Enough Rope

by Lawrence Block

  A few minutes after one she broke a long silence by signaling abruptly for the check. “I certainly don’t want to keep you,” she said.

  “Penny, I’m sorry as hell.”

  “Oh? Whatever for?”

  “My manners. I have to meet an old friend in a little while and I guess it’s bothering me more than I thought it would.”

  “You mean it’s not me? Here I was all set to switch to a new brand of mouthwash.”

  He was twenty minutes early for his meeting with Ellie. The waiter, an elderly man with stooped shoulders, astonished him by greeting him by name.

  “Mr. Barr, we never see you no more.”

  “I live up in Connecticut now.”

  “All alone, Mr. Barr?”

  “A lady’s meeting me for cocktails, but I’m very early and I don’t think I can hold out until she gets here. I think an extra dry martini with a twist.”

  He made the drink last. At five minutes of two the only other customers settled their bill and left, and perhaps a minute later Ellie appeared. He got to his feet while the waiter bustled about seating her. Her eyes had the brittle sparkle of an amphetamine high.

  She said, “If that’s a martini I think I want one.”

  He ordered drinks for both of them. Until the waiter brought them she asked questions about Marjorie and Lisa and his work. Then she raised her glass, looked at it for a moment, and drained it in three quick swallows.

  “I should have told him to wait,” he said. “ ‘Keep the meter running and I’ll be ready in a minute.’ I don’t think I ever saw you drink like that.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Want another?”

  “No. I wanted that one a lot, but it’s all I want for the time being.” She opened her purse and found a pack of cigarettes. It was empty, and she crumpled it fiercely and put it down beside the ashtray.

  “There’s a machine in front,” he said. “I’ll get them for you.”

  He returned with a pack of Parliaments and opened them for her, then held a match. Her hand closed on his wrist as she got the cigarette lit. She let go, inhaled, blew out smoke, looked at him and away and at him again.

  “Okay,” she said.

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I thought of writing Dear Abby, but she would just refer me to my priest, minister, or rabbi. And I don’t have a priest, minister, or rabbi. You were the only person I could think of.”

  “Must be my clerical image.”

  “It’s that you’re a friend of mine and a friend of Bert’s. More than that. He and I have a lot of friends in common, but you were his friend before I married him, and you and I—”

  “Were very good friends once upon a time.”

  “I think I will have another drink. This is turning out to be harder than I thought.” When the drinks came she took a small sip and placed her glass on the tablecloth. She helped herself to a second cigarette and let him light it for her.

  She said, “For the past two days I’ve been trying to figure out how to start this conversation. I’m no closer now than I was at the beginning. I love Bert very much. We have a good marriage.”

  “I’ve always thought so.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes. I don’t think I know two people who like each other’s company as much. You both certainly give that impression.”

  “It’s not a pose. It’s very real.” She lowered her eyes, worried the rim of the ashtray with the tip of her cigarette. “We have a problem. Or I have a problem. That’s obvious, I didn’t drag you here to discuss how perfectly happy I am.”

  “No.”

  “How well do you know Bert?”

  “Well, that’s a tough question. I’ve known him for, what, twenty years? We were in college together. He was a sophomore when I was a freshman, although I’m a month older. So I guess I’ve known him longer than anyone else I’m really friendly with now.”

  “But.”

  “Right: but. But he’s the most guarded man I ever met, so in a sense I don’t know him very well at all. Ellie, about two months ago I met a guy in a bar in Weston. He’d just got off the train and he was going to have one quick one before he went home to his wife, and the two of us wound up drinking and talking until close to midnight. I never saw him before and I’ll never see him again. I don’t remember his name. If he even told me his name. But I knew that son of a bitch more intimately than I ever got to know Bert Kilberg.”

  “He keeps himself very much to himself.”

  “Yes.”

  “David? This is what I want to ask you. How would he react if I had an affair?”

  “You mean if he found out about it.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Because I don’t know why he’d have to know. Are you seeing somebody?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “But you’re thinking about it.”

  “I seem to feel the need.”

  He nodded. “Most people do,” he said. “Sooner or later.”

  She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, first asking him to order another round of drinks. When she returned they were already on the table. “Scotch and water,” he said. “I decided to switch to something less toxic and I thought you might be inclined to keep me company.”

  “Meaning don’t let the lady get smashed. For which I’ll surely thank you later. This is a nice place, although I don’t see how they can afford to stay open. How come you never brought me here?”

  “I only bring married ladies here.”

  “Is that the truth? It’s a good answer, anyway. David, I think I need an affair. But I hate keeping secrets from him. I know I’d have the urge to tell him.”

