Tiger By The Tail

"Some woman! How right you are. Old Hemmingway put me on to this dish. Everything's very discreet; no danger of being seen, and everything taken care of. She's a hostess. You needn't be more than friendly if you don't want to. She takes care of lonely guys like you. You pay her, of course. You can take her out for the evening and leave her at her apartment if you feel like it, or if you don't you can go in. She's a damn convenient and very safe outlet." He took out his billfold, scribbled something on one of his cards and put it on the table. "That's her phone number. Her name's Fay Carson. All you have to do is call her, tell her you want to see her, and she'll give you an appointment. She rates a little high, but she's worth it."

"No, thank you," Ken said sharply.

"Take it and don't be a mug," Parker finished his drink and stood up. "I'd like to do her a good turn. I promised her I'd recommend her to my friends. I always keep a promise."

Ken flicked the card off the table towards the fireplace.

"No, thanks," he said again.

"Keep it by you. Take her out. She's fun. She's just what a lonely guy needs. Take her out tonight to a show. What's the matter with that? She's really something. I wouldn't put you onto a cheap floosie. This girl's got everything."

"I'm sure of that," Ken said curtly. "But I'm not interested."

"Well, it's your funeral. See you tomorrow. Thanks for the drink." Parker nodded to the card lying in the hearth. "Don't leave that about. Lock it up somewhere for future reference."

"You better take it," Ken said, moving towards the hearth. "I don't want it."

"Keep it. You never know. So long now. I'll let myself out." Ken picked up the card, Parker crossed the hall, opened the front door and went off down the path.

Ken glanced at the telephone number written on the card. Riverside 33344. He hesitated for a moment, then tore the card in half and dropped it into his trash basket.

He picked up his coat and went along the passage to the bedroom. He stood in the doorway, looking into the big, airy room. It looked horribly neat and unlived-in and forsaken. He tossed his coat on the bed and began to strip off his clothes. He felt hot and sticky. Through the curtained window he could see the evening sun blazing down on the thick grass of the lawn.

Too early to start pushing a mower yet, he told himself, and went into the bathroom and took a shower.

He felt better when he had put on an open-necked shirt and a pair of old slacks. He wandered into the lounge and stood looking around.

The time was twenty minutes past six: a long time before he went to bed, and already he felt lonely.

He crossed to the table and splashed whisky into his glass, carried the glass to an armchair near the radio and sat down, He turned on the radio, lit a cigarette and stared emptily at the opposite wall.

So Parker had found himself a girl. That surprised Ken. He had always regarded Parker as a man who talked a lot and did nothing.

As some speaker began a lecture on the horrors of the H-bomb, Ken impatiently snapped off the radio. He got up and walked over to the window to stare out at the garden. He had no inclination to cut the lawn or go out and weed the rose bed, which was in need of attention.

He remained looking out of the window for some minutes; his face darkened by a frown. Then he glanced at his wrist-watch, lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug and went across the room to the hall. He opened the front door and walked out on to the porch.

The atmosphere was hot and close.

Probably a storm blowing up, he thought. It's too damned hot to cut the lawn. I'll skip it for tonight. Might be cooler tomorrow.

The moment he had made the decision he felt more relaxed in mind. How quiet and empty the bungalow felt, he thought, returning to the hall. He wandered into the lounge and finished the whisky in his glass, and without thinking, splashed more whisky into the empty glass and carried it into the kitchen.

This was going to be another dull evening, he thought as he opened the refrigerator to see what Carrie, the coloured help, had left him for supper. A glance at the empty shelves told him she had forgotten to prepare anything, and he slammed the door shut. There were cans of food in the pantry, but he didn't feel like eating out of a can.

Shrugging impatiently, he went back to the lounge and put on the television.

The prancing blonde in a frilly little skirt who appeared on the screen held his attention. He sat down and watched her. She reminded him of the slim blonde he had seen on the street that morning. He watched an indifferent programme for half an hour or so and during that time he twice got up to refill his glass. At the end of the programme, and before a new one began, he snapped off the television, got to his feet and began to pace slowly up and down.

Parker's flat-footed cliche kept going through his mind: what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve about.