"I should think you'd have worried just a little knowing what you do about me," the doctor said. "You know what we Socialists think of you."
The old man started to laugh, then grimaced in pain. "Hell! The way I figure it, you're a doctor first and a Socialist second." He looked up shrewdly. "You know, Doc, if you voted the straight Republican ticket, I could make you a millionaire in less than three years."
The doctor laughed and shook his head. "No, thanks. I’d worry too much."
"How come you don't ask me how I feel, Doc? Colton's been in here four times already and each time he asked me."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I? I know how you feel. You hurt."
"I hurt like hell, Doc," Standhurst said. "Colton said those stones you took out of me were big as baseballs."
"They were pretty big, all right."
"He also said I’d be wearing this bag you hooked into me until the kidney healed and took over again."
"You'll be wearing it quite a while."
The old man stared at him. "You know, you're both full of shit," he said calmly. "I’ll wear this in my grave. And that isn't too far off, either."
"I wouldn't say that."
"I know you wouldn't," Standhurst said. "That's why I'm saying it. Look, Doc, I'm eighty-one years old. And at eighty-one, if a man lives that long, he gets to be a good smeller of death — for anyone, including himself. You learn to see it in the face or eyes. So don't bullshit me. How long have I got?"
The doctor looked into the old man's eyes and saw that he wasn't afraid. If anything, there was a look of lively curiosity reflected there. He made up his mind quickly. Colton was all wrong in the way he was handling it. This was a man. He deserved the truth. "Three months, if you're lucky, Mr. Standhurst. Six, if you're not."
The old man didn't blink an eyelash. "Cancer?"
The surgeon nodded. "Malignant and metastatic," he answered. "I removed one complete kidney and almost half of the other. That's why you have that waste bag."
"Will it be painful?"
"Very. But we can control it with morphine."
"To hell with that," the old man said. "Dying is about the only thing in life I haven't experienced. It's something I don't want to miss."
The teletype began to clatter suddenly and the old man glanced over at it, then back at the doctor. "How will I know when it's close, Doc?"
"Watch the urine in that bag," the doctor said. "The redder it gets, the nearer it is. That means the kidney is passing clear blood instead of urine, because the cancer will have choked off the kidney completely."
The look in the old man's eyes was bright and intelligent. "That means I’ll probably die of uremic poisoning."
"Possibly. If nothing else goes wrong."
Standhurst laughed. "Hell, Doc," he said, "I could have done that twenty years ago if I'd just kept on drinking."
The surgeon laughed. "But look at all the fun you'd have missed."
The old man smiled up at him. "You Socialists will probably declare a national holiday."
"I don't know, Mr. Standhurst." The doctor returned his smile. "Who would we have to complain about then?"
"I'm not worried," the old man said. "Hearst and Patterson will still be around."
The doctor held out his hand. "Well, I've got to be going, Mr. Standhurst."
Standhurst took his hand. "Good-by, Doc. And thanks."
The surgeon's dark eyes were serious. "Good-by, Mr. Standhurst," he said. "I'm sorry." He started for the door. The old man's voice turned him around.
"Will you do me a favor, Doc?"
"Anything I can, Mr. Standhurst."
"That nurse up in the operating room," Standhurst said. "The one with the gray eyes and the tits."
The surgeon knew whom he meant. "Miss Denton?"
"If that's her name," the old man said.
The surgeon nodded.
"She said if I wanted to see her without her mask, she'd come down. Would you leave word with Colton on your way out that I'd like her to join me for lunch?"
The surgeon laughed. "Will do, Mr. Standhurst"
10
Jennie picked up the bottle of champagne and poured it into the tall glass filled with ice cubes. The wine bubbled up with a fine frothy head, then settled back slowly as she filled it to the brim. She put the glass straw into the glass and handed it to Standhurst. "Here's your ginger ale, Charlie."
He grinned at her mischievously. "If you're looking for something to bring up the gas," he said, "champagne beats ginger ale any time." He sipped at it appreciatively. "Ah," he said and burped. "Have some, maybe it will make you feel sexy."
