man of his own height, around fifty years of age, with black, close-cut hair, streaked with grey, blunt features and cold grey eyes.

Because of his profession, Lucan had made a study of men and women, and he immediately recognized that this man came into the category of ‘Big People’. Apart from the cold, ruthless face, the man’s dark suit must have cost heavy money. To his irritation, Lucan had to admit that this man’s clothes, his finely woven white shirt and sombre hand-painted tie made him feel slightly shabby.

He put on his arrogant expression, trying to match this man’s penetrating stare, but was forced to shift his gaze.

‘I’m Lucan,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘Mr Lucan, I may have a lucrative proposition for your consideration,’ the man said. His voice low and harsh. ‘Will you have a drink with me?’

A lucrative proposition.

Lucan became alert. He could smell money oozing out of this man, but he remained cautious.

‘That’s interesting.’ He switched on his charming smile that had seduced so many elderly women, but it seemed to bounce off this man. ‘And you? Who are you?’

‘Shall we go to the bar, Mr Lucan? We can talk quietly,’ and, turning, the man led the way from the roulette room, down a short passage to the almost deserted bar room.

Lucan followed him like a well trained dog.

A lucrative proposition.

Well, at least, he could listen. This man, he was sure, wasn’t a time-waster.

The man selected a table in a dimly lit corner, away from the few drinkers who were consoling themselves for their losses. As Lucan sat down, the barman arrived.

‘You drink… what?’

‘A Scotch, thank you.’

‘Two Scotches, Charles. Doubles.’

The man stared across the room, saying nothing. Lucan moved uneasily. He crushed out his cigarette.

‘You didn’t tell me your name.’

The man ignored him as he continued to stare into space. Glancing at him, Lucan felt his unease increase. Jesus! he thought, he’s a real toughie. He had a face that could have been carved out of granite. Lucan shifted in his chair, and was relieved when the barman came with the drinks.

As soon as the barman had gone, the man turned and stared at Lucan. His steel-grey eyes probing and unpleasantly searching.

‘I know all about you, Lucan,’ the man said in his low hard voice. ‘You are a successful vulture who preys on stupid, rich old women. You have no scruples. You will do anything if the money is big enough.’

Lucan stiffened, flushing.

‘I don’t know who the hell you are,’ he blustered, ‘but I’m not accepting insults from anyone!’

‘Don’t give me that crap!’ the man snapped. ‘I need a man like you, and the pay-off is big. I’m talking of two hundred thousand dollars.’

Lucan sucked in his breath. For two hundred thousand dollars he was prepared to accept any insult. He relaxed back in his chair.

‘That sounds interesting,’ he said.

The man regarded him, his steel-grey eyes showing contempt.

‘I want to hire you to get rid of my wife.’

Lucan became completely relaxed. In the past, he had fixed more than a dozen divorces, and the pay-off had been peanuts in comparison to this man’s proposal.

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘You want a divorce… I’ll fix it.’

‘Pay attention!’ The snap in the man’s voice made Lucan stiffen again. ‘I didn’t say anything about a divorce. I said I wanted to hire you to get rid of my wife.’

Lucan stared at the hard, ruthless face and felt a qualm.

‘I don’t think I understand,’ he said slowly.

‘I want you to arrange that my wife has a lethal accident for which I will pay you two hundred thousand dollars in cash,’ the man said.

A lethal accident!

Was this man a nut? Lucan wondered. He was telling him he wanted his wife murdered!

His voice unsteady, he said, ‘I don’t think I’m with you. I don’t understand what you are saying.’

The man glared at him.

‘I can’t put it plainer. I want you to arrange that my wife has a lethal accident for which I will pay you two hundred thousand dollars.’

Lucan gulped.

‘You – you are proposing that I murder your wife for two hundred thousand dollars?’

This was incredible!

‘It seems at last, Lucan, you understand what I am proposing,’ the man said.

Lucan’s first reaction was to jump to his feet and leave the bar, but the inbred greed in him restrained him.

Two hundred thousand dollars!

Don’t rush this, he told himself. Hear what this man has to say. There’s always time to duck out.

