Slide by Gerald A Browne Read Free Book Online

ripe and runny enough, a crock of Fauchon mustard and some tiny cold water biscuits from Scotland. Another compartment held a bottle of Aalborg akvavit and a silver ice bucket, sweating.
    Elliot reached forward to knife some cheese onto a biscuit, and then a smear of the mustard. It was on its way to his mouth when Marsha made a whiny sound, begging for it.
    Elliot disregarded her, ate it.
    â€œThat cheese stinks,” said Marsha. From her purse she took a vial of Guerlain’s Vol de Nuit 1933, dabbed some on her wrists and throat. Her current look — hair, makeup, clothes — was a rendition of the thirties. Today she was wearing dove gray, a silk jersey dress by Halston. Gray was now her one and only favorite shade. It never fought her, she claimed, borrowing from the most famous New York fashion photographer who had said it while shooting two pages of her for last month’s Vogue .
    Elliot made another Brie and cracker for himself.
    Marsha’s eyes followed it all the way to his mouth. She watched him chew. She imagined the cheese was poison, pictured Elliot doubled over in anguish, making a horrible dying face. When she saw him swallow she told him: “I read about a woman who grows cultures and eats the slimy stuff.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œCultures, all kinds of germs. She believes it builds up immunity, so she eats it.”
    To erase his distaste Elliot glanced at the rain splattered window. The inside of the window was coated with steam from their breaths. His hand was mid-air when he decided it would be futile and probably unpleasant to wipe the window. He reached for another script, didn’t put on his glasses as he paged apathetically through it. The typed words were blurred beyond comprehension and yet he seemed to be reading; at least he seemed thoughtful.
    After a short while he tossed the script to the floor, leaned forward and got a chunk of ice from the bucket. He made a fist around the ice, held it that way long enough for his fingers to be dripping.
    Marsha saw it coming.
    The word in her mouth was “ please, ” but she didn’t let it out. She didn’t flinch or anything when Elliot placed the piece of ice on her bare skin above her left knee.
    He held it there.
    She managed to pretend her attention was entirely on the television.
    Elliot ran the ice up and down, up and down a short way.
    She shivered, not altogether a cold shiver.
    He ran the ice up under her skirt, up her thigh, sliding it slowly up all the way, between. The ice was soaking her. And her dress beneath her.
    Her eyes closed. Her mouth opened. Now she couldn’t help but say it.
    â€œPlease.”
    Mercy wasn’t what she wanted.
    Elliot knew that. But he stopped using the ice. The piece was considerably reduced. He withdrew it and held it above and she had to stretch up like a feeding baby bird to take it into her mouth.
    At that moment Elliot’s stomach felt a burning. The cheese and especially the mustard came back on him. He searched for some Maalox tablets. He nearly always carried some Maalox with him, however none today. All right, maybe his stomach would settle for a bottle of Perrier. But there didn’t seem to be any Perrier either.
    Over the intercom Elliot told his man, Ted: “Goddamn, there’s no Perrier.”
    Ted apologized.
    Marsha was sitting the same as before, exactly the same, as though someone had instructed her not to move.
    â€œStop and get some,” Elliot told Ted.
    The Rolls limousine turned in at the Seaside Supermarket. As though privileged, it violated the yellow painted lane markings and went diagonally across the parking area to the entrance.
    Ted would go in.
    But while Ted was double-checking with Elliot whether Elliot wanted anything besides Perrier, Marsha opened the door on her side. She jumped out.
    Elliot shouted “no” at her, ordered her back.
    But she was already well away, laughing, hurrying in to avoid the