Baby, Would I Lie?

by Donald E. Westlake

  The kitchen was now a darkroom, so for breakfast Binx had to get into a Galaxy car and drive downtown, ten minutes away, to eat various kinds of grease. Then he went back to the house on Cherokee and prepared himself for his two required awful phone calls to Florida, the daily obeisances—to the Galaxy and to Marcie—but as he sat there, tasting this morning’s grease and thinking about what he might say to the citizens of Florida, the front door opened and a diseased Englishman entered, his pale and poxy face open in a smarmy smile. “Happy time, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “You must all think happy thoughts now. Boy is among you.”

  It was true. Boy Cartwright, the most successful of the Weekly Galaxy’s editors because the most loathesome, a sickly, pasty creature in his mid-forties, who had lived most of his adult life on champagne and Valium, who would sell his mother for a nickel and beat her up for you as a favor, was here, here in Branson, here in the Galaxy house, here on Binx’s turf!

  Binx leaped to his feet from his chair of pain, squawking: “This is my story!”

  Boy gazed upon him with superior pleasure: “Ah, Binx, lad,” he purred, with that voice like a fur-coated tongue, “what a bundle of energy you are. Come walk with me and talk with me, and tell me of many things.” Boy crooked a finger, smiling like a road-show Oscar Wilde, and turned to go back outside, fouling the morning air by his presence.

  Binx had no choice but to follow. He did, trying to look stern and manly and in charge, to bolster the morale of the onlooking troops, but inside he quaked with fear and rage. He knew what this was; he knew what this meant. Don Grove and Chauncey Chapperrell had been arrested, had spent a night in the Branson bastille and been fined and tongue-lashed by a local judge, and it was going to be Binx’s fault. Unfair, unfair, unfair; but who ever expected fairness, after all? (Binx did, and couldn’t help it.)

  Boy wanted to stroll up and down, though there were no sidewalks, and the Galaxy’s cars lined both curbs. So they walked in the street, on which, fortunately, there was rarely any traffic, and Binx said, “Just tell me one thing straight out. Am I fired again?”

  Boy smiled like a gargoyle made of bread dough. “But of course not, dear boy,” he said. “Our lords and masters admire your persistence; they esteem you. Really.”

  “They sent you here.”

  “To assist, dear boy, assist, nothing more.” Gazing around in mild amuse, he said, “What a charming corner of Americana this is, every bit. One will enjoy working here, rubbing elbows with the hoi polloi, taking the pulse of the great unwashed.”

  “What’s going to happen to me, Boy?”

  Boy looked at Binx as though a bit surprised to see him still there. “You, dear boy? Why nothing. Everything’s already happened to you.”

  “Why do they think I need to be assisted?”

  “Oh, well, our employees in Newgate overnight, you know, there was the feeling, just the slightest feeling, you know, that perhaps the hand on the tiller was not quite so firm as it might be.”

  “How can that be my fault? How?”

  “No one’s talking about fault, dear boy, blame, all that sort of thing. You take these things too much to heart, if I may say so. Take the long view, lad, take the long view.”

  “I will,” Binx said grimly, his mind hardening. “I definitely will.”

  “We’re closing down, you know, that little bacchanal of yours over at that hovel called the Palace,” Boy said.

  “We are?”

  “Its effectiveness has diminished. We’ll retain the space, however; in fact, I’ll be staying there.” With a pouting little smirk, Boy said, “One has always wanted to live in the Palace.”

  “When do you want me to shut it down?”

  “Oh, it’s done, Binx,” Boy said, and showed his awful rotting teeth. “What I’ll want you to do, gather so much of your team as is not in durance vile—”

  “Nobody’s in jail now.”

  “Praise heaven for small favors. I’ll want to see them all this afternoon, in my digs at the Palace, at fourteen hundred hours.”

  Binx added and subtracted: “Two o’clock, in Two-two-two.”

  “Felicitously phrased.” Boy yawned, a dreadful sight, and stretched his diseased soft body. “I take it you’ve breakfasted.”

  “Or whatever it was.”

