The editor paused again, thoughtfully.
“Jane was either unconscious by that time or she has deliberately chosen to forget what happened next.
Reg sat down in his office chair and put the muzzle of the.45 against the center of his forehead. He pulled the trigger. The bullet did not pass through his brain and leave him a living vegetable, nor did it travel in a semicircle around his skull and exit harmlessly on the far side. The fantasy was flexible, but the final bullet was
as hard as it could be. He fell forward across the typewriter, dead.
“When the police broke in, they found him that way; Jane was sitting in a far corner, semiconscious.
“The typewriter was covered with blood, presumably filled with blood as well; head wounds are very, very messy.
“All of the blood was Type O.
“Reg Thorpe’s type.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my story; I can tell no more.” Indeed, the editor’s voice had been reduced to little more than a husky whisper.
There was none of the usual post-party chatter, or even the awkwardly bright conversation people
sometimes use to cover a cocktail-party indiscretion of some moment, or to at least disguise the fact that things had at some point become much more serious than a dinner-party situation usually warranted.
But as the writer saw the editor to his car, he was unable to forbear one final question. “The story,” he said. “What happened to the story?”
“You mean Reg’s — ”
” ‘The Ballad of the Flexible Bullet,’ that’s right. The story that caused it all. That was the real flexible bullet — for you, if not for him. What in the hell happened to this story that was so goddam great?”
The editor opened the door of his car; it was a small blue Chevette with a sticker on the back bumper which read
FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS DRIVE DRUNK. “No, it W3S never
published. If Reg had a carbon copy, he destroyed it following my receipt and acceptance of the tale —
considering his paranoid feelings about they, that would have been very much in character.
“I had his original plus three photocopies with me when I went into the Jackson River. All four in a cardboard carton. If I’d put that carton in the trunk, I would have the story now, because the rear end of my car never went under — even if it had, the pages could have been dried out. But I wanted it close to me, so I put it in the front, on the driver’s side. The windows were open when I went into the water. The pages… I assume they just floated away and were carried out to sea. I’d rather believe that than believe they rotted along with the rest of the trash at the bottom of that river, or were eaten by catfish, or something even less aesthetically pleasing.
To believe they were carried out to sea is more romantic, and slightly more unlikely, but in matters of what I choose to believe, I find I can still be flexible.
“So to speak.”
The editor got into his small car and drove away. The writer stood and watched until the taillights had winked out, and then turned around. Meg was there, standing at the head of their walk in the darkness, smiling a little tentatively at him. Her arms were crossed tightly across her bosom, although the night was warm.
“We’re the last two,” she said. “Want to go in?”
“Sure.”
Halfway up the walk she stopped and said: “There are no Fornits in your typewriter, are there, Paul?”
And the writer, who had sometimes — often — wondered exactly where the words did come from, said bravely: “Absolutely not.”
They went inside arm in arm and closed the door against the night.