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She says Mother’s malicious, evil.” He ran his fingers through his hair and paced the room. “I don’t know, Alex. Sometimes I think I’d be better off dead.”
    “Everything’ll be all right.”
    “Easy to say.”
    “Don’t let things get you down.”
    He paused before me. I was trying to relax. My muscles ached from being held rigid. It was like waiting patiently for some terrific explosion—waiting until the second of the explosion you know for certain will occur; then, no explosion. But it would come—it had to come.
    Verne’s mouth sagged at the corners. “A bad evening. But you’ll feel better tomorrow. Get Petra to take you for a drive around the lake. It’ll do her good, too. Hell’s fire, have some fun—somehow!” He strode to the mantel, poured himself a drink, drank it. His eyes were glassy, beneath heavy lids. I wanted to ask him what was wrong. Once I would have asked. Now there was something about Verne Lawrence that hadn’t been there when I’d known him five years before. Some added something that prevented you from asking anything personal.
    “Well, you have a beautiful wife,” I said. “And a fine home. You have money socked away, I’ll bet.”
    “Yes.” Nothing more. Just “Yes.”
    “Look, Verne,” I said. “I know something’s bothering you. Everything’s in an uproar. Why don’t I go back to Chicago and you let me know when you get things ironed out?”
    “No. Wouldn’t hear of it. Never see you again. An evening like this is enough to scare anybody away.”
    “I know you don’t feel much like talking about the old days now.”
    He looked straight at me, let his shoulders sag. “Alex, I’m tired. I’m dead rotten dog-head tired. In the morning I’ve got to go into New York and start fires under a bunch of fat behinds. I stand to clear over two hundred thousand dollars if this thing goes through on time.”
    “Why don’t you get some sleep?” I hesitated, and the brandy talked. “Maybe I
could
manage to stay over a couple of extra days. We could get together, drink some beer, go fishing. Might even get in some hunting. O.K.?”
    “Alex, there’s nothing in the world I’d rather do. Maybe we can—maybe we can work out something. If I can just build hot enough fires.”
    “This damn business—it’s really got you down.”
    “It’s got me nuts.”
    I looked at him and I knew it wasn’t business at all. No. Verne was lying. He was afraid of something.
    I heard movements in the doorway and turned. Petra stood there. Her left hand fussed with the waist of her dress. “Well,” she said. “The old girl’s snoring fit to kill.” She looked sharply at her husband. “Why, Verne! Do you know you’re plastered?”
    Then she looked at me and laughed.

Chapter Four
    I SAT there on the edge of my bed with one shoe off. I took off the sock and wriggled my toes. It felt good, so I did the same with the other foot. Then I just sat there, wriggling my toes, contemplating my bare feet.
    It had always been Verne’s creed, I guess. From what I knew of him, anyway. And from what he’d told me of his early life, before the Army. Dig, dig, dig. Well, that much was all right. But he believed in elbowing the other guy out of the way. A little judicious lying got a fellow places. Be fast. Get in there and sock. Sock the other guy out of the way. Everything was business with Verne. There are millions of Vernes, and they don’t honestly mean to hurt anyone, either.
    He’d always kidded me about not wanting to do enough, go far enough ahead. Well, that was all right, too. Some of us don’t. Some of us just want the satisfaction of an accomplished dream, enough money, a good home, and a loving wife.
    Yes, wife. He was cutthroat about that, too. Find her—find the one that’s right and marry her. She’s got to have push and power, too. Yeah. Well, he’d sure made a discovery. Petra.
    I finished undressing, flung all the windows up, and climbed into the shower again.