Two Much!

35

Liz came to the office Wednesday morning. Gloria tried to announce her, but Liz barged on in and said, “Okay, I’m here. Let’s go get married.” Gloria did a discreet double take, and withdrew.

Slowly I looked up. “No,” I said.

This was two days after Betty had seen Art and Bart both at the same time, and I’d spent the intervening hours assessing my situation and coming to some firm conclusions. Such as that I definitely was not going to marry Liz.

Bart had been born on August fifth, twenty-three days ago, during my initial conversation with this bitch, and from then on I’d had practically no time to myself. August was damn near over by now, and I hadn’t even seen it. I’d started a con for the hell of it, and then I’d spent the next three weeks scrambling around like a cat in a full bathtub, going going going every second.

All of which had now come to a screeching halt. After Monday’s mirror routine, Betty and I had spent a pleasant evening together on the town (on her), and a pleasant night together in her apartment (ditto), with the lights firmly off so she wouldn’t recognize any of Art’s bruises on Bart’s body. Then on Tuesday morning I’d kissed her good-bye and gone off to be reunited with my loving brother. And for the first time in weeks, I was faced with an entire day to myself, a day in which I was neither Art with Liz nor Bart with Betty, a day without schemes, phone calls, split-second timing, near misses, or jerry-built explanations.

Tuesday, August twenty-seventh; a date to resound in history. Maybe I could get some Central American republic to name an avenida after it. El Bulevar de la Paz del Agosto 27.

What a day. I basked in my solitude in the inner office, I took Gloria to lunch and paid her share, I returned a call from my sister Doris and was both sympathetic and understanding, I sent off partial payment checks to three of my illustrators, and I wrote another card: “The front of the card, with no illustration, says, ‘Things ain’t been the same since you went away.’ The entire inside, left and right panels, is covered with a drawing of an old house bursting with a huge party: Roman candles over the roof, half-naked girls hanging out windows, a beer truck on the lawn with a hose extending in through a window, etc. etc.”

Etc.

And through it all, that whole long peaceful riverboat of a day, I considered my alternatives. Now was the time to decide once and for all what it was I wanted, and what I didn’t want.

What I didn’t want. I didn’t want anyone to catch on to the twin gimmick. I didn’t want to lose my entree to the Kerner money. I didn’t want to go to jail, or to be hounded by a rich family with a grudge. I also didn’t want friend Volpinex to do any more cute stunts with squash balls, nor with karate moves, nor anything else.

What I did want. Money. Every creature comfort I could think of, and others as they occurred to me. An Alfa Romeo. Unlimited air travel. Stables out back. Another Alfa Romeo. A separate room just for my clothing, and more clothing than would fit in it. Soft women on hard beds. Winters in Palm Springs or Palm Beach or Palma; I’m not picky. Summers in air conditioning. Nights under the stars, under the sheets, under the influence, and under the protection of money. Money. A Jaguar, a Rolls-Royce, and another Alfa Romeo. And money.

All of which seemed clear enough. I should marry a Kerner sister and live happily ever after. One Kerner sister. Marry one Kerner sister, stop the twin game at once, kick sand over my trail, and go whistling off into contentment and joy.

Greed, that’s my big problem. I’d had this worked out once before, even with the details of unloading Folksy Cards and mothballing Art, creating disruptive arguments to explain his disappearance while Bart wallowed in the luxury of his married state, whirl without end, amen. And then Liz had come along, with the siren song of that bloody contract, two grand a month, money and freedom, and I just couldn’t stop myself. I’d signed, I’d signed, and I’d been moving with the speed of a Gilbert and Sullivan chorus line ever since.

So it was time to stop. I’d had two days to tie myself to the mast; sing, damn you, nobody gets me. And when Liz came stalking in, arrogant and sure of herself, to say, “Let’s go get married,” my answer was an immediate and irrevocable, “No.”

“Bullshit,” she said. She dropped into the other chair, crossed her ankles, gave me a jaundiced look, and said, “How much?”

“No much,” I told her. “The deal’s off.”

“We have a contract.”

“Which doesn’t go into effect until the marriage ceremony.”

A frown line formed vertically between her brows. “I don’t have time for crap, Art,” she said. “We made a deal. You can’t hold me up for more money, I won’t give it to you.”

“And I wouldn’t take it,” I said. “I’m through, Liz. I don’t like you and I won’t marry you.”

The frown grew more intense, and then softened a bit. In a different tone she said, “I pushed you too hard, huh?”

“You and Volpinex,” I agreed. “That’s part of it.”

“What’s the rest?”

“You’re using me. This marriage business is just a dodge.”

“You’re just a Dodge yourself,” she said, and grinned at me.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“The tax problem? I told you that right from the beginning, why get upset about it now? Sam isn’t your real uncle, you know.”

“Not the three million,” I said. “The lawsuit.”

A sudden stillness settled on her face and body. Carefully she said “Lawsuit?”

“Between you and your sister. That’s the main thing it’s all about; this tax evasion thing is just secondary.”

“Who told you about the lawsuit?”

“What does it matter? I won’t be used that way.”

She leaped to her feet, and in a very cold way she was blazing. “I want to know who told you about the lawsuit. Was it Ernie?”

