Not My Thing

‘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!