that I fuck the best. Figure it out, if you can! The last time I slept with her, just to give you an illustration, I didn’t bother to take my clothes off. I climbed in—coat, shoes, and all. It seemed perfectly natural, considering the state of mind I was in. Nor did it bother her in the least. As I say, I climbed into bed with her fully dressed and I said: ‘Why don’t we just lie here and fuck ourselves to death?’ A strange idea, what? Especially coming from a respected lawyer with a family and all that. Anyway, the words had hardly left my mouth when I said to myself: ‘You dope! You’re dead already. Why pretend?’ How do you like that? With that I gave myself up to it . . . to the fucking, I mean.”
Here I threw in a teaser. Had he ever pictured himself, I asked, possessing a prick . . . and using it! . . . in the hereafter?
“Have I?” he exclaimed. “That’s just what bothers me, that very thought. An immortal life with an extension prick hooked to my brain is something I don’t fancy in the least. Not that I want to lead the life of an angel either. I want to be myself, John Stymer, with all the bloody problems that are mine. I want time to think things out . . . a thousand years or more. Sounds goofy, doesn’t it? But that’s how I’m built. The Marquis de Sade, he had loads of time on his hands. He thought out a lot of things, I must admit, but I can’t agree with his conclusions. Anyway, what I want to say is—it’s not so terrible to spend your life in prison . . . if you have an active mind. What is terrible is to make a prisoner of yourself. And that’s what most of us are—self-made prisoners. There are scarcely a dozen men in a generation who break out. Once you see life with a clear eye it’s all a farce. A grand farce. Imagine a man wasting his life defending or convicting others! The business of law is thoroughly insane. Nobody is a whit better off because we have laws. No, it’s a fool’s game, dignified by giving it a pompous name. Tomorrow I may find myself sitting on the bench. A judge, no less. Will I think any more of myself because I’m called a judge? Will I be able to change anything? Not on your life. I’ll play the game again . . . the judge’s game. That’s why I say we’re licked from the start. I’m aware of the fact that we all have a part to play and that all anyone can do, supposedly, is to play his part to the best of his ability. Well, I don’t like my part. The idea of playing a part doesn’t appeal to me. Not even if the parts be interchangeable. You get me? I believe it’s time we had a new deal, a new setup. The courts have to go, the laws have to go, the police have to go, the prisons have to go. It’s insane, the whole business. That’s why I fuck my head off. You would too, if you could see it as I do.” He broke off, sputtering like a firecracker.
After a brief silence he informed me that we were soon there. “Remember, make yourself at home. Do anything, say anything you please. Nobody will stop you. If you want to take a crack at her, it’s O.K. with me. Only don’t make a habit of it!”
The house was shrouded in darkness as we pulled into the driveway. A note was pinned to the dining-room table. From Belle, the great fuckeree. She had grown tired of waiting for us, didn’t believe we would make it, and so on.
“Where is she, then?” I asked.
“Probably gone to the city to stay the night with a friend.”
He didn’t seem greatly upset, I must say. After a few grunts . . . “the bitch this” and “the bitch that” . . . he went to the refrigerator to see what there was in the way of leftovers.
“We might as well stay the night here,” he said. “She’s left us some baked beans and cold ham, I see. Will that hold you?”
As we were polishing off the remnants he informed me that there was a comfortable room upstairs with twin beds. “Now we can have a good talk,” he said.
I was ready enough for bed but not for a heart-to-heart talk. As for Stymer, nothing seemed capable of slowing down the machinery of his mind, neither frost nor drink nor fatigue itself.
I would have dropped off immediately on hitting the pillow had Stymer not opened fire in the way he did. Suddenly I was as wide-awake as if I had taken a double dose of benzedrine. His first words, delivered in a steady, even tone, electrified me.
“There’s nothing surprises you very much, I notice. Well, get a load of this. . . .”
That’s how he began.
“One of the reasons I’m such a good lawyer is because I’m also something of a criminal. You’d hardly think me capable of plotting another person’s death, would you? Well, I am. I’ve decided to do away with my wife. Just how, I don’t know yet. It’s not because of Belle, either. It’s just that she bores me to death. I can’t stand it any longer. For twenty years now I haven’t had an intelligent word from her. She’s driven me to the last ditch, and she knows it. She knows all about Belle; there’s never been any secret about that. All she cares about is that it shouldn’t leak out. It’s my wife, God damn her! who turned me into a masturbator. I was that sick of her, almost from the beginning, that the thought of sleeping with her made me ill. True, we might have arranged a divorce. But why support a lump of clay for the rest of my life? Since I fell in with Belle I’ve had a chance to do a little thinking and planning. My one aim is to get out of the country, far away, and start all over again. At what I don’t know. Not the law, certainly. I want isolation and I want to do as little work as possible.”
He took a breath. I made no comments. He expected none.
“To be frank with you, I was wondering if I could tempt you to join me. I’d take care of you as long the money held out, that’s understood. I was thinking it out as we drove here. That note from Belle—I dictated the message. I had no thought of switching things when we started, please believe me. But the more we talked the more I felt that you were just the person I’d like to have around, if I made the jump.”
He hesitated a second, then added: “I had to tell you about my wife because . . . because to live in close quarters with someone and keep a secret of that sort would be too much of a strain.”
“But I’ve got a wife too!” I found myself exclaiming. “Though I haven’t much use for her, I don’t see myself doing her in just to run off somewhere with you.”
“I understand,” said Stymer calmly. “I’ve given thought to that too.”
“So?”
“I could get you a divorce easily enough and see to it that you don’t have to pay alimony. What do you say to that?”
“Not interested,” I replied. “Not even if you could provide another woman for me. I have my own plans.”
“You don’t think I’m a queer, do you?”
“No, not at all. You’re queer, all right, but not in that way. To be honest with you, you’re not the sort of person I’d want to be around for long. Besides, it’s all too damned vague. It’s more like a bad dream.”
He took this with his habitual unruffled calm. Whereupon, impelled to say something more, I demanded to know what it was that he expected of me, what did he hope to obtain from such a relationship?
I hadn’t the slightest fear of being tempted into such a crazy adventure, naturally, but I thought it only decent to pretend to draw him out. Besides, I was curious as to what he thought my role might be.
“It’s hard to know where to begin,” he drawled. “Supposing . . . just suppose, I say . . . that we found a good place to hide away. A place like Costa Rica, for example, or Nicaragua, where life is easy and the climate agreeable. And suppose you found a girl you liked .