‘Well, I wasn’t expecting this,’ he said, taking out his handkerchief and touching his sweating temple. Then he drank all the Scotch in his glass. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Don’t fart about!’ the man snapped, moving impatiently. ‘This is a proposition. Is it yes or no?’

Lucan’s quick, cunning mind moved into action. This would be murder and he had no intention of having anything to do with that kind of thing. Stupid, rich old women, yes, but murder, no! All the same the pay-off couldn’t be dismissed. Such a sum would clear his gambling debts and allow him to remain in this city of luxury for the season and forget the dreary old women.

‘Yes or no?’ the man repeated.

Lucan hesitated, then said cautiously, ‘I think I might be able to help you.’

For the first time since they had met, the man gave a wry, grim smile.

‘It’s remarkable,’ he said, half aloud, ‘what money can buy.’

Lucan scarcely heard him. His mind now was in top gear. Among his numerous underworld associates, he knew several who wouldn’t hesitate to waste anyone so long as the price was right. He would act as go-between, take his share of the loot and then forget the whole business.

Now, relaxed, he looked at the man who was staring watchfully at him.

‘You must understand that this kind of thing isn’t my scene,’ he said, ‘but I have connections. It can be arranged. Would you give me a couple of days to look around?’

‘And you must understand,’ the man said, menace in his voice, ‘this has to be utterly foolproof. A convincing lethal accident, and no come-back. Yes, have a couple of days. I expect a watertight, foolproof plan. Where are you staying?’

‘At the Star Motel.’

‘Then the day after tomorrow, we will meet there at eleven in the morning. I expect you to have arranged this to my satisfaction.’ The man stood up. ‘Good-night to you,’ and he walked swiftly out of the bar and out of sight.

Lucan gave him three minutes, then, leaving the bar, he went to the entrance of the Casino.

The doorman touched his cap.

‘Can I call your car, sir?’

Lucan extracted a ten-dollar bill from his wallet.

‘No, thanks.’ He folded the bill. ‘Who was that tall gentleman who has just left? I seem to recognize him.’

‘Why, that’s Mr Sherman Jamison,’ the doorman said, eyeing the bill.

‘I thought it must be.’

The bill exchanged hands, then Lucan hurried to the car park, got in his rented Mercedes L 200 and drove onto the boulevard.

In the Casino’s VIP car park, Sherman Jamison sat in his Silver Ghost Rolls Royce, his mind active.

‘I have started the operation,’ he thought. ‘It now remains to see if this man can fix the problem.’

He admitted to himself that he was uneasy about dealing with Lucan: a greedy, slimy gigolo, but he had no alternative. He had no connections with likely killers who could be hired, although he was sure there must be many of them. He had to depend on Lucan who would be reasonably safe as a go-between, and seemed confident he could find the right man. What he had been told by a frustrated, elderly rich woman that ‘That scoundrel will do anything for money’ seemed to be proving correct.

Jamison warned himself that he would have to be very careful when dealing with Lucan. At least, he had a month’s leeway. The plan had to be perfect: no police: a straight forward, unfortunate lethal accident. Nothing crude. In two day’s time, he would know if Lucan could come up with the right plan, then, of course, he would have to be doubly careful.

His mind then switched to his wife, Shannon. They had been married for eight years. On the credit side, she was fair and handsome, an excellent hostess, which was important to his business connections. She organized his two homes with smooth efficiency, handling their staff firmly, but with kindness. She was loving and warm-natured. On the pillow, she was satisfactory, always willing when he wanted her. The debit side, however, weighed heavily against her.

Jamison’s obsessional desire was to have a son. He had married Shannon when he was just over forty years of age. He had inherited the Jamison Computer Corporation from his father and had greatly increased its growth and potentials. He longed to have a son to inherit this great kingdom he and his father had built up. ‘Always keep the company in the family,’ his father had often said. Jamison wanted a son to guide him, teach him, to make him as successful as himself. When Jamison wanted something as badly as this, he made sure, no matter the means, of having it.

During the past six years, Shannon had had three miscarriages. None of these miscarriages were due to her own fault. She had exercised the utmost care, but they happened. As each miscarriage happened, Jamison became more and more hostile. Then last year, it looked as if they had succeeded. In her seventh month of pregnancy, Shannon tripped and fell down a flight of stairs. She was rushed o hospital. The baby was born dead… a son.