“I wish I could say yes,” I told her. “I’d love to see you two at each other’s throat. But if I lied to you he’d wriggle out of it somehow.”

“He’s smarter than you are,” she said. “Who told you? Not Betty.”

“Bart told me.”

“Bart!” She looked around, and I saw her registering the fact that my famous brother wasn’t here. Except in a way: haggard-eyed, he looked at me from the depths of Froelich’s mirror, tucked in a far corner of the room. “How would he know?” Liz demanded. “And where is he, anyway?”

Ignoring the second question, I answered the first: “Betty told him.”

“Don’t be silly. Why would Betty talk to your brother about something like that?”

“Because they’re married,” I said.

That was my first bombshell, and it was wonderful to watch the bicycles and fence parts and human bodies whooommm up into the air when it hit. Liz actually staggered back, hit the chair she’d been sitting in before, and dropped into it again. Bull’s eye.

By God, this time I was going to do it. Spread trouble and strife, cut Art loose from the rest of them, and disappear.

“Why that little—” Liz was whispering, mostly to herself. “That little bitch,” she whispered, and then gradually focused on me again and said, “Are you sure of that?”

“Absolutely. Some couple from Far Hills stood up for them. They were married in New Jersey.”

“How long ago?”

“Last week some time.”

“That bitch,” Liz repeated, and glowered past me at the wall. Bloody thoughts moved behind her eyes, like a jungle at night.

“You people are too much for me,” I said. “Maybe Bart can put up with it, but from now on I’m...” And my voice trailed away, because I’d attracted Liz’s attention again. Her brooding gaze shifted to me, and she said, “We can be in Connecticut in less than two hours. We’ve had our blood tests more than four days, and there’s no waiting period there after you get the license.”

“You’re not listening, Liz,” I said. “The deal’s off. I think you people stink, and I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“You don’t have to have anything to do with me,” she said. She was hard and urgent and brisk. “We’re talking about a strictly business proposition, you don’t ever have to lay eyes on me again after today, but today we’re going to get married.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You want more money, isn’t that it? What’s your price now?”

“No price,” I said. Certain flutterings were taking place in my brain, but I ignored them. “I’m not trying to get a better deal, I’m telling you it’s no deal.”

“But why? It’s strictly business, a marriage in name only, you never have to see me again. Once this legal business is settled, you can get a divorce, an annulment, if you want.”

“No.”

“What, is there some supermarket cashier you’re crazy for? If you want another woman, that’s no—”

“There’s no other woman. I just don’t want the deal.” I leaned forward across the desk, spreading my hands, saying, “Come on, Liz, the woods are full of bachelors. Two thousand dollars a month and options on your bed — with terms like that you could enlist an army.”

“Bums off the street?” Her lip curled, then straightened again as she said, “It won’t do, Art. The man has to be presentable, he has to be possible. Not so much for the tax people, but for the court. You know the kind of life I live; the people I see at home are too rich and too straight arrow for a deal like this, and the people I meet when I go out I couldn’t bring into court with me. I’ve been looking all year, believe me I have, and you’re the first real possibility I’ve come up with.”

“What about Volpinex? He’d marry you in a minute.”

“Not me,” she said. “I wouldn’t go near him, he terrifies me.”

“Terrifies you?”

She’d come in with a canvas shoulder bag, and now she pawed into it and said, “All right, I believe you, you really want to call it off. But I can’t afford that, Art.” She had brought out, I saw, a checkbook and a pen, and now she paused and gave me a look of urgent sincerity. “I pushed you too hard,” she said. “I could tell you that was Ernie’s idea, and it was, but that wouldn’t make any difference. You don’t like me, okay, that’s all right. I promise you won’t have to see me after today unless you want to see me. I’m asking your help in a business matter, and that’s all it is. Strictly.” And she dipped her head to start writing something in her checkbook.

Mice were nibbling the ropes holding me to the mast. “Don’t — don’t write anything there,” I said. “I’m not interested.” (But I wouldn’t have to see her. Bart and Art could have a final falling-out. Art could marry and disappear, and still get his two thousand every month.) (No no no no no. Remember your vow. Don’t let greed get the upper hand.) (Remember the Main Chance.) (But you wanted to get out of this.)

She’d finished writing, Rrrip came a check out of the checkbook, and she leaned forward to float it like an aircraft carrier onto my desk. “That’s extra,” she said. “In addition to everything in the contract, just an extra little wedding present. To make up for the inconvenience.”

Have you ever tried not to look at a check someone has just tossed on your desk? This one had a straight slash at the beginning of the number and then an awful lot of circles. It had a 1, and a 0, and a comma, and another 0, and another 0, and another 0, and a period, and still another 0, and then one final 0, and that was it.

Ten thousand dollars.

The mice ate through the ropes. The nibbled lengths fell to the deck, and oh, the sirens sang so sweetly.

Liz knew she had me. She didn’t wait for me to say anything, she simply put the checkbook and pen away and got to her feet. “It’s ten-thirty,” she said. “I’ll have a car out front for you in an hour.” She started toward the door.

My hand rested gently, palm down, on the check. I could feel those zeroes against my flesh. “Wait,” I said.

She stopped in the doorway and looked back at me, ready for anything. “Yes?”

“Make it an Alfa Romeo,” I said.