The Con Man (12 page)

The second floater’s name was Nancy Mortimer.

Her body had been identified by her parents who’d come from Ohio at the request of the police. She was thirty-three years old, a plain girl with simple tastes. She had left home two months ago, heading for the city. She had taken $2,000 in cash with her. She had told her parents she was going to meet a friend. If things went well, she’d told them, she would bring the friend home for them to meet.

Things, apparently, had not gone well.

The girl had been in the River Harb, according to the autopsy report, for at least a month.

And, according to the same report, the girl had died of arsenic poisoning.

There is an old Arab saying.

Actually, it is said by young Arabs, too. It fits many occasions, and so it is probably used with regularity. It is:

Show them the death, and they will accept the fever.

We don’t have to look for hidden meanings in this gem of Arabian wisdom. The Freudian con men would probably impart thanatopsic values to what is undoubtedly an old folk saying. We don’t have to do that. We can simply look at it for what it is and understand it for what it says.

It says:

Feed a man gravel, and he will then appreciate hardtack.

It says:

Bed a man down with an aged old crone, and he will then appreciate a middle-aged mah-jongg player.

It says:

Show them the death, and they will accept the fever.

Priscilla Ames had seen the death and was ready to accept the fever. In her native town of Phoenix, Priscilla Ames had gone out with many men who had considerably lowered her estimation of the species. She had seen the death, and after a considerably lengthy correspondence with a man whose address she’d got from a pen pal magazine, she was now ready to accept the fever.

To her delighted surprise, the fever turned out to be a delirium.

A blind date, after all, is something about which you exercise a little caution. When you travel away the hell from Phoenix to meet a man—even though you’ve already seen that man’s picture, even though the picture looked good, but hadn’t she sent a somewhat exotic pose, too, hadn’t she cheated a little in the exchange of photos—you don’t expect to meet a knight in shining armor. You approach cautiously.

Especially if you were Priscilla Ames, who had long ago dismissed such knights as figments of the imagination.

But here, by God, was a knight in shining armor.

Here, by all that was holy, was a shining resplendent man among men, a towering blond giant with a wide, white grin and laughing eyes, and a gentle voice, and a body like Apollo!

Here, by the saints, was the answer to every young maiden’s prayer, the devoutly sought answer, the be-all and the end-all!

Here—was a man!

You could have knocked Priscilla over with a Mack truck. She had stepped off the plane, and there he was, coming toward her, grinning, and she had felt her heart quickening and then immediately thought,
No, he’s made a mistake; it’s the wrong man,
and then she knew it was the right man, the man she’d possibly been waiting for all her life.

That first day had sung, absolutely sung. Being in this magical, wonderful city, and drinking in the sights, and hearing the noise and the clamor, and feeling wonderfully alive again, and feeling above all his presence beside her, the tentative touch of his fingers on her arm, gentle with the promise of force. He had taken her to lunch and then to her hotel, and she had not been out of his sight since. It had been two weeks now, and she still could not adjust to the miracle of him. Ecstatically, she wondered if her life with this man would always be like this, would always be accompanied by a reckless headiness. Good Lord, she was drunk on him!

She stood before the mirror in her hotel bedroom now, waiting for him. She looked prettier, she felt. Her hair looked browner, and her eyes had more sparkle, and her breasts seemed fuller, and her hips seemed more feminine, and all because of him, all because of what he did to her. She wore his love like bright-white armor.

When she heard his knock on the door, she ran to open it. He was wearing a deep-blue trench coat, and the rain had loosened a wisp of his blond hair so that it hung boyishly on his forehead. She went into his arms instantly, her mouth reaching for his.

“Darling, darling,” she said, and he held her close to him, and she could smell tobacco on him and aftershave, and she could smell, too, the close smell of rain-impregnated cloth.

“Pris,” he said, and the word was a caress. No one had ever said her name the way he said it. No one had ever made it an important name, a name that was hers alone. He held her at arm’s length and looked down at her. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “How come I’m so lucky?”

She never knew what to say in answer to his compliments. At first, she suspected he was simply flattering her. But there was sincerity and honesty about this man, and she could read truth in his eyes. Whatever her shortcomings, she felt this man honestly believed she was beautiful, and witty, and vivacious.

“I’ll get an umbrella,” she said.

“We don’t need one,” he answered. “It’s a nice rain, Pris, warm. Do you mind? I like to walk in the rain. I’d like to walk in the rain with you.”

“Whatever you say,” she answered. She looked up at him.
I must look like a complete idiot,
she thought.
He must surely see adoration in my eyes. He must think I’m a stupid child instead of a grown woman.
“Where…where are we going tonight?” she asked.

“A wonderful place for dinner,” he said. “We have a lot of talking to do.”

“Talking?”

“Yes,” he said. He saw the frown on her face, and his eyes twinkled. His fingers touched her forehead, smoothing out the frown. “Stop looking so serious,” he chided. “Don’t you know I love you?”

“Do you?” she asked, and there was fear in her eyes for a moment.

Then he pulled her to him and said, “Of course, I love you, Pris. Pris, I love you,” and the fear vanished.

She buried her head in his shoulder, and there was a small smile of contentment on her mouth.

They walked in the rain.

It was, as he had promised, a warm rain. It touched the city gently. It roved the concrete canyons like a wistful maiden looking for her lost lover. It spoke in whispers, spoke to the buildings and the gutters and the park benches deserted and alone, and it spoke to the new green of the trees and to the growing things pushing to the sky, pushing through the warm, moist earth. It spoke in syllables as old as time, and it spoke to Priscilla and her man, spoke to two lovers who threaded their way across the city arm in arm, cradled in the warmth of the song of the rain.