Jamison, looking at the tiny dead baby, felt a surge of frustrated, furious disappointment. He could scarcely bear to look at his wife. For two weeks, he kept away from her, travelling to London and Paris on business. Shannon had consulted the best specialists who assured her that this was a freak of nature, and there was no reason why she couldn’t produce a son. In fact, they were certain of it. With their benign smiles, they told her to be patient and to try again. She got them to write to Jamison who was not impressed.

That was the first dangerous black mark against Shannon.

The second black mark, nothing like so serious, but still a black mark, was that Shannon was a strict Roman Catholic. Jamison was an agnostic and, when they married, Jamison accepted the fact that she had been brought up as an RC and had shrugged his shoulders, but when he realized that it would mean that Shannon attended Mass every morning, he grew bored and impatient with her religion, not having her with him at the breakfast-table.

Another thing he discovered about her was that she had considerable musical talent, playing the cello, and she insisted she attend the various musical festivals and NYC’s many concerts. Any kind of music bored Jamison, so Shannon would go on her own to the various concert halls, leaving him to the continual round of cocktail parties and talking to visiting tycoons, taking them to nightclubs. The rift in their marriage rapidly expanded.

Then one evening while Jamison was attending a semi-business cocktail party and Shannon was in some concert hall, absorbed in listening to a Bach trio, he met Tarnia Lawrence.

He was talking to the President of an important bank, rather bored with the elderly man’s waffling, when, looking beyond the President, he saw a tall, dark woman who had just come in. As she stood in the doorway before the host hurried to her side, Jamison regarded her with growing interest.

Jesus! he thought. Some woman!

Immaculately dressed in a simple evening gown that must have cost a lot of money, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and her figure set his blood moving.

The President was saying, ‘The economic climate seems to be growing steadily worse…’

‘Yes.’ There was a snap in Jamison’s voice. ‘Do you know who that woman is?’

Startled, the President turned.

‘Oh, of course. That’s Miss Tarnia Lawrence. She is a client of ours.’

‘Is that right?’ Jamison continued to stare at the woman as the host led her across the room to a group of people. ‘Who is she? What does she do?’

‘Miss Lawrence is one of the most successful dress-designers in the business. She’s doing amazingly well. I keep advising her to go public, but so far, she is hesitating. If she does, Jamison, I would advise you to take up a parcel of shares.’

‘As good as that?’ Jamison said, his eyes on the long, slim back and perfect hair-do.

‘As good as that.’ The President beamed. ‘She owns three successful boutiques and a small factory. Her prices…’ He rolled his eyes. ‘My wife is nearly ruining me.’

‘I would like to meet her,’ Jamison said, feeling his pulse quicken.

‘No problem,’ the President said.

However, there was a problem as the woman was talking to a fat, pink-haired queer and, while the President and Jamison waited, the animated soft-spoken conversation seemed to Jamison to go on forever.

‘Miss Lawrence only comes to these cocktails to do business,’ the President whispered. ‘It would be a bad time to interrupt her. This ghastly man is one of the important design cutters.’

‘I can wait,’ Jamison said, regarding this woman.

He thought she would be no more than thirty of age. He studied her slim figure and her breasts. Again he felt a quickening of his blood. Yes! This was a woman!

The President began waffling again about the coming recession, but Jamison didn’t listen. He waited, wondering when there was a time when he had waited for anyone.

Finally the woman patted the queer’s arm and turned.

‘Miss Lawrence,’ the President said quickly, ‘may I introduce Sherman Jamison?’

The name of Sherman Jamison, one of the richest and most successful tycoons, was well known.

For a moment, an impatient frown clouded Tarnia’s face, then she smiled.

God! Jamison thought, what a beautiful smile! What a woman!

She looked at him.

As they exchanged looks, Jamison knew he had not only fallen in love with her, but, by the way her eyes suddenly lit up, she had fallen in love with him.

On very rare occasions when a man and a woman meet, it happens that they immediately know that they have met true partners. This strange chemistry happened to Tarnia and Jamison.

There was a long pause, as they regarded each other, then Tarnia said quietly, ‘Nice meeting you, Mr Jamison. I’m sorry I have to leave. I have so much to do.’

