Death of a Citizen

CHAPTER 4

Now, in the Darrels' living room, I could hear Mac's voice again: How can we give you a discharge, when we don 't exist? That voice from the past held a mocking note, and the same mockery was in Tina's dark eyes as she allowed herself to be led away, accompanied by the Herrera girl, whom Fran had also taken in tow. I'd forgotten the color of Tina's eyes, not blue, not black. They were the deep violet shade you sometimes see in the evening sky just before the last light dies.

The big man, Loris, gave me a sideways look as he followed the trio of women; it held a warning and a threat. I slipped my hand into my pocket and closed my fingers about the liberated German knife. I grinned at him, to let him know that any time was all right with me. Any time and any place. I might be a peaceful and home-loving citizen these days, a husband and a father. I might be gaining a waistline and losing my hair. I might barely have the strength to punch a typewriter key, but things would have to get a damn sight worse before I trembled at a scowl and a pair of bulging biceps. -

Then I realized, startled, that this was just like the old days. We'd always been kind of a lone-wolf outfit, not noted for brotherhood and companionship and esprit de corps. I remembered Mac, once, saying that he made a point of keeping us dispersed as much as possible, to cut down on the casualties. Break it up, he'd say wearily, break it up, you damn overtrained gladiators, save it for the Nazis. I was falling right back into the old habits, just as if the chip had never left my shoulder. Perhaps it never had.

"What's the matter, darling?" It was Beth's voice, behind me. "You look positively grim. Aren't you having a good time?"

I turned to look at her, and she looked pretty enough to take your breath away. She was what you might describe as a tallish, willowy girl-well, after bearing three children I guess she was entitled to be called a woman, but she looked like a girl. She had light hair and clear blue eyes and a way of smiling at you-at me, anyway-that could make you feel seven feet tall instead of only six feet four. She was wearing the blue silk dress with the little bow on the behind that we'd bought for her in New York on our last trip East. That had been a year ago, but it still made a good-looking outfit, even if she was starting to refer to it as that obsolete old rag-a gambit any husband will recognize.

Even after all this time in the land of blue jeans and squaw dresses, of bare brown legs and thong sandals, my wife still clung to certain Eastern standards of dress, which was all right with me. I like the impractical, fragile, feminine look of a woman in a skirt and stockings and high heels; and I can see no particular reason for a female to appear publicly in pants unless she's going to ride a horse. I'll even go so far as to say that the side-saddle and riding skirt made an attractive combination, and I regret that they passed before my time.

Please don't think this means I'm prudish and consider it sinful for women to reveal themselves in trousers. Quite the contrary. I object on the grounds that it makes my life very dull. We all respond to different stimuli, and the fact is that I don't respond at all to pants, no matter who they may contain or how tight they may be. If Beth had turned out to be a slacks-and pajamas girl we might never have got around to populating a four-bedroom house.

"What's the matter, Matt?" she asked again.

I looked in the direction Tina and her gorilla had taken, and I rubbed my fingers and grimaced wryly. "Oh, those strong-arm guys just get my goat. The louse almost broke my hand. I don't know what he was trying to prove."

"The girl is rather striking. Who is she?"

"A kid named Herrera," I said easily. "She's writing the Great American Novel, or something, and would like a few pointers."

"No," Beth said, "the older one, the slinky one with the black gloves. You looked quite continental, shaking hands with her; I thought you were going to kiss her fingertips. Had you met her somewhere before?"

I glanced up quickly; and I was back again where I didn't want to be, back where I was watching myself every second to see how I was going over in the part I was playing, back where every word I spoke could be my death warrant. I was no longer working my facial muscles automatically; the manual control center had taken over. I signaled for a grin and it came. I thought it was pretty good. I'd always been a fair poker player as a boy, and I'd learned something about acting later, with my life at stake.

I put my arm around Beth casually. "What's the matter, jealous?" I asked. "Can't I even be polite to a good-looking female… No, I never saw Mrs. Loris before, but I sure wish I had."

Lie, Mac had said, look her in the eye and lie. Why should I obey his orders, after all the bloodless years? But the words came smoothly and convincingly, and I squeezed her fondly, and let my hand slide down to give the little bow at her rear an affectionate pat, among all those chattering people. Briefly, I felt the warm tautness of her girdle through the silk of her dress and slip.

"Matt, don't!" she whispered, shocked, stiffening in protest. I saw her throw an embarrassed glance around to see if anyone had noted the impropriety.

She was a funny damn girl. I mean, you'd think that after more than a decade of marriage I could pat my wife on the fanny, among friends, without being made to feel as if I'd committed a serious breach of decency. Well, I'd lived with Beth's inhibitions for a long time, and normally I'd have thought it was just kind of cute and naive of her, and maybe I'd have given her an additional little pinch to tease her and make her blush, and she'd have wound up laughing at her own stuffiness, and everything would have been all right. But tonight I didn't have any concentration to spare for her psychological quirks. My own demanded my entire attention.

"Sorry, Duchess," I said stiffly, withdrawing the offending hand. "Didn't mean to get familiar, ma'am… Well, I'm going over for a refill. Can I get you one?"

She shook her head. "I'm still doing fine with this one." She couldn't help glancing at my glass and saying, "Take it easy, darling. Remember, you've got a long drive tomorrow."

"Maybe you'd better call Alcoholics Anonymous," I said, more irritably than I'd intended. As I turned away, I saw Tina watching us from across the room.

For some reason, I found myself remembering the wet woods at Kronheim, and the German officer whose knife was in my pocket, and the way the blade of my own knife had snapped off short as he flung himself convulsively sideways at the thrust. As he opened his mouth to cry out, Tina, a bedraggled fury in her French tart's getup, had grabbed his Schmeisser and smashed it over his head, silencing him but bending the gun to hell and gone..