  “Well, then, let me just tell you something.” He leaned forward. “Every time you get that urge, you just step on it full force. You squelch it. If you absolutely can’t help yourself, write it out on a sheet of paper and burn it and flush the ashes down the toilet. Because all you can accomplish by telling him is to create purposeless headaches for two people and possibly three. Or four, if the guy you pick is married. And he should be.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because, my dear, cheating is safer when there are two of you doing it. You’ve both got the same thing to lose. And it’s more comfortable, it puts you both on common ground.” He laughed shortly. “In other words, when you want to have an affair go pick out a married man, and there’s something Dear Abby’ll never tell you.”

  “Wherever would I find one?”

  “Oh, that wouldn’t be a problem. Married men are looking for it a lot more earnestly than single ones. With your looks you wouldn’t have any trouble.” Lightly he said, “You could always pick an old flame. For nostalgia, if nothing else.”

  “You’re a very sweet man, David.”

  There was an awkward moment which they both attempted to cover by reaching for their drinks. Then she said, “He’s not married.”

  “Who’s not?”

  “The man I’m sleeping with.”

  “Oh. Then this should-I-or-shouldn’t-I wasn’t as hypothetical as it sounded.”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t going to tell you but it doesn’t make much sense not to. It’s been going on for a little over a month. He’s eight years younger than I am, he’s not married, and the two of us have nothing whatsoever in common. His only strong point is that he makes me feel excited and exciting.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But I don’t love him. I’m in bed next to him afterward and look at him and wish it was Bert next to me.”

  “Where did you find him? I’m assuming it’s no one I know.”

  “It’s not. I met him at Berlitz. He’s my instructor.”

  “Berlitz? Oh, you’re taking Spanish or something. I think Marjorie mentioned it.”

  “German. He was born in Germany and he looks like the really vicious blond captain in all the war movies. And I’m the girl who wouldn’t buy a Volkswagen. Oh, hell. For the past month I hav
en’t been able to figure out whether I’m wildly happy or wildly miserable. I don’t know why I dragged you here, David, but I guess I just had to talk to someone. And you were elected.”

  They continued talking through another round of drinks. Then he put her in a cab, returned to the bar for one last drink, and took a cab of his own to Grand Central and caught the 4:17. “It was one of those endless lunches,” he told Marjorie, “and I don’t think it accomplished a thing. I behaved like a Dale Carnegie dropout.”

  He called his agent, catching her just before she left the office. He said, “Mary, I think we can forget all about Mr. Simon and Mr. Schuster.” He gave her a brief version of the lunch, omitting mention of the reasons for his inattentiveness.

  “Well, I always knew you were a bad judge of your own work, Dave. I thought it just applied to fiction, but evidently it’s the same in other areas. Penny Tobias thinks you’re sensational.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “She called me around one-thirty. She said now she knows why your books are so perceptive, you’re the most sensitive person she ever met and she really hopes we can work something out because she personally would be so proud to publish you.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “I’m going to dine out on this story, Dave.”

  “Change one thing when you do, huh? Penny called you at four-thirty, right after she got back from lunch.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mary Fradin. “Davey was a bad boy.”

  Something was bothering him, and it was several days before he managed to figure out what it was. Then he waited until Marjorie was out of the house and dialed the Kilberg apartment. When Ellie answered he said, “This is David, but if you’re not alone I’ll be a wrong number.”

  “I’m alone. What is it?”

  “Well, a couple of things. First of all, it’s occurred to me that you might be having second thoughts about telling me as much as you did, and I hope you won’t. Nothing we talked about will ever go any further.”

  “Oh, I know that.”

  “The other thing is silly but I’m going to mention it anyway because it’s been bothering me. It occurs to me that this kraut might get to be a problem. This is probably not going to happen, and you can chalk it up to an overactive imagination, but just promise me one thing. If it looks as though he’s going to cause you any trouble at all I want you to call me. Don’t go to Bert and don’t try to handle things yourself. Just call me.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Any kind.”

  “You’re very sweet, but nothing like that is going to happen.”

  “I know it isn’t. Now say you promise.”

  “It’s silly. All right. I promise.”

  During the next two months David Barr saw Bert Kilberg twice on business matters and spoke to him perhaps a half dozen times over the telephone. He had wondered how this new knowledge of his friend would affect their relationship, and he was pleased to discover that it made no difference.

  One Saturday evening he and Marjorie drove into New York to have dinner and see a show with Bert and Ellie. The secret he and Ellie shared did not seem to have changed the dynamics of the relationship among the four of them. He felt somewhat closer to Ellie for it, but he didn’t think any of that showed on the surface.

  Bert did not know that he and Ellie had been lovers years before she married Bert. It was possible that Marjorie had inferred as much, but if so she had kept her thoughts to herself.

  Then one afternoon the telephone rang while he was working in his study. A little later Marjorie told him it had been Ellie. “I’m supposed to give you her fondest regards,” she said. “She said it twice, as a matter of fact, so I suppose she really means it. It’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “She called for my Stroganoff recipe, and I’m positive I gave it to her when they were here in December.”

  Within the hour he invented a pretext to drive into town. He called her from the drugstore.