Jamison shouldered the gaping President aside.

‘I am also leaving,’ he said. ‘Allow me to drive you anywhere.’

That happened a year ago.

Tarnia commuted from Paradise City to NYC twice a week. In spite of his business commitments, Jamison managed to see her and to dine with her at some discreet restaurant. When in Paradise City, they were even more careful.

Jamison had explained to Tarnia that his wife was a strict RC and, although he had discussed the possibility of divorce, his wife had flatly refused. She was prepared to have a legal separation, but she would not go against the rules of her church and give him a divorce.

Tarnia understood the problem. She knew that by staying with Jamison there could only be disaster, but she was hooked by him. He had a magnetic pull that was too much for her.

Jamison yearned for her. He wanted her to be his constant companion. What a marvellous mother she would make for his future son!

Tarnia refused gently, but firmly, to sleep with him, and this Jamison respected. He knew, unless he married her, this exciting, clandestine partnership must come, eventually, to an end.

Often they sat together in her luxurious five-room apartment in Paradise City: the big picture window looking down on the sea, the palms and the beach. They talked frankly to each other about themselves. To Jamison, it was a joy to relax in her company and to talk about himself and about her.

He had asked her why she hadn’t married before now. She was thirty years of age. She told him that marriage and a career didn’t mix in her thinking, and Jamison agreed.

‘I’m doing well,’ she had told him. ‘It has been a hard, tough struggle, but I’ve succeeded. I’ve had an occasional affair when I was young… teenage stuff. Now, most of my work is with the gay boys.’ She smiled her brilliant smile. ‘No temptation, until you came along.’

Then two weeks ago, he had a shock. They had finished an excellent dinner at a sea-food restaurant, when Tarnia said, looking lovely in the moonlight, ‘Sherry dear, we must now face facts. This can’t go on. You can’t get a divorce. Every time I see you, I suffer.’ As he began to protest, she raised her hand. ‘Please, listen. This morning I had a telephone call from Guiseppi, the best couturier in Rome. The fashion trend in Rome has enormously increased. Smart, rich women now shop exclusively in Rome. He wants me to be his chief designer. This is a fabulous opportunity. He is offering me an enormous salary and a rent-free apartment if I will go to Rome. He has given me a month to decide.’

Jamison listened, aware that his heart was fluttering uncomfortably.

‘Sherry dear, I can’t go on like this with you,’ Tarnia went on. ‘It is tearing me to pieces. I can’t even concentrate on my work for I keep thinking of you. So, Sherry, please be understanding. We can’t marry, and I must look to my future. I want us to part now. We will have lovely memories, but we must part.’

Jamison had faced many crises in the past, but this one was so unexpected and terrible, for a long moment, he was unable to say anything. Then his hard, ruthless mind moved into action.

‘Of course, I understand,’ he said, his face expressionless. ‘You have a brilliant career before you. Before we make final decisions, there’s one question I would like to ask.’ He leaned forward, looking directly at her and taking her hand. ‘If I were free to marry you, would you be prepared to give up your career, to be the mother of my children, run my homes, go with me on business trips and still remain happy?’

She looked down at their clasped hands for a long moment, then she looked directly at him and smiled.

‘Yes, Sherry. I would give it all up, and be happy with you, and I would love to have your children.’ She pulled her hand away. ‘There it is. It can’t happen, so please, please forget me as I must forget you.’

Jamison nodded.

‘Give me a month,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling that Shannon is becoming more understanding. I think I could still persuade her. Please give me a month.’

‘Sherry, you know you are trying to live in a pipe-dream,’ Tarnia said gently. ‘Pipe-dreams don’t exist. You will not be able to marry me, and I must look after myself. Let’s call it a day.’

‘Will you give me a month?’ Jamison asked, getting to his feet.

She hesitated, then nodded.

‘Yes, a month from today, I leave for Rome.’

‘Agreed.’ He gently touched her face, then left.

As he got into his Rolls, he knew now he had no alternative. He had to arrange to have Shannon murdered.

Lucky Lucan pulled up outside the offices of the Paradise City Herald. Although it was past 23.30, lights showed. This was the time when the newspaper was put to bed.

