The Man Who Loved Women to Death Read Online Free Page B

for, E. The moment when they KNOW. That’s when I love them the most. I guess because they’re so alone and miserable, so desperate to find someone. I AM that someone. They just don’t know it, the poor things. So I have to show them. And I have to move fast, before they give in to their fears. So I did move fast. Grabbed the nearest thing, a table lamp. My only one. Came with the room. I hit Diane on the side of the head with it. Hit her hard. That relaxed her. Then I wrapped the lamp cord around her throat and I did it. I did what I’d been wanting to do to her since I first spotted her on the subway platform that morning. I did it fast and I did it sure.
    I performed an act of kindness. A random act of kindness.
    What is it if not kindness? I had nothing but love in my heart for her. And she returned my love. It was good for her. I know this, I’m telling you this. I answered her prayers, E. I made her happy.
    When it was over I put my mark on her. You know what I’m talking about, E. You always know.
    Damn, it’s so good to be back in town.
    Your pal, T
p.s. If you can get me that fifty I’d be much obliged
    I set the pages aside and drained my martini. I have to tell you, I was stunned. I almost never make it all the way through an unsolicited manuscript. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the talent’s just not there and that’s painfully obvious by page two and there’s no point in reading any further. This one was different. There was talent here. There was the germ of a major confessional novel. This guy had taken Lardner’s boastful bush-leaguer, Jack Keefe, and made him over into someone entirely new and predatory and of our time—someone living on the edge, someone with an edge, someone lean and mean and deeply disturbed. He certainly disturbed me. Oh, sure, I had some misgivings. I thought the ending was a bit over the top. But that was minor. That we could talk about. Because this guy was worth talking to. This guy was the real thing.
    Only, who the hell was he? Why hadn’t he shared his name and his address with me? Would I ever hear from him again? I hoped I would.
    For now, I had my life to lead. And E. B. White was right—no one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky. I showered and dressed—the double-breasted dinner jacket with peaked lapels, the matching trousers, ten-pleat bib-front shirt with wing collar. Black silk bow tie. Grandfather’s pearl cuff links and studs. I enjoyed Pam’s daube and a half bottle of a very nice Côtes du Rhone while I savored what Louis Armstrong did to “West End Blues” and what the candlelight did to Merilee’s big green eyes across the hexagonal dining table from me. After dessert, we bundled up and walked arm in arm through the park in the crisp cold night while Lulu paid dutiful visits to some of her favorite haunts. There was a sliver of moon out over the Sherry Netherlands, and it was so clear we could see stars. It has to be very clear for that. We stopped off at Café des Artistes for a calvados and were home, snug in our bed, by eleven. Merilee was reading Alan Bennett’s essays on his life in the theater. I was working my way through a collection of short stories by B. Traven, which is something I do every few years just to remind myself what good writing is. By twelve all lights were out and all were fast asleep, Merilee with her hip resting against mine, Lulu with her tail on my head, Tracy snoozing peacefully in her crib in the nursery next door to us. She had taken to sleeping all the way through the night without waking us. I had taken to being very grateful. Almost as grateful as Merilee.
    I slept late the next morning. Merilee had already left for rehearsal when I got up and padded into the bathroom and got busy stropping Grandfather’s razor. I turned on the radio so I could catch the weather forecast. I caught the news as well. That’s when I found out that the body of a young woman had been found early