"What good would it do you if I did?" Jennie retorted.
"I'd feel good just remembering what I'd have done if it were twenty years ago."
"Better make it forty, to be safe."
"No." He shook his head. "Twenty was the best. Maybe it's because I appreciated it more then, knowing it wasn't going to last very long."
The teletype in the corner of the library began to chatter. Jennie got up out of the chair and walked over to it. When it stopped, she tore the message off and came back to him. "They just nominated Roosevelt for a second term." She handed him the yellow sheet.
"I expected that," he said. "Now they'll never get the son of a bitch out of there. But why should I worry? I won't be around."
The telephone began to ring almost as he finished speaking. It was the direct wire from his Los Angeles paper. She picked it up off the desk and brought it over to him. "Standhurst," he said into it.
She could hear a faint buzz on the other end of the wire. His face was expressionless as he listened. "Hell, no! There's time enough to editorialize after he's made his acceptance speech. At least, then we'll have an idea of what promises he's going to break. No editorials until tomorrow. That goes for all the papers. Put it on the teletype."
He put down the telephone and looked at her. Immediately, the teletype began to clatter again. She walked over and looked down at it. Green letters began to appear on the yellow paper.
FROM CHARLES STANDHURST TO ALL PAPERS: IMPORTANT. ABSOLUTELY NO EDITORIALS RE NOMINATION ROOSEVELT UNTIL ACCEPTANCE SPEECH IS MADE AND EVALUATED. REPEAT. ABSOLUTELY NO EDITORIALS RE NOMINATION ROOSE—
She walked away from the teletype while it was still chattering. "That's your orders, boss."
"Good. Now turn the damn thing off so we can talk."
She went over and flipped the switch, then came back and sat down opposite him. She took a cigarette and lit it as he sipped the champagne through the straw reflectively. "What are your plans when this job is over?"
"I haven't thought much about it."
"You better start," he said. "It won't be long now."
She smiled at him. "Anxious to get rid of me?"
"Don't be silly," he said. "The only reason I've stayed alive this long is because I didn't want to leave you."
Something in his voice made her look searchingly at him. "You know, Charlie, I believe you really mean that."
"Of course I do," he snapped.
Suddenly touched, she came over to the side of his chair and kissed his cheek. "Hey, Nurse Denton," he said. "I think you're breaking down. I'll get you in the sack yet."
"You got me a long time ago, Charlie. The only trouble is, we didn't meet soon enough."
When she thought about it, that was true. The very first time she'd come down to have lunch with him in the hospital, the day after the operation, she'd liked him. She knew he was dying and after a moment, she knew that he knew it. But it didn't stop him from playing the gallant. None of that bland, tasteless hospital food for him, even if he couldn't eat.
Instead, the food was rushed by motorcar from Romanoff's with a police escort out in front and the siren blaring all the way. And along with the food came a maître d' and two waiters to serve it.
He sat up in his bed, sipping champagne and watching her eat. He liked the way she ate. Picky eaters were usuall
y selfish lovers. They gave you nothing, demanding the same sort of unattainable satisfaction in bed that they demanded from the table. He made up his mind instantly, as he always did. "I’m going to be sick for a while," he said. "I’m going to need a nurse. How would you like the job?"
She'd looked up from her coffee, her gray eyes quizzical. "There are nurses who specialize in home care, Mr. Standhurst. They'd probably be better at it than I am."
"I asked you."
"I have a job at Los Angeles General," she said. "A good job. Then sometimes I get special calls to help out here, like this one. It's the kind of work I'm good at."
"How much do you make?"
"Eighty-five a month, room and board."
"I’ll pay you a thousand a week, room and board," he said.
"But that's ridiculous!"
"Is it?" he asked, watching her steadily. "I can afford it. When the doctor left here this morning, he told me I've only got three months to go. I always expect to pay a little bit more when I can't offer a steady job."