On familiar ground, he made his way up to the fifth floor where Sydney Drysdale could be found in a small office at the far end of a long corridor.

Drysdale was the Herald’s gossip columnist. He was a man with his nose and ear to the ground. What he didn’t know about the residents and visitors to the City was not worth knowing about. He had five leg-men feeding him continuous information and his scandal column was eagerly read.

With a brisk rap, Lucan opened the door and entered the office where Drysdale was at his desk, contemplating and using a tooth-pick, satisfied yet another column had been filed, and his thoughts were bent on having dinner, then home.

Many times in the past, Lucan had provided tit-bits of scandal, and the two men had a working arrangement. Drysdale always paid well for any scurrilous information Lucan had to give him.

Drysdale was about sixty years of age, immensely fat, balding, and he reminded Lucan of a big fat slug who had got among the cabbages. Untidily dressed with an open neck shirt, his eyes hidden behind pebble glasses, a dark-veined nose, Drysdale’s appearance belied his importance to the Herald.

‘Hi, Syd,’ Lucan said, closing the door.

With exaggerated care, Drysdale focused on Lucan.

‘Well, for God’s sake! Lucky!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you were in jail.’

Lucan forced a smile. He found Drysdale’s sense of humour irritating.

‘How’s life, Syd?’

‘What have you got for me?’ Drysdale asked. ‘I want to go home.’

Lucan sat down in the visitor’s chair, took out his gold cigarette-case and offered it.

Drysdale was known never to refuse anything. He took a cigarette, looked doubtfully at it and then put it into his desk drawer.

‘I don’t smoke any more,’ he said. ‘That’s a nice case. Who was the old bag who gave it to you?’

‘As if I’d tell you,’ Lucan said with his charming smile. ‘Syd, a favour.’

Drysdale lifted his shaggy eyebrows.

‘No favours,’ he said firmly. ‘If that’s all you want, piss off. I’m hungry.’

‘Would you be interested to learn that a daughter of one of our rich residents is having an abortion this week?’

Drysdale’s fat face brightened. That was the kind of news that fed his column.

‘Tell me more, Lucky,’ he said, settling his bulk back in his desk chair.

‘I said a favour.’

‘Quid pro quo?’

‘You’ve got it.’

‘So what’s the favour?’

‘I want all the dope you have on Sherman Jamison.’

Drysdale, genuinely startled, gaped at him.

‘Sherman Jamison! You must be out of your skull! Now, Lucky, I don’t love you, but you are useful. You start getting snarled up with Jamison, and you are certain to land in the slammer.’

‘Never mind that. I just want a bit of background information. Tell me about him.’

‘Jamison? He’s the big shot of the Jamison Computer Corporation, left him by his father. He’s tough, ruthless and stinking rich. I would never mention his name in my column. He could buy the Herald as you could buy a pack of cigarettes so I leave him strictly alone, as you must. He has a big apartment in New York. A big villa here. He’s on first name terms with the President and all the top shots at the White House. He is very VIP and goddamn dangerous.’

Lucan, who was listening avidly, asked, ‘How rich?’

Drysdale shrugged.

‘Who knows? I would say if you made comparisons, he would make the late Onassis look like peanuts.’

Jesus! Lucan thought, this really is the Big League! This man had come to him and wanted him to murder his wife! A man worth this kind of money!

‘Tell me about his wife, Syd.’

Again Drysdale gaped at him.

‘His wife? For God’s sake, you’re not planning to screw her, are you? I know your racket, but that would be strictly for the birds, and could get you into a basket of trouble.’

‘Tell me about her,’ Lucan said.

Drysdale shrugged.

‘Shannon Jamison? She’s musical. She runs Jamison’s homes, and she is a strict RC. Not much else to tell you. I doubt if she and Jamison get along. No children. Something always goes wrong when she is pregnant. I do know Jamison is thirsting for a son. She goes to concerts on her own. Jamison is tone-deaf or something.’ Again he shrugged. ‘As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t make news. No scandal. No boyfriend.’

‘Jamison? Does he screw around?’

Drysdale pulled at his short veined nose.

‘If he does, it’s under the rug. I’ve had word he sees a lot of Tarnia Lawrence, the dress-designer. Nice piece of tail. In spite of many opportunities, I can’t find anything against her. She’s a worker and does well.’ Drysdale moved his bulk in his chair. ‘That all you want?’