  He said, “Was that a signal? Or have I been reading too many spy novels?”

  “I’m just keeping a promise.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. How bad is it?”

  “Oh, it’s pretty bad, David. I guess my judgment leaves something to be desired. From now on I’ll ask you to pick my lovers for me.”

  “There’s a title that goes with the duty and I’m not crazy about it. But tell me what he’s pulled.”

  “Well, he’s a bastard. He got very possessive for a starter. A lot of romantic nonsense, and I swear I did nothing to encourage it. He wanted me to leave Bert and run off with him. The fool. As if I would.”

  “And?”

  “And then he turned on me. He started calling me at home, which I’d told him several times he was absolutely never to do. Then he, uh, began asking for small loans. Ten dollars, twenty dollars. Then he said he needed five hundred dollars, and of course I told him no, and I also told him I didn’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  “Well, you were right about that.”

  “And now he’s trying to blackmail me. I don’t know if you’d call it blackmail from a legal point of view because he hasn’t exactly made any threats. But just this morning he called and said that if I wouldn’t lend him some money, then perhaps Bert would give him a loan. Needless to say he and Bert have never met, so my interpretation is that it’s blackmail.”

  “I think you could call it blackmail. That was this morning?”

  “Yes. I don’t remember what I told him. But he called back less than an hour later with a whole song and dance about how he loves me and we should run off together. I’m scared of what he might do next. I think I would have called you even if you hadn’t said what you did, because I wouldn’t know who else to call and I just can’t handle this one myself. But how did you know this would happen?”

  “It was just a hunch. Let me think a minute. What’s this bastard’s name?”

  “Klaus Eberhard.”

  “And his address?” She gave it to him and he wrote it down. “All right. Now this is important. Did you ever say anything to him about me? Anything at all?”

  “No. I’m positive I never did. I never talked to him about anything, really. We just—”

  “You just studied bedroom Deutsch, right. Call him up right now and tell him you’ll meet him at his place tomorrow afternoon at three. Can you do that?”

  “I never want to see him again, David.”

  “You’ll never have to. I’ll keep the appointment for you.”

  “I don’t want you paying him.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just make the call. I’m in a phone booth, I’ll give you my number and you can call me back and tell me the appointment’s set.”

  He got to New York shortly after noon the next day. He stopped at a restaurant near Grand Central but when he looked at the menu he realized he was too edgy to eat anything. He had a drink but decided not to have a second one.

  In a shop on Madison Avenue he bought a black hat with a very short brim. In a drugstore a few blocks further along Madison he bought two flashlight batteries and put one in either pocket of his suit jacket. Then he walked for a while, writing and rewriting scenes in his mind.

  At half past two he got out of a cab at the corner of Eighty-eighth and York and walked to the address Ellie had given him. He rang a variety of bells until some obliging tenant buzzed him through the front door. He walked up two flights of stairs and knocked on Klaus Eberhard’s door. It was opened by a man about thirty with pale blond hair and an open, engaging face. He was at least four inches taller than David Barr and weighed about the same. He wore an Italian knit sport shirt and tailored denim slacks, and he looked more like a ski instructor than an S.S. captain.

  “Eberhard?”

  “Yes, I am Eberhard.” His English was just barely accented. “How may I help you?”

  “Klaus Eberhard?”

  “But yes.”

  He put his
hands in his pockets and closed his fingers around the flashlight batteries. “You’d better close the door,” he said, stepping around Eberhard and into the apartment. “I have a message from Mrs. Kilberg and we don’t want the neighbors tuning in.”

  Eberhard closed the door and put the chain bolt on. As he was turning around again, Barr hit him on the side of the jaw with all his strength. The German fell back against the door and Barr waded in after him, striking him repeatedly in the face and chest. The weight of the batteries increased the effect of the blows immeasurably. He could hear ribs give way as he battered them, and when he landed a punch to Eberhard’s nose there was an immediate geyser of blood.

  He stepped back at last and Eberhard slid to the floor. Barr stood over him. He pitched his voice low and put the rasp of the New York streets into it. He said, “Now listen good, you son of a bitch. You are gonna stay away from Mrs. Kilberg. You are never gonna call her or see her or nothing. You spot her on the street, you better get your ass out of the way in a big hurry, because next time I kill you. This time I just send you to the hospital, but next time I kill you.”

  Eberhard couldn’t get any words out. His lips moved but no sound was forthcoming.

  “You get the message?” He drew back his foot. “Answer me.”

  “Do not hurt me.”

  “You understand what I been tellin’ you?”

  “I understand. Chust don’t hurt me.”

  “I got paid to break your arm. I’ll make it a clean break.”

  The German was beyond resistance. He lay there, his head propped oddly against the door, while Barr placed a foot on his upper arm. Then he gripped the younger man’s wrist and pulled up against the elbow joint until he heard a snapping sound. Klaus Eberhard gave a short grunt and passed out.