The Con Man

Thirteen

The second floater’s name was Nancy Mortimer.

Her body had been identified by her parents who’d come from Ohio at the request of the police. She was thirty-three years old, a plain girl with simple tastes. She had left home two months ago, heading for the city. She had taken $2,000 in cash with her. She had told her parents she was going to meet a friend. If things went well, she’d told them, she would bring the friend home for them to meet.

Things, apparently, had not gone well.

The girl had been in the River Harb, according to the autopsy report, for at least a month.

And, according to the same report, the girl had died of arsenic poisoning.

There is an old Arab saying.

Actually, it is said by young Arabs, too. It fits many occasions, and so it is probably used with regularity. It is:

Show them the death, and they will accept the fever.

We don’t have to look for hidden meanings in this gem of Arabian wisdom. The Freudian con men would probably impart thanatopsic values to what is undoubtedly an old folk saying. We don’t have to do that. We can simply look at it for what it is and understand it for what it says.

It says:

Feed a man gravel, and he will then appreciate hardtack.

It says:

Bed a man down with an aged old crone, and he will then appreciate a middle-aged mahjong player.

It says:

Show them the death, and they will accept the fever.

Priscilla Ames had seen the death and was ready to accept the fever. In her native town of Phoenix, Priscilla Ames had gone out with many men who had considerably lowered her estimation of the species. She had seen the death, and after a considerably lengthy correspondence with a man whose address she’d got from a pen pal magazine, she was now ready to accept the fever.

To her delighted surprise, the fever turned out to be a delirium.

A blind date, after all, is something about which you exercise a little caution. When you travel away the hell from Phoenix to meet a man — even though you’ve already seen that man’s picture, even though the picture looked good, but hadn’t she sent a somewhat exotic pose, too, hadn’t she cheated a little in the exchange of photos — you don’t expect to meet a knight in shining armor. You approach cautiously.

Especially if you were Priscilla Ames, who had long ago dismissed such knights as figments of the imagination.

But here, by God, was a knight in shining armor.

Here, by all that was holy, was a shining resplendent man among men, a towering blond giant with a wide, white grin and laughing eyes, and a gentle voice, and a body like Apollo!

Here, by the saints, was the answer to every young maiden’s prayer, the devoutly sought answer, the be-all and the end-all!

Here — was a man!

You could have knocked Priscilla over with a Mack truck. She had stepped off the plane, and there he was, coming toward her, grinning, and she had felt her heart quickening and then immediately thought, No, he’s made a mistake; it’s the wrong man, and then she knew it was the right man, the man she’d possibly been waiting for all her life.

That first day had sung, absolutely sung. Being in this magical, wonderful city, and drinking in the sights, and hearing the noise and the clamor, and feeling wonderfully alive again, and feeling above all his presence beside her, the tentative touch of his fingers on her arm, gentle with the promise of force. He had taken her to lunch and then to her hotel, and she had not been out of his sight since. It had been two weeks now, and she still could not adjust to the miracle of him. Ecstatically, she wondered if her life with this man would always be like this, would always be accompanied by a reckless headiness. Good Lord, she was drunk on him!

She stood before the mirror in her hotel bedroom now, waiting for him. She looked prettier, she felt. Her hair looked browner, and her eyes had more sparkle, and her breasts seemed fuller, and her hips seemed more feminine, and all because of him, all because of what he did to her. She wore his love like bright-white armor.

When she heard his knock on the door, she ran to open it. He was wearing a deep-blue trench coat, and the rain had loosened a wisp of his blond hair so that it hung boyishly on his forehead. She went into his arms instantly, her mouth reaching for his.

“Darling, darling,” she said, and he held her close to him, and she could smell tobacco on him and aftershave, and she could smell, too, the close smell of rain-impregnated cloth.

“Pris,” he said, and the word was a caress. No one had ever said her name the way he said it. No one had ever made it an important name, a name that was hers alone. He held her at arm’s length and looked down at her. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “How come I’m so lucky?”

She never knew what to say in answer to his compliments. At first, she suspected he was simply flattering her. But there was sincerity and honesty about this man, and she could read truth in his eyes. Whatever her shortcomings, she felt this man honestly believed she was beautiful, and witty, and vivacious.

“I’ll get an umbrella,” she said.

“We don’t need one,” he answered. “It’s a nice rain, Pris, warm. Do you mind? I like to walk in the rain. I’d like to walk in the rain with you.”

“Whatever you say,” she answered. She looked up at him. I must look like a complete idiot, she thought. He must surely see adoration in my eyes. He must think I’m a stupid child instead of a grown woman. “Where...where are we going tonight?” she asked.

“A wonderful place for dinner,” he said. “We have a lot of talking to do.”

