Black Is the Fashion for Dying Read Online Free Page A

glasses in the living room and the pink splotches on T. J.’s cheeks indicated he and Irene had been holding one of their cozy, implausible chats, and for an instant he wondered darkly, as he had a dozen times before, what there could be between them. By God! If it was what he half thought. That would be something. Cuckolded by a mouse!
    Twitching uneasily, T. J. volunteered, “Irene’s on the phone.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œYou told me to wait for you, Karl.”
    He grunted, fishing for the ice that was never in the silver bucket. “Call Blake.” At least there was Scotch. He upended the bottle over a double old-fashioned glass. “Find out if he’s finished.”
    â€œHe’s working at home.”
    â€œHe’s got a phone, hasn’t he?”
    Irene, entering, brushed by T. J. at the hall door. Her plump face was flushed, too, and she was smiling.
    â€œNo ice,” he said.
    The smile went away. “Papa wants to speak to you.”
    â€œOh, God!”
    â€œHe’s been calling every half-hour.”
    â€œDoesn’t he ever sleep?”
    â€œNow, Karl. You know Papa when he’s got something on his mind.”
    He went to the unlisted phone in the study, knowing exactly what it was. “If it’s Caresse Garnet—” he began.
    Benjy’s guttural East Side voice cut him off. “You give me trouble over her, Karl?”
    â€œI just forgot.”
    â€œThe corporation don’t pay you for forgetting.”
    â€œNo, Benjy. But damn it, I had so much to do today—”
    â€œDon’t lie.” Benjy’s voice fell to a confidential croak. “Can Irene hear you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAre you … involved with this one?”
    For a split second he was tempted to say yes. But Benjy would never let it drop there, if only for Irene’s sake.
    â€œNo,” he said. “I’m not involved.”
    â€œThen, why?”
    â€œI think she’s a valuable property.”
    â€œThat you said last year, and quick two more flops she makes for us.”
    He had no answer to this. After a time Benjy spoke again. “There is something smells not so good here, Karl.”
    â€œAll right. I’ll tie a can to her.”
    â€œShe must be notified before twelve.”
    â€œDamn it, Benjy, I said I’d do it!”
    A tsking sound came from Long Island. “Such a temper my son-in-law’s got,” Benjy said, and hung up.
    By the time he’d found the legal forms in his desk and filled them in, T. J. was with Irene again in the living room. The pair spoke simultaneously when he came in, like children trying to placate an angry governess, saying: “Blake—” and “I’ve got your ice, darling.”
    â€œWhat about Blake?”
    â€œHe says the script’s done.”
    At least that was something. He took the double old-fashioned glass from Irene, drained it. “Have Dawes bring the Fleetwood around.”
    She knew better than to ask questions. Alone with T. J., he mumbled, “Caresse Garnet.”
    â€œHer contract?”
    â€œFinished.” He let his eyes move from the pink-splotched face down the gray flannel suit. “T. J.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œ Button your pants! ”
    Fabro snorted, amused at the memory. The reflex, hands abruptly clapped over privates, had turned T. J. into a comic valentine parody of “September Mom.” And his face when his fumbling fingers found the buttons all in place! Outrage, shame … and guilt? No. Not guilt. Fabro snorted again, gagged on cigar smoke, spat phlegm from his mouth. Even if Irene were willing, T. J. wouldn’t have the nerve. Wouldn’t even have the nerve to bleat his customary maybe. He snorted a third time, saw Dawes staring at him in the mirror.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œMiss Garnet’s house, sir.”
    So it was.

Karl Fabro II
    Point Destiny. Stone