Puzzle for Pilgrims by Patrick Quentin Read Free Book Online Page A

didn’t seem to be mad. She had moved even closer, uncurling her little legs. Her golden hair was brushing the lapel of my coat.
    “No, Peter. No. What would you do if you were I?”
    “I’d go back to Chicago or Pittsburgh or wherever it is and sit on my pile of dollars until another man comes along who’s stupid enough to think the money’s worth the gamble. Marry him. After that, do anything you want with him. I won’t be interested because by then you’ll be out of my life.”
    She had half closed her eyes. She had surprisingly heavy lids, like a doll’s. She sank toward me. Her arms slid up me; her hands, with the thick bracelet on the thin wrist, twined around my neck.
    “You think that, Peter? You really think that?”
    I put my hands on her small waist to push her away. Suddenly her lips dug into mine.
    “You understand me,” she breathed. “I thought you would. When I first saw you at the bullfight, I thought you’d understand me. Such shoulders. A fighter’s jaw. A man’s face.”
    “For God’s sake.” I was angry because she’d fooled me. I’d never expected this.
    Her lips slid to mine again. She was slumped against me. She was surprisingly heavy for her smallness, like the eyelids. She was crooning words of endearment. She wanted me. She needed a real man like me, someone who was strong, who could slap her down. She’d always known weak men, men like Martin sapping her strength, making her the strong one. She didn’t want to be strong. She didn’t want to boss. She wanted to be bossed, she wanted to be kicked. Her body against mine was warm, but it wasn’t real warmth, it was like the warmth of a fever. It was repulsive to me, just as the soft, monotonous coo of her voice was repulsive.
    I pushed her away. I held her there, my hands on her arms. She stared back at me glassily, her lips half parted.
    “You don’t want me,” she said.
    “No,” I said.
    “Why?” Her eyes flashed with weak venom. “It’s Iris.”
    “I didn’t say so.”
    “You’ve got someone else?” Her little hands flashed down, gripping my wrists. “There’s someone else. The woman with the glass, the woman with the cigarette butts.”
    I said, “It’s none of your business whether there is or not.”
    “Who is she?” Her nails were digging into the skin of my wrists. I flicked her hands off. “Who is she? Tell me.”
    “You’d better go home,” I said. “Throw Martin and Marietta in jail. Foul up everything. Go on. You’re not worth bothering about.”
    “Tell me who she is.” Tears were staining her cheeks, hot tears of fury. “Why should everyone get something but me? Why am I always left out? Why should you have someone else?” She stamped her foot against the carpet. “Tell me who she is.”
    She’d had a stray sex impulse. She hadn’t been able to satisfy it. It was like having a lunatic on my hands. Maybe it wasn’t like. Maybe it was actually having a lunatic on my hands.
    I got up. I slung an arm around her and dragged her up too. I went for the yellow coat, picked it off the floor, and threw it around her shaking shoulders.
    “You’d better go home.”
    She stood there, her hands clenched at her sides.
    “Who’s the woman? I’ve got to know. Who’s the woman?”
    The door opened then. I heard the velador muttering, “ Gracias, Señorita.” I turned around.
    Marietta had come into the room.

Five
    She came toward us, tall, impeccable. The dark, clean hair hung loose around her shoulders. Seeing her over Sally’s disordered face was like a draught of spring water after a mouthful of dust. She had never looked lovelier, but I wished she hadn’t chosen this of all moments to come.
    She glanced at Sally, making no situation out of it at all.
    “Hello, Sally. Hello, Peter.”
    I don’t think Sally had realized that anyone had come in until she heard Marietta’s voice. She spun around, the gold hair swinging like a bell. She backed up against me, her thin, hot body pressing.