  “Such a long drive,” Boy said. “I believe I’ll nappy-doo. Ta ta till two, in Two-two-two.”

  “Ta ta,” Binx said, smiling on the outside, gnashing his teeth to slivers on the inside. He stood in the street while Boy clambered into the anonymous gray Galaxy sedan he’d driven all the way from central Florida, then drove off one-handed, ignoring the road to consult his map of Branson. His wobbling departure did not hit any parked cars, but it came close.

  Binx remained where he was, like Lot’s wife, until Boy and his gray chariot disappeared. Outside, there appeared to be no change in him, but within, Binx had annealed. A particular fantasy that had always been too terrifying to consider transmuting into the real world had now become marginally less terrifying than reality. Action, daring action, had suddenly become possible.

  With a firmness of step and a clarity of eye that would have astounded anyone who knew him, Binx turned and marched back into the house and over to the phone farthest from prying ears. He dialed the Lodge of the Ozarks, folded his shoulder down between his mouth and the rest of the room, and said, “Jack Ingersoll, please.”

  It was Sara’s voice that answered, warm and sleepy from bed. “Mmm? Yes?”

  Binx’s resolve stumbled. If only I had a Sara, he thought in a regression to the former self, as sexual arousal worked through him like hot-pepper sauce in his blood, then I wouldn’t have to do what I have to do. Voice trembling with more emotions than he understood, he said, “Sara, it’s me. Binx.”

  “Oh, Binx, hi.” Rustling sounds in the background. She’s sitting up, the covers falling from her breasts. Binx managed not to moan. “What can I do for you?”

  Many answers swirled in his head. He said, “Is Jack there?”

  “Sure. You want to talk to him?” Off, she said, “Jack, wake up. It’s Binx.” Muffled mumbling. “He says, ‘What’s it about?’ ”

  “I have to talk to him, Sara.”

  More muffled conversation, then Sara back. “He has to drive to Springfield this morning, fly back to New York. He says why not call him at Trend?”

  Panic and dread. “No. Back to New York? I have to see him now. It’s important.”

  Mutter, mutter. Sara: “Important to who? Whom?”

  “All of us. I’m not kidding.”

  Mutter, mutter. Sara: “How about the coffee shop here in twenty minutes? But he can’t stay long.”

  “He shouldn’t stay,” the new Binx said, “any longer than he’s interested. When I’m boring him, he should go away.”

  Surprised, Sara said, “Why, Binx. What’s gotten into you?”

  “It isn’t in, Sara,” Binx told her. “It’s out.”

  And he hung up, went to the bedroom, got out the attaché case with his project in it, and carried it with him out of the house, into a Galaxy car, and through the Sunday-morning traffic jams of Branson to the Lodge of the Ozarks, where Jack—without Sara, damn it—lounged over muffins and coffee. From somewhere, he’d obtained a Sunday New York Times, but to show he was still a regular guy, it was the sports section he was reading.

  Binx slid into the booth across from Jack and ordered from the nice waitress three glasses of grapefruit juice. Jack raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to do?”

  “Increase my acid.”

  Jack closed up Sports and gave Binx his attention. “What’s going on, Binx? You’re looking clear-eyed.”

  “Boy arrived this morning,” Binx said. “To assist me.”

  “Boy? That guano dweller?”

  “He’s going to live in the Palace now.”

  “I’m sorry, Binx.”

  “Two of my people spent Thursday night in the Branson jail.”
<
br />   “Yeah, I heard.”

  “They didn’t say it yet, but they’re going to fire me again.”

  “Sooner or later,” Jack said, “they fire everybody.”

  Binx’s upper lip curled. “I’m not everybody, Jack,” he said. “I’m me. They’re going to fire me.”

  “Your problem is,” Jack said, “you take things too personally. Besides, maybe they won’t.”

  “You’re going to do us in Trend.”

  Jack looked away, shrugged, crumbled a muffin. “Maybe, maybe not. Nobody’s sure yet.”

  “If I’m not fired already, I will be then.”

  “Well, you know, Binx,” Jack said, “every once in a while in life, there comes this opportunity for a career change.”