She looked down as the waiter refilled her coffee cup. "You'd be here for about three weeks," she said. "That will give me time to give notice. When do you want me to start?"
"Right now. And don't worry about the notice. I already told Colton and Los Angeles General that you were coming to work for me."
She stared at him for a moment then put down her cup and got to her feet. She gestured to the maître d' and immediately the waiters began to wheel the table out. "Hey, what's the idea?" Standhurst asked.
Jennie didn't answer as she walked to the foot of the table and picked up the chart. She studied it for a moment and then came over and took the glass of champagne out of his hand. "If I’m working for you now," she said, "it's time you got some rest."
* * *
Time never passes as quickly as when it's running out, he thought. Somehow, everything seems sharper, clearer to the mind, even decisions are arrived at more easily. Perhaps it was because the responsibility for them couldn't come home to roost. No one can win an argument with a grave.
He felt the pain race through him like a knife. He didn't flinch but from her face, he knew that she knew. A strange kind of communication had grown between them. Words weren't necessary. There were times he thought she felt the pain, too.
"Maybe you'd better go to bed," she said.
"Not just yet. I want to talk to you."
"O.K.," she said. "Go ahead."
"You're not going back to the hospital, are you?"
"I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."
"You'll never be happy in a job like that again. I've spoiled you. There's nothing like a lot of money."
She laughed. "You're so right, Charlie. I've been thinking about that. Nothing's going to seem right ever again."
He studied her thoughtfully. "I could leave you something in my will, or even marry you. But my children would probably make a federal case out of it and say you influenced me. All you'd get is a lot of grief."
She met his gaze. "Thanks for thinking about it, anyway, Charlie."
"You need to make a lot of money," he said. "Why did you decide to be a nurse? You always wanted to be one?"
"No." She shrugged her shoulders. "What I really wanted to be was another Helen Wills. But I got a scholarship to St. Mary's, so I went."
"Even being a tennis bum takes money."
"I know. Anyway, it's too late now. I'd be satisfied if I could just make enough to hire the best pro around and play two hours every day."
"See!" he said triumphantly. "That's a hundred bucks a day, right there."
"Yeah. I’ll probably end up back at the hospital."
"You don't have to."
"What do you mean?" she asked, looking at him. "That's all I ever trained for."
"You started training for something else long before you studied nursing. Becoming a woman."
"Well, I couldn't have trained so well, then," she said wryly. "The first time I ever acted like a woman, I got my head knocked off."
"You mean Dr. Grant in Frisco?"
"How do you know about that?"
"Mostly a guess," he said. "But the paper automatically checks up on everyone who comes near me. Grant's got that reputation and the fact that you worked for him and left in such a hurry led me to that surmise. What happened? His wife catch you?"
She nodded slowly. "It was horrible."
"It always is when you're emotionally involved," he said. "It's happened to me more than once." He refilled his glass with champagne. "The trick is not to become emotionally involved."
"How do you do that?"
"By making it pay," he said.
"What you're saying, then, in effect, is that I should become a whore?" she said in a shocked voice.
He smiled. "That's only the Catholic in you that's talking. In the back of your mind, even you have to admit that it makes sense."
"But a whore?" she said, her voice still shocked.
"Not a whore, a courtesan or its modern equivalent, the call girl. In ancient civilizations, being a courtesan was a highly respected profession. Statesmen and philosophers alike sought their favors. And it isn't only the money that made it attractive. It's a way of life that's most complete. Luxurious and satisfying."
She began to laugh. "You're nothing but a dirty old man, Charlie. When do you bring out the French postcards?"
He laughed with her. "Why shouldn't I be? I was a dirty young man, too. But I was never stupid. You have all the equipment necessary to become a great courtesan. The body, the mind — even your nurse's training won't be wasted. True sex demands a greater intellectualism than simple animal rutting."
"Now I know it's time for you to go to bed." She laughed. "Next thing I know, you'll be suggesting I go to a school to learn all about it."
