Jackie Brown Read Online Free
Author: Elmore Leonard
else."
"Yeah, but you could do it if you wanted; there ways. What I think is, you tired of the business."
"You're right again," Max said, tired of talking about it.
"But you don't see a way to get out, so you act like nothing bothers you."
Max didn't argue. Nine years together, Winston knew him. It was quiet and then Winston said, "How's Renee doing?" Coming at him from another direction. "She making it yet?"
"You want to know if I'm still paying her bills?"
"Don't tell me what you don't want to."
"Okay, the latest," Max said. He turned from his typewriter. "I walk in, I just got back from seeing the judge about Reggie, she calls."
He paused as Winston sat down and hunched over the desk on his arms, Winston staring at him now, waiting.
"She's at the mall. Something she ordered, three olive pots, arrived COD and she needs eight twenty right away. That's eight hundred and twenty."
"What's a olive pot?"
"How should I know? What she wanted was for me to drop whatever I was doing and bring her a check."
Winston sat there staring at him, his head down in those heavy shoulders. "For these olive pots."
"I said, 'Renee, I'm working. I'm trying to save a young man from doing ten years and I'm waiting for him to call.' I try to explain it to her in a nice way. You know what she said? She said, 'Well, I'm working too.''
Winston seemed to smile. It was hard to tell. He said, "I was out there one time. Renee act like she didn't see me and I'm the only person in there."
"That's what I mean," Max said. "She says she's working-doing what? You never see anybody unless she's got the wine and cheese out. You know what I mean? For a show. Then you have all the freeloaders. You see these guys, they look like they live in cardboard boxes under the freeway, they're eating everything, drinking the wine . . . You know who they are? The artists and their crowd. I've even recognized guys I've written. Renee's playing like she's Peter Pan, has her hair cut real short, and all these assholes are the Lost Boys. The place clears out, she hasn't sold one fucking painting."
"So what you're telling me," Winston said, "you're still supporting her habit."
"She's got a Cuban guy now, David, I mean Da-veed, she says is gonna be discovered and make it big, any day now. The guy's a busboy at Chuck and Harold's."
"See, what I don't understand," Winston said, "you let a woman don't weigh a hundred pounds beat up on you. It's the same as how you treat some of these lowlife assholes we dealing with. They give you all kind of shit and you go along with it. Then I see you pick up a guy that skipped, some mean-drunk motherfucker and you cuff him, no problem, and take him in. You understand what I'm saying? Why don't you tell the woman to pay her own bills or you gonna divorce her? Or go ahead and divorce her anyway. You don't live together. What're you getting out of being married? Nothing. Am I right? 'Less you still going to bed with her."
"When you're separated," Max said, "you don't get to do that. You don't want to."
"Yeah, well, I imagine you do all right with the ladies. But where she getting hers, off the artists? This Cuban busboy, Da-veed? If she is, that's a good reason to divorce her. Catch her going out on you."
"You're getting personal now," Max said.
Winston looked surprised. "Man, we been getting nothing but personal. It's your personal life has you messed up, one problem pressing on another. The way Renee has hold of your balls, you don't have the strength to get the insurance company off your back. All the money you put in her picture store, paying her bills, you could shut down here and live on it till you start up again clean, with a different insurance company. You know I'm right too, so I'm not gonna say another word."
"Good," Max said. He turned to the Power of Attorney form in his typewriter.
"You take her the check she wanted?"
"No, I didn't."
"She call back?"
"Not yet."
"She cry and carry on
"Yeah, but you could do it if you wanted; there ways. What I think is, you tired of the business."
"You're right again," Max said, tired of talking about it.
"But you don't see a way to get out, so you act like nothing bothers you."
Max didn't argue. Nine years together, Winston knew him. It was quiet and then Winston said, "How's Renee doing?" Coming at him from another direction. "She making it yet?"
"You want to know if I'm still paying her bills?"
"Don't tell me what you don't want to."
"Okay, the latest," Max said. He turned from his typewriter. "I walk in, I just got back from seeing the judge about Reggie, she calls."
He paused as Winston sat down and hunched over the desk on his arms, Winston staring at him now, waiting.
"She's at the mall. Something she ordered, three olive pots, arrived COD and she needs eight twenty right away. That's eight hundred and twenty."
"What's a olive pot?"
"How should I know? What she wanted was for me to drop whatever I was doing and bring her a check."
Winston sat there staring at him, his head down in those heavy shoulders. "For these olive pots."
"I said, 'Renee, I'm working. I'm trying to save a young man from doing ten years and I'm waiting for him to call.' I try to explain it to her in a nice way. You know what she said? She said, 'Well, I'm working too.''
Winston seemed to smile. It was hard to tell. He said, "I was out there one time. Renee act like she didn't see me and I'm the only person in there."
"That's what I mean," Max said. "She says she's working-doing what? You never see anybody unless she's got the wine and cheese out. You know what I mean? For a show. Then you have all the freeloaders. You see these guys, they look like they live in cardboard boxes under the freeway, they're eating everything, drinking the wine . . . You know who they are? The artists and their crowd. I've even recognized guys I've written. Renee's playing like she's Peter Pan, has her hair cut real short, and all these assholes are the Lost Boys. The place clears out, she hasn't sold one fucking painting."
"So what you're telling me," Winston said, "you're still supporting her habit."
"She's got a Cuban guy now, David, I mean Da-veed, she says is gonna be discovered and make it big, any day now. The guy's a busboy at Chuck and Harold's."
"See, what I don't understand," Winston said, "you let a woman don't weigh a hundred pounds beat up on you. It's the same as how you treat some of these lowlife assholes we dealing with. They give you all kind of shit and you go along with it. Then I see you pick up a guy that skipped, some mean-drunk motherfucker and you cuff him, no problem, and take him in. You understand what I'm saying? Why don't you tell the woman to pay her own bills or you gonna divorce her? Or go ahead and divorce her anyway. You don't live together. What're you getting out of being married? Nothing. Am I right? 'Less you still going to bed with her."
"When you're separated," Max said, "you don't get to do that. You don't want to."
"Yeah, well, I imagine you do all right with the ladies. But where she getting hers, off the artists? This Cuban busboy, Da-veed? If she is, that's a good reason to divorce her. Catch her going out on you."
"You're getting personal now," Max said.
Winston looked surprised. "Man, we been getting nothing but personal. It's your personal life has you messed up, one problem pressing on another. The way Renee has hold of your balls, you don't have the strength to get the insurance company off your back. All the money you put in her picture store, paying her bills, you could shut down here and live on it till you start up again clean, with a different insurance company. You know I'm right too, so I'm not gonna say another word."
"Good," Max said. He turned to the Power of Attorney form in his typewriter.
"You take her the check she wanted?"
"No, I didn't."
"She call back?"
"Not yet."
"She cry and carry on
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