“Talking?”

“Yes,” he said. He saw the frown on her face, and his eyes twinkled. His fingers touched her forehead, smoothing out the frown. “Stop looking so serious,” he chided. “Don’t you know I love you?”

“Do you?” she asked, and there was fear in her eyes for a moment, and then he pulled her to him and said, “Of course, I love you, Pris. Pris, I love you,” and the fear vanished and she buried her head in his shoulder, and there was a small smile of contentment on her mouth.

They walked in the rain.

It was, as he had promised, a warm rain. It touched the city gently. It roved the concrete canyons like a wistful maiden looking for her lost lover. It spoke in whispers, spoke to the buildings and the gutters and the park benches deserted and alone, and it spoke to the new green of the trees and to the growing things pushing to the sky, pushing through the warm, moist earth. It spoke in syllables as old as time, and it spoke to Priscilla and her man, spoke to two lovers who threaded their way across the city arm in arm, cradled in the warmth of the song of the rain.

He shook out his trench coat when they entered the restaurant. There was a pretty redheaded hatcheck girl, and he handed her his coat, and she smiled up at him, somewhat dazed by his good looks. But he turned from her without returning her smile, and he helped Priscilla out of her coat and then slung it over his arm and looked for the headwaiter.

The waiter led the couple to a table in the corner of the restaurant. The floors were decorated with a huge checkerboard tile in black and white. The walls were done in rich Italian mosaic, and clerestory windows threw the mottled light of dusk into the room. A candle burned brightly in the center of the round marble table. From somewhere near the bar, Pris heard the screech of a parrot. She craned her neck, looking past the tiers of huge apothecary jars filled with colored liquids — purples and reds and oranges and yellows and bright, vivid, living greens.

“Would you like to order now, sir?” the headwaiter asked.

“Some drinks first,” he replied. “Rémy Martin for me,” he said. “Pris?”

She was lost in the way he pronounced the drink, giving it the proper French twist. “What?” she asked.

“Something to drink?” he said, smiling.

“A whiskey sour,” she said.

“Yes, miss,” the headwaiter said. “A whiskey sour for the lady, and what was it for the gentleman, please?”

He looked up at the headwaiter, and for a moment, there was unmasked impatience in his eyes. And then, with something akin to cruelty, he viciously said, “Reeeeeemy Martin,” pronouncing the words like a guttersnipe.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” the headwaiter said, and he bowed away from the table.

Priscilla watched her man, fascinated by his boldness and his quickness and his sureness.

“What was it you wanted to discuss?” she asked.

“First, the drinks,” he said smiling. “Do you like this place?”

“Yes, it’s wonderful. It’s so different. There aren’t any places like this in Phoenix.”

“This is the most marvelous city in the world,” he told her. “It’s the only city that’s really alive. And if you’re in love, there’s no place that can come near it. Even Paris. Paris is touted as the spot for lovers, but nothing can beat this city.”

“Have you been to Paris?”

“I was there during the war,” he said. “I was a commando.”

“Wasn’t that terribly dangerous?” she asked, feeling a foolish dread and knowing that the dread was idiotic because the danger was long past.

He shrugged. “Here are the drinks,” he said.

The head waiter brought their drinks and carefully placed them down. “Would you care to see a menu now?” he asked.

“Please.”

He left the menus and tiptoed away.

Priscilla lifted her glass. He lifted his.

“To us,” he said.

“Is that all?”

“That’s everything, Pris,” he said, and again, the sincerity shone in his eyes. “Everything I want. Us.” He drank. “Good.”

She drank with him, staring at him idiotically. “What...what did you want to discuss?”

“The date,” he said simply.

“The... the date?”

“I want to marry you,” he said, reaching across the table suddenly and clasping her hand under his. “Pris, you saw my plea; you answered my plea. Oh, Pris, there were dozens who answered it. Believe me, you have no idea how many lonely wom... lonely people there are in this world. But out of those dozens, and out of all the hundreds and thousands and millions of people who crawl over the face of this earth, we happened to come together. Like a couple of stars colliding in space, Pris, going their separate ways and then wham!” He lifted his hand from the table suddenly and slammed his fist into the open palm. The sudden noise frightened her, but it also thrilled her. He was dynamic and unpredictable, and as one of the television brothers would have said, he certainly did have a flair for the dramatic.

“Like that,” he said, “and there’s a sudden shower of sparks. And, all at once, you’ve been part of my life always; all at once, I can’t bear to be apart from you; all at once, I want you to be mine forever. I’ve got a job, you know that. A good job. I’m not the handsomest man in the world, but—”

“Oh, please,” she said, “please—”

“...but I’m a hard worker, and I’ll care for you always, Pris. This is why you came here to my city, to find me. And we’ve found each other, Pris, and I don’t want to wait any longer. Not another minute.”