"That's an idea." He chuckled. "They're always after me to endow one college or another. Why didn't I think of it? The Standhurst College of Sex. Otherwise known as the Old Fucking School." He began to laugh heartily, then suddenly he grimaced in pain. His face whitened and beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. He hunched over in his wheel chair.
In a moment, she was at his side, pushing up the sleeve of his robe, exposing his arm. Quickly she shot the syrette of morphine into his vein. His bony fingers gripped her arm, trying to push it away, as he stared at her with agony-laden eyes.
"For Christ's sake, Charlie," she said angrily. "Give yourself a break. Stop fighting it!" His grip relaxed for a moment and she emptied another syrette into him. She looked into his eyes and saw him fighting the comfort the drug would bring him. She took his fragile, thin hand and raised it swiftly to her lips.
He smiled as the drug began to cloud his eyes. "Poor little Jennie," he said softly. "Any other time and I’d have made you my queen!" His fingers brushed her cheek gently. "But I won't forget what we were talking about. I'm not going to let you go to waste just because I'm not going to be around to enjoy it!"
11
Three days later they were having lunch on the terrace when she saw the gray Rolls-Royce come to a stop in the driveway. A smartly dressed chauffeur opened the door and a woman stepped out. A few minutes later, the butler appeared on the terrace. "A Mrs. Schwartz to see you, Mr. Standhurst."
Standhurst smiled. "Set another place, Judson, and ask Mrs. Schwartz if she'll join us."
The butler bowed. "Yes, Mr. Standhurst."
A moment later, a woman came through the doorway. "Charlie!" she said, unmistakable pleasure in her voice. She held her hands out toward him as she walked. "How good to see you."
"Aida." Standhurst kissed her hand. "Forgive my not getting up." He looked into her face. "You're as beautiful as ever."
"You haven't changed a bit, Charlie. You can still keep a straight face and lie like hell."
Standhurst laughed. "Aida, this is Jennie Denton."
"How do you do?" Jennie said. She saw a woman, perhaps in her middle or late fifties, quietly and expensively
dressed. The woman turned, her smile warm and friendly, but Jennie suddenly had the feeling that there was little about her that the woman didn't take in.
She turned back to Standhurst. "Is this the girl you spoke to me about on the phone?"
Standhurst nodded.
The woman turned back to Jennie. This time, her eyes were openly appraising. She smiled suddenly. "You may have lost your balls, Charlie," she said in a conversational tone of voice, "but you certainly haven't lost your taste."
Jennie's mouth hung open as she stared at them. Standhurst began to laugh and the butler reappeared at the doorway, carrying a chair. He held it for Mrs. Schwartz as she sat down at the table.
"A sherry flip for Mrs. Schwartz, Judson." The butler bowed and disappeared. Standhurst turned to Jennie. "I suppose you're wondering what this is all about?"
Jennie nodded, still unable to speak.
"Twenty-five years ago, Aida Schwartz ran the best cat house west of the Everleigh sisters in Chicago."
Mrs. Schwartz reached over and patted his hand. "Charlie remembers everything," she said to Jennie. "He even remembered that I never drink anything but a sherry flip." She looked down at his glass on the table. "And I suppose you still drink champagne in a tall glass over ice?"
He nodded. "Old habits, like old friends, Aida, are hard to give up."
The butler placed a drink in front of her. She raised the glass daintily to her lips and sipped. She looked at the butler and smiled. "Thank you."
"Thank you, madam."
She raised her eyebrows in good-humored surprise. "This is very good," she said. "You don't know how hard it is to get a decent cocktail, even in the most expensive restaurants. It seems that ladies drink nothing but Martinis nowadays." She shuddered politely. "Horrible. In my time, no lady would dream of even tasting anything like that."
Standhurst looked at Jennie. "Aida would never let any of her girls drink anything but sherry."
"Whisky befuddles the brain," Aida said primly. "And my girls weren't being paid for drinking."
The old man chuckled reminiscently. "They certainly weren't. Aida, do you remember before the war when I used to come down to your house for a prostate massage?"
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