  “That’s right,” Binx said.

  Jack peered at him. “It is?”

  Binx said, “The last time I was fired, I had time on my hands, you know.”

  “That’s what happens, when you’re fired.”

  “I thought I’d do a Galaxy exposé myself,” Binx said.

  “I bet you’d do a good one, too,” Jack assured him.

  “It’s hard, though,” Binx said, “without something to drive you. The paycheck, the boss, all that.”

  “Sure.”

  “Still, I did some. I kept it up, too, ever since.”

  “Good for you.”

  “And the approach I took, I focused on the different editors.”

  “That’s one way to do it, I suppose.”

  “The things they did, the reasons. I’ve got a lot of it done. I thought maybe you—”

  “I do my own pieces, Binx,” Jack said. “And my own research.”

  “Still,” Binx said, and opened the attaché case on the bench beside himself. Leafing through the sets of typescript, each set with its own paper clip, he chose one and brought it out. “You might find some of this useful,” he said, and handed that set to Jack, who reluctantly took it. “That one’s you,” Binx said.

  Jack frowned. He looked at the top page, scanning, skimming, then began to read more slowly. The waitress brought Binx his three grapefruit juices. He drank the first one down at a gulp, the cold sharpness a pleasure on his tongue, in his mouth, in his throat. “Did I really do all this?” Jack said mildly.

  “Afraid so.”

  “Some of it’s quite outrageous, isn’t it?”

  “Some of it’s felonious.”

  “But not very provable, Binx.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Binx said. “I know where the witnesses are, and I know how to get them to talk.”

  Jack hefted the thin manuscript. “What do you want to do with this?”

  “I thought I’d send it to Trend.”

  “Not interested. Wouldn’t publish it.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll make multiple submissions. The New Yorker, Vanity Fair, GQ, New York, the Times.”

  Jack disdainfully dropped the manuscript onto the table. “Don’t be stupid. Nobody’s going to want to publish this parochial crap.”

  “But they’ll all read it,” Binx said. “They’ll make copies and pass them around the office. There’s great anecdotes in there, Jack. You were quite a scamp.”

  Jack was clearly controlling fury, with some difficulty. “What would you get out of it?”

  “Everybody gets fired, Jack, isn’t that it? Sooner or later. What happens when you get fired? Time for a career change?”

  Jack thought that over, then looked at Binx with something different in his eyes, something Binx didn’t recognize. “Binx,” he said, “you’re a changed man.”

  “I am,” Binx said, and couldn’t help but smile. That’s respect in his eyes! No wonder I didn’t recognize it.

  Jack nodded. “So what do you really want?”

  Binx reached into the attaché case, brought out the rest of the papers, leafed through them, handed a set to Jack. “Here’s Boy.” The rest he dropped on top of the Jack history, already on the table. “All told, nine editors. A lot of stuff there, Jack.”

  Jack had been smiling over the Boy story. Now he looked at Binx and said, “You’re giving me this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What’s in it for you?”

  “That’s background for your piece, research. It’s worth something.”

  “Money won’t solve your problems, Binx.”

  “It can help. But money isn’t all I want.”

  “I didn’t think it was. What else?”

  Binx gestured at the manuscript. “That’s my résumé. That shows you what I can do, professionally speaking. On the basis of that, Trend can make me a roving correspondent.”

  Jack slowly nodded. “Spell it out,” he said.

  “A little money, not a lot. I’ve given up being greedy,” Binx said, and smiled in a new way. He drank the second grapefruit juice; it was just as good as the first. He said, “I have an idea for a story that’s right up Trend’s alley. I’ll need travel expenses, some living expenses.”

  “What is this story?”

  “Eastern Europe,” Binx said. “The coming of democracy and capitalism, and all of a sudden there’s a free press. Magazines and newspapers being born all over those countries, raw and new and learning how. And free. A survey piece. The free press, behind what used to be the Iron Curtain.”

  Jack sat back, fingering a muffin, thinking it over. Binx drank his third grapefruit juice. It was the best of all. Jack said, “Trend pays your expenses to Prague, Sofia, Warsaw, somewhere. You’ve got an assignment letter, letters of introduction. You’re connected.”