“Wh... what do you mean?” she asked.

“I want to hear you say you’ll marry me.”

“You know I will,” she answered, reaching across the table for his hand.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Wh—”

“Tomorrow.”

She looked at him steadily across the table. His eyes were glowing. His mouth looked sweet and tender.

“All right,” she said in a small voice.

“Good.” He grinned. “Dammit,” he said, “I feel like kissing you.” He rose suddenly, walked around the table, and kissed her just as the waiter approached to take their order. The waiter didn’t clear his throat. He simply stood there looking at them, watching them kiss. When they were finished, he said, “Did you... ah... care for anything else?”

They laughed and then gave the waiter their orders.

“I feel wonderful,” she said.

“I feel great,” he told her. “I feel as if I can lick this city with my bare hands. Pris, with you by my side, I can do anything, do you know that? Anything!”

“I...I’m glad you feel that way.”

“Do you know why? Because I’ve got your love, and your love makes me feel strong.”

“I...I feel strong, too,” she said.

“How much do you love me?” he asked.

“Don’t you know how much I love you?”

“How much?” he persisted.

“You’re...you’re the only thing that matters,” she said.

“Pris,” he said, his eyes gleaming now, “I’ve got something like ten thousand dollars in the bank. I’m going to ask for a vacation, by God! I’ll ask for a month, and we’ll go to Bermuda or someplace, how about that? Maybe Europe. What do you say, Pris?”

“I couldn’t let you do that,” she answered.

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t let you spend your money so foolishly.”

“My money?” he asked. A puzzled frown crossed his face. “My money? Pris, darling, once we’re married, everything I’ve got is yours. Everything.”

“Well, still—”

“Don’t you look at it that way? Don’t you feel we own everything together?”

“Certainly. But—”

“Then not another word about it. It’s settled. We’re going to Bermuda.”

“I’d rather...I’d much rather start looking for a place...and... and furnishing it. We could take a short honeymoon, darling, but shouldn’t we—”

“Of course, what an idiot I am! Of course, we’ve got to find a place of our own. My apartment is much too small, especially if we plan on a family later on.” He looked at her as if he’d made a faux pas. “I...I remember your letter...the first one. You don’t like children.”

“Oh, I’d love your children,” she said.

He smiled tremulously. “Well, I...I just wasn’t sure. I...” He cocked his head to one side, as if his emotions were too much for him to bear, as if the pressure of his emotions had forced the movement of his head, the way a tidal wave causes a buoy to bob. “In any case, we’ve still got my ten thousand. That should furnish an apartment, all right.”

“And my money,” she added quietly.

“Your what?”

“The money I brought with me,” she said.

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten completely about it.” He smiled indulgently. “What is it, darling, something like five hundred dollars?”

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “You know very well it’s closer to five thousand dollars,” she said.

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not. I’m serious.” She grinned, enjoying his boyish surprise, feeling as if she had given him an unexpected present.

“You took...You carried so much cash with you?”

“Of course not. Don’t you remember, darling? In one of my letters, I told you I would be closing out my bank account, and you suggested I carry it in traveler’s checks.”

“Yes, but I had no idea...five thousand dollars.”

“It’s really about forty-seven hundred,” she said.

“Still...Honey, you’ve got to put that in the bank right away.”

“Why?”

“So that it can start collecting interest. For God’s sake, why do you need forty-seven hundred dollars in traveler’s checks?”

“You’re right,” she said.

“Tomorrow, early in the morning,” he said, “before the wedding, we’ll open an account for you at my bank.”

“A separate account, do you mean?” she asked.

“Naturally. It’s your money, isn’t it?”

“A little while ago, you said...you said when we were married everything you had was mine.”

“Of course it is. You know that, darling. I meant every word I said.”

“Then aren’t you being a bit unfair?” she asked.

“Unfair? How?” He seemed very troubled. “What have I done, Pris? Have I said something wrong?”

“You said separate account.”

“I don’t understand.”

She leaned across the table, and her eyes held his in a steady gaze. “Tomorrow,” she said, “we’ll be married. I’ll go wherever you want to go and do whatever you want to do. I’ll be yours — forever. And that means completely. No games, no kidding. Forever. I’ve waited a long time for you, darling, and I expect this to be for keeps. Tomorrow morning, we'll go to your bank. I’ll endorse the traveler’s checks and deposit the forty-seven hundred dollars in your account.”

He was already shaking his head.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

“I can’t allow you to do that,” he told her. “I’m sorry, Pris. I want you, not a dowry.”