And plenty, Lucan thought. Lots to think about. He released his charming smile.

‘Fine, Syd. Thanks a lot.’ He got to his feet. ‘I won’t keep you from your dinner,’ and he moved to the door.

‘Hey!’ Drysdale barked. ‘Wait a minute. Who’s the chick who’s having an abortion next week?’

Lucan looked innocently at him.

‘One of dozens, I guess,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I wouldn’t know. ‘Bye now,’ and he was gone.

As Lucan drove back to the Star Motel, his mind was busy.

So a man of Jamison’s wealth and stature wanted to be rid of his wife! He was offering two hundred thousand. Lucan snorted. That was chick-feed. He had been seduced by the thought of having such a sum, but he now realized, if Jamison really meant business, it was going to cost him a lot more. Maybe half a million. Lucan hummed contentedly to himself. Now, that was real money! From what he had learned from Drysdale, Jamison couldn’t divorce his wife, and he most probably had found a new girlfriend. A tough guy like Jamison wouldn’t care what he paid so long as he got his way.

Very VIP and goddamn dangerous, Drysdale had said.

Lucan could believe that. He would have to move cautiously. All the same; by putting such a proposition to him, Jamison could be subjected to subtle blackmail.

Back in his comfortable bedroom at the Star Motel, Lucan took a shower, got into pyjamas and into bed. His mind never ceased to work.

Now, he thought, I have to find a killer. That’s the job Jamison is paying me for.

A lethal accident, Jamison had told him. This has to be utterly foolproof. No police, nothing crude, a convincing lethal accident.

He considered the few professional killers he had run into in NYC. Crude, no finesse. Then he thought of Ernie Kling. He hesitated. Kling was more than a professional. If Lucan was to believe rumours, Kling had murdered at least twenty unwanted people. He seemed to have a magic touch or more likely a brilliant brain for organization. He had no police record. He lived well in a three-room apartment in down-town Washington. Lucan admitted to himself he was nervous of dealing with a man like Kling. He had met him several times in nightclubs in NYC. They had had a Casual drink together. He had sensed Kling’s lethal danger. This man was way out of Lucan’s league, but he could be the best to swing this deal with Jamison.

After hesitating for sometime, Lucan got out of bed, found his address book, found Kling’s telephone number, hesitated again, then put the call through.

Shannon Jamison said quietly, ‘The doctor assures me we can have a child. The last four attempts were a freak of nature.’

Jamison stared bleakly across the big, luxuriously furnished room. He was half thinking of Tarnia. He had heard this talk from Shannon until he was sick of it.

‘Sorry, Shannon,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘I want a divorce.’

‘But, Sherman, we have gone over this problem again and again.’ There was despair in the melodious voice. ‘This is not possible. Please don’t bring it up again.’

‘I want a divorce and a son!’ Jamison snarled.

‘There is some other woman?’

‘Of course! I want a divorce!’

‘I am so sorry for you, Sherman. You are nearly fifty. So often men of your age look elsewhere. I have been a good wife and hostess. If you want a separation, I will agree, but it is against my religion to be divorced.’

Jamison turned and glared at her.

‘Fuck your religion! I want a divorce!’

Her face white and drawn, Shannon regarded him.

‘I hope and pray you don’t mean what you are saying,’ she said. ‘There can be no divorce. Live with your woman. If you want a legal separation, tell me, but there can be no divorce.’

Jamison continued to glare at her.

‘You mean that?’

‘Sherman, dear, you know I do. Let’s go to bed. We could be successful. Come on, my darling, let’s try.’

Jamison finished his drink and set down the glass with a vicious clink. His thoughts now were only for Tarnia.

‘Bed with you? Get out of my sight! I’ve had enough of this. I want a divorce!’

There was a long pause, then Shannon walked to the door.

‘When you want me to go, tell me,’ she said quietly. ‘I will pray for you.’

Jamison heard the door close softly, then he heard her walk slowly up the stairs.

So vicious was his mood, so frustrated his mind, that he said half aloud, ‘Right, you stupid, religious bitch, you’ve signed your own death-warrant!’