He shook out his trench coat when they entered the restaurant. There was a pretty redheaded hatcheck girl, and he handed her his coat, and she smiled up at him, somewhat dazed by his good looks. But he turned from her without returning her smile, and he helped Priscilla out of her coat and then slung it over his arm and looked for the headwaiter.

The waiter led the couple to a table in the corner of the restaurant. The floors were decorated with a huge checkerboard tile in black and white. The walls were done in rich Italian mosaic, and clerestory windows threw the mottled light of dusk into the room. A candle burned brightly in the center of the round marble table. From somewhere near the bar, Pris heard the screech of a parrot. She craned her neck, looking past the tiers of huge apothecary jars filled with colored liquids—purples and reds and oranges and yellows and bright, vivid, living greens.

“Would you like to order now, sir?” the headwaiter asked.

“Some drinks first,” he replied. “Rémy Martin for me,” he said. “Pris?”

She was lost in the way he pronounced the drink, giving it the proper French twist. “What?” she asked.

“Something to drink?” he said, smiling.

“A whiskey sour,” she said.

“Yes, miss,” the headwaiter said. “A whiskey sour for the lady, and
what
was it for the gentleman, please?”

He looked up at the headwaiter, and for a moment, there was unmasked impatience in his eyes. And then, with something akin to cruelty, he viciously said, “Reeeeeemy Martin,” pronouncing the words like a guttersnipe.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” the headwaiter said, and he bowed away from the table.

Priscilla watched her man, fascinated by his boldness and his quickness and his sureness.

“What was it you wanted to discuss?” she asked.

“First, the drinks,” he said smiling. “Do you like this place?”

“Yes, it’s wonderful. It’s so different. There aren’t any places like this in Phoenix.”

“This is the most marvelous city in the world,” he told her. “It’s the only city that’s really alive. And if you’re in love, there’s no place that can come near it. Even Paris. Paris is touted as the spot for lovers, but nothing can beat this city.”

“Have you been to Paris?”

“I was there during the war,” he said. “I was a commando.”

“Wasn’t that terribly dangerous?” she asked, feeling a foolish dread and knowing that the dread was idiotic because the danger was long past.

He shrugged. “Here are the drinks,” he said.

The headwaiter brought their drinks and carefully placed them down. “Would you care to see a menu now?” he asked.

“Please.”

He left the menus and tiptoed away.

Priscilla lifted her glass. He lifted his.

“To us,” he said.

“Is that all?”

“That’s everything, Pris,” he said, and again, the sincerity shone in his eyes. “Everything I want. Us.” He drank. “Good.”

She drank with him, staring at him idiotically. “What…what did you want to discuss?”

“The date,” he said simply.

“The…the date?”

“I want to marry you,” he said, reaching across the table suddenly and clasping her hand under his. “Pris, you saw my plea; you answered my plea. Oh, Pris, there were dozens who answered it. Believe me, you have no idea how many lonely wom...lonely people there are in this world. But out of those dozens, and out of all the hundreds and thousands and millions of people who crawl over the face of this earth,
we
happened to come together. Like a couple of stars colliding in space, Pris, going their separate ways and then
wham!”
He lifted his hand from the table suddenly and slammed his fist into the open palm.

The sudden noise frightened her, but it also thrilled her. He was dynamic and unpredictable, and as one of the television brothers would have said, he certainly did have a flair for the dramatic.

“Like that,” he said, “and there’s a sudden shower of sparks. And, all at once, you’ve been part of my life always; all at once, I can’t bear to be apart from you; all at once, I want you to be mine forever. I’ve got a job, you know that. A good job. I’m not the handsomest man in the world, but—”

“Oh, please,” she said, “please—”

“…but I’m a hard worker, and I’ll care for you always, Pris. This is why you came here to my city, to find me. And we’ve found each other, Pris, and I don’t want to wait any longer. Not another minute.”

“Wh…what do you mean?” she asked.

“I want to hear you say you’ll marry me.”

“You know I will,” she answered, reaching across the table for his hand.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Wh—”

“Tomorrow.”

She looked at him steadily across the table. His eyes were glowing. His mouth looked sweet and tender.

“All right,” she said in a small voice.

“Good.” He grinned. “Dammit,” he said, “I feel like kissing you.” He rose suddenly, walked around the table, and kissed her just as the waiter approached to take their order.

The waiter didn’t clear his throat. He simply stood there looking at them, watching them kiss. When they were finished, he said, “Did you…ah…care for anything else?”

They laughed and then gave the waiter their orders.

“I feel wonderful,” she said.

“I feel great,” he told her. “I feel as if I can lick this city with my bare hands. Pris, with you by my side, I can do anything, do you know that? Anything!”

“I…I’m glad you feel that way.”

“Do you know why? Because I’ve got your love, and your love makes me feel strong.”

“I…I feel strong, too,” she said.

“How much do you love me?” he asked.

“Don’t you know how much I love you?”

“How much?” he persisted.

“You’re…you’re the only thing that matters,” she said.

“Pris,” he said, his eyes gleaming now, “I’ve got something like ten thousand dollars in the bank. I’m going to ask for a vacation, by God! I’ll ask for a month, and we’ll go to Bermuda or someplace, how about that? Maybe Europe. What do you say, Pris?”

“I couldn’t let you do that,” she answered.

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t let you spend your money so foolishly.”

“My money?” he asked. A puzzled frown crossed his face.
“My
money? Pris, darling, once we’re married, everything I’ve got is yours. Everything.”

“Well, still—”

“Don’t you look at it that way? Don’t you feel we own everything together?”

“Certainly. But—”