Whispers

Tony slid into the booth, facing Frank.

Penny, a sandy-haired waitress with pinchable cheeks and a dimpled chin, stopped by the table. She ruffled Tony’s hair and said, “What do you want, Renoir?”

“A million in cash, a Rolls-Royce, eternal life, and the acclaim of the masses,” Tony said.

“What’ll you settle for?”

“A bottle of Coors.”

“That we can provide,” she said.

“Bring me another Scotch,” Frank said. When she went to the bar to get their drinks, Frank said, “Why’d she call you Renoir?”

“He was a famous French painter.”

“So?”

“Well, I’m a painter, too. Neither French nor famous. It’s just Penny’s way of teasing me.”

“You paint pictures?” Frank asked.

“Certainly not houses.”

“How come you never mentioned it?”

“I made a few observations about fine art a time or two,” Tony said. “But you greeted the subject with a marked lack of interest. In fact, you couldn’t have shown less enthusiasm if I’d wanted to debate the fine points of Swahili grammar or discuss the process of decomposition in dead babies.”

“Oil paintings?” Frank asked.

“Oils. Pen and ink. Watercolors. A little bit of everything, but mostly oils.”

“How long you been at it?”

“Since I was a kid.”

“Have you sold any?”

“I don’t paint to sell.”

“What do you do it for?”

“My own satisfaction.”

“I’d like to see some of your work.”

“My museum has odd hours, but I’m sure a visit can be arranged.”

“Museum?”

“My apartment. There’s not much furniture in it, but it’s chockfull of paintings.”

Penny brought their drinks.

They were silent for a while, and then they talked for a few minutes about Bobby Valdez, and then they were silent again. There were about sixteen or eighteen people in the bar. Several of them had ordered sandwiches. The air was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of sizzling ground sirloin and chopped onions.

Finally, Frank said, “I suppose you’re wondering why we’re here like this.”

“To have a couple of drinks.”

“Besides that.” Frank stirred his drink with a swizzle stick. Ice cubes rattled softly. “There are a few things I have to say to you.”

“I thought you said them all this morning, in the car, after we left Vee Vee Gee.”

“Forget what I said then.”

“You had a right to say it.”

“I was full of shit,” Frank said.

“No, maybe you had a point.”

“I tell you, I was full of shit.”

“Okay,” Tony said. “You were full of shit.”

Frank smiled. “You could have argued with me a bit more.”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” Tony said.

“I was wrong about the Thomas woman.”

“You already apologized to her, Frank.”

“I feel like I should apologize to you.”

“Not necessary.”

“But you saw something there, saw she was telling the truth. I didn’t even get a whiff of that. I was off on the wrong scent altogether. Hell, you even pushed my nose in it, and I couldn’t pick up the right smell.”

“Well, sticking strictly to nasal imagery, you might say you couldn’t get the scent because your nose was so far out of joint.”

Frank nodded glumly. His broad face seemed to sag into the melancholy mask of a bloodhound. “Because of Wilma. My nose is out of joint because of Wilma.”

“Your ex-wife?”

“Yeah. You hit it right on the head this morning when you said I’ve been a woman-hater.”

“Must have been bad, what she did to you.”

“No matter what she did,” Frank said, “that’s no excuse for what I’ve let happen to me.”

“You’re right.”

“I mean, you can’t hide from women, Tony.”

“They’re everywhere,” Tony agreed.

“Christ, you know how long it’s been since I slept with a woman?”

“No.”

“Ten months. Since she left me, since four months before the divorce came through.”

Tony couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t feel he knew Frank well enough to engage in an intimate discussion of his sex life, yet it was obvious that the man badly needed someone to listen and care.

“If I don’t get back in the swim pretty soon,” Frank said, “I might as well go away and be a priest.”

Tony nodded. “Ten months sure is a long time,” he said awkwardly.

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