“But it isn’t a dowry,” she said. “It’s simply a stake in our future together. Don’t you think I have a right to invest in our future?”

“Well—”

“You mustn’t be stubborn about this, darling, really. It’s the least I can bring to you. Besides, I’ll feel as if all those lonely years of working and saving haven’t gone for nothing. They’ll have been worthwhile; they’ll have been building for you...and for me.”

“Well talk about it in the morning,” he said.

“It’s settled, as far as I’m concerned. That’s the first thing we’ll do, before we do anything else.”

He seemed very worried about something.

She squeezed his hand and said, “What is it, darling?”

“I feel like a positive...I don’t know...a...a moneylender or something!” he said vehemently.

“How silly you are,” she said gently.

“To go into a bank with you and stand by while you endorse those checks and then deposit them in my account.” He shook his head. “I’d feel like a...like a gigolo! No, I won’t do it, Pris.”

“Would it embarrass you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll cash them at the hotel, then.”

“I don’t want you to cash them at all,” he said. “But I suppose I’d feel a lot easier if you cashed them there.”

“All right, I’ll have them cashed at the hotel. I’ll have the money in good American currency when you come to call for me. To take me to my wedding.”

He grinned. “I suppose I am being foolish. All right, cash them at the hotel. Then we’ll go to the bank, deposit the money, and away we go. To our wedding.”

“There’s a waiting period in this state, isn’t there?” she asked.

“Yes. We’ll drive out of the state. Look, let’s do it right. I’ll call for you at about ten. You’ll have the checks cashed by then?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll go to the bank and deposit them in my account, if that’s what you want, and then we’ll make a day of it. We’ll have lunch downtown someplace — I know some very nice places — and then we’ll drive out of the state. We’ll just take our honeymoon as it comes, shall we? We’ll stop wherever we feel like stopping.”

“It sounds wonderful,” she said.

“Good. Let’s have another drink to it, shall we?”

He snapped his fingers for the waiter, and while they waited for him to come to their table, she leaned over and whispered the three most expensive words in the English language.

“I love you.”

And he looked at her with tender guile and answered with the three cheapest words in the English language.

“I love you.”

There was, in Teddy Carella, the constant fear that she didn’t do enough for her husband.

Perhaps it was because she lacked the power of speech. She could not whisper the expensive words or the cheap words or any words. She could only show him how much she loved him, could only invent for him a thousand and one ways to show that she was his. She felt, you see, that she would eventually bore him. She felt that he would eventually seek a woman who could tell him the things his ears undoubtedly longed to hear — and she couldn’t have been more wrong. Her face told him all he had to know.

Her devotion to invention, however, made her an excellent wife, a wife full of surprises, a wife who constantly delighted Carella and diverted Carella and made his life a day-by-day birthday party. In all truth, Teddy Carella would have been that kind of a wife even if she could speak. She was simply that kind of a person. Her ancestry was part Irish and part Scotch, but there was something of the Oriental philosophy in her attitude toward her husband. She wanted to please him. If he were pleased, she in turn would be pleased. She didn’t have to read a book to know that love was a many-splendored thing.

And since her attitude was definitely Oriental, it was not surprising that her mind often returned to the jovial Charlie Chen and to the cherished butterfly design that adorned the wall of his shop.

What would Steve’s reactions be if he came to her one night, found her in a flimsy nightgown, and upon lowering one of the delicate straps to kiss her shoulder, discovered there a lacy, black butterfly?

The prospect delighted her imagination.

The more she thought of it, the better the idea seemed. She was sure that Steve would be pleased. And, too, she was sure that Charlie Chen would be pleased. And, without a doubt, she herself would be pleased. There was something terribly risky and ridiculous about having a butterfly tattoo put on your shoulder. The idea was exciting. Even thinking about it, she could hardly contain her excitement.

But would it be very painful? she wondered.

Yes, it probably would be very painful. Although, Chen seemed like a man you could trust. Chen seemed like a man who would not hurt her. And Chen knew how much she loved her husband. That was important somehow. The butterfly would be a gift to Steve, and it should rightfully be tattooed by a man who knew and understood a woman’s love for her man.

Pain be damned, she thought, I shall do it!

NOW!

She glanced at the clock. No, not now. Steve would be home for dinner soon, so not now. She went to the desk calendar and flipped the pages. She had a dental appointment day after tomorrow, but she was free all day tomorrow.

Would it really look attractive in a strapless gown?

Yes, if Chen did it delicately, a small black butterfly poised for flight.

She made her mental assignation. Tomorrow, after lunch, she would visit Charlie Chen.

And then, a live, dark butterfly poised for flight, she busied herself around the apartment, waiting for Steve, her secret humming inside her.