End of the Tiger by John D. MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

the picture. You get married. You have to draw more. It stands to reason. You draw more, and I have to draw more, or else let the firm owe me. So what happens to the plans? We start leveling off. We don’t grow any more. The answer is we have an outfit that gives us both a nice comfortable living. But is that enough? I thought we had the idea of really getting big. Marriage in five years, Quent. Fine, I’d say. But right now … hell, you can see how I feel.”
    “She’d understand that, Mack. She really would. She’s smart. You can tell that. We draw a hundred apiece right now. We could stay within that.”
    “For five years? You and she and your three kids? Life doesn’t work that way. If she’s that smart, she’s going to know what we’re netting, kid. And she’s going to start resenting the way we keep ploughing it back in. She’s going to wonder why she has to take it easy during the good years so that she can have more dough later on when she won’t enjoy it so much. Kitties love the cream, kid.”
    “I can’t help it, Mack. I’ve … got to marry her.”
    “Name it after me.”
    “Damn it, you always twist things around.”
    “Take it easy, Quent. Anyway, how much do you know about this girl? I’m only eight years older than you, but by God, sometimes I feel forty years older. Marriage lasts a long time. At least it’s supposed to. Don’t rush into it. How long have you known her, anyway?”
    “Six weeks, Mack.”
    “Know a girl six months and marry her and it’s still fast. I always have to keep slowing you up. You know that. Remember the Berton deal? That could have been a real jam if I let you go ahead the way you wanted to.” Mack tossed off the rest of his drink and stood up. “Finish your beer, Quent. I’m bushed.”
    They went back out to the car, and Mack dropped Quent off at his small apartment, headed on east as though going to his place, then circled and went back to Marie’s apartment.
    He sat in his car for a time without going in. He lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly, frowning ahead through the windshield at the dark street. A city bus hissed to a stop, let a man off, waddled off down the street.
    From what Quent had said about her he had expected Erica Holmes to be Miss Anemia. A bloodless and bifocaled thing with elfin mannerisms. Quent wasn’t noted for his taste in women. But Erica had been a thing to stir the blood. Every time, during the evening, when she had been close to him, the backs of Mack’s hands had tingled. She was a grave brunette, her hair so dark it looked almost blue under lights. She had tilted gray eyes, that husky voice, and a body suitable for a calendar in any repair shop. But it was more than that, he knew. It was a certain aura, an invisible emanation of desirability that could be felt ten feet away from her and increased in geometric proportion as he got closer. And she obviously had the kid mumbling to himself. He thought of one little incident during the evening. When he had danced with her, she had become rigid each time he tried to pull her closer. And once, when dancing, her fingertips had accidentally brushed the nape of his neck, and they had felt like ice. He sat, eyes narrowed, thinking. He got out, flicked his cigarette away, and walkedslowly toward the lobby entrance, separating the proper key from the others.
    Mack was at his desk when Quent came in, whistling. Mack saw Mrs. Ober slant a speculative glance at Quent, and he knew that Mrs. Ober was not deceived. Prior to Erica, Quent had been a young man who never came in whistling. Mack had coldly selected Quent for the fine intuitive quality of his intelligence. The younger man was not the sort of person with whom Mack felt most at ease. Mack thought of Erica for a time, and then sighed and turned back to the work on his desk.
    At eleven o’clock Mack went out. As he waited for the elevator he turned and looked at the door of the reception room. Landers and Dale. It had started