  “Sounds good, Jack.”

  “A survey piece for us, but you’re job-hunting. And they’ll like you; they’ll take you on. Not much money.”

  “Don’t need much money, Jack. Not anymore.”

  “Over there, you’re the old pro, the guy who knows how. Girl reporters at your feet.”

  “Oh, better than that, I hope.”

  A broad smile crossed Jack’s face. “I’m happy for you, Binx,” he said.

  Binx’s heart leapt. “You’re going to do it.”

  “Of course I’m going to do it. Even without the blackmail, I might have done it.”

  “We’ll never know.”

  “So you’re getting out,” Jack said. “And you might even turn in the survey piece.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Not much stranger,” Jack said, and looked intently at Binx. “What about Marcie and the kids?”

  Binx returned Jack’s gaze with his own level look. He’d never felt better in his life. He said, “Who?”

  31

  When Sara learned, in the Branson Beacon (reading the local newspaper was both good sense and good manners), that Ray Jones would be among the stars to appear on Sunday afternoon at a charitable fund-raiser for the local hospital, rather alarmingly named Skaggs, she knew she had to go. The setting was a big tent in the parking lot of the Grand Palace, the four-thousand-seat theater and video complex that was an elaborately pillared and porticoed white Dixie plantation house fronting a huge, sinister, featureless gray box big enough to hold all the world’s Scud missiles, as though Tara had been attached to a nuclear plant. The huge yellow-and-white-striped tent in front of this harridan with a painted face flapped in the fitful breeze, and at 12:40 Sara joined the line of families snaking slowly forward toward the volunteers at the folding tables, who took their money and peeled off little orange tickets from giant rolls. Hand-lettered red-on-white signs taped to the front of the folding tables read SUGGESTED DONATION $4.

  “Press,” Sara said, an automatic reaction, when she reached the volunteer, and showed her Trend ID.

  The girl, who was probably herself named Skaggs, gave Sara a look of deep dislike and mistrust. “Jested donation four dollar,” she said.

  Oh well. Sara dug a five out of her wallet, handed it over, waited for change, and got an orange ticket instead. The volunteer looked past her at the next in line, and Sara said, “Cou
ld I have a receipt?”

  The volunteer’s antipathy increased. “A what?”

  “Oh, never mind,” Sara said, and proceeded to the entrance to the tent, where a scraggly Skaggs volunteer who was possibly trying to grow a mustache ripped her ticket in half, gave her back one part, and she entered the tent.

  It was merely an open space, without seating of any kind, except for the folding chairs under the people selling T-shirts behind the trencher tables along the rear. Families milled on the blacktop under the tent, and at the far end a temporary stage had been set up, flanked by enough giant speakers and amplifiers to send a message to Mars.

  Sara was lithe and slender, a rarity in that crowd. She slithered through the families, intending at first to establish herself all the way up front, but then she took another look at those speakers and amplifiers and veered off instead to a fairly quiet spot midway down the right side.

  Already, children were bored and crying. Already, fathers and mothers were holding fractious infants in their arms and bouncing leadenly from foot to foot. Already, people everywhere looked as though they’d been on this death march for months. But none of them would sit down. A rock-and-roll audience, or a jazz audience, or even a classical music audience, in this situation, would arrange newspapers or jackets or something on the blacktop and sit down, but there’s a sweet instinctive formality to the country fans. Sitting on a blacktop parking lot would not be seemly, so they wouldn’t do it. They would stand, no matter. After all, suffering is the human condition, as the country families well know, here below.

  The show was supposed to start at one and last an hour and a half, so as not to steal any audience from the regular commercial three o’clock shows in the theaters up and down the Strip. And by God, at exactly one o’clock, a fellow in a black frock coat and a black string tie came bounding up onto the stage, grabbed a microphone, grinned, and waited while all those hundreds of people who’d recognized him and wanted to applaud their recognition gave him an (necessarily standing) ovation. Sara realized she was undoubtedly the only person inside this tent who did not know who Mr. Frock Coat was.