Free Dreams Are Not Enough by Jacqueline Briskin

psychotic—and implacable.
    Barry smiled uncertainly.
    “Were you worried, Uncle Desmond?”
    “Hardly.” Desmond Cordiner spoke in a way that indicated such proclivities were impossible among his relations.
    “On the other hand, the bad news is you’re a horse’s ass.”
    Barry’s left eyelid began twitching.
    Alicia shifted in the deep upholstery, moving closer to her husband.
    “You don’t have any right to talk to Barry like that, Mr. Cordiner,” she said.
    The drink splashed violently in Desmond Cordiner’s hand. He was the tribal chieftain, and nobody in the family had ever dared tell him what he could or could not say. His face was terrifying. It was as though the tanned skin were stretched into a mask—obviously the mannered charm could be put on and off like a piece of clothing.
    “Since when do I need a fucking right to talk to my nephew?”
    “You weren’t talking to him, you were insulting him.” Alicia’s heart was banging so hard that she was positive the erratic movements were visible through the borrowed shift.
    “And whether you like it or not, we’re married.”
    Desmond Cordiner turned to Barry.
    “Barry, I’m about to show you how easy it is to become a single man again.”
    “Uncle Desmond … I don’t w-want” -Barry stammered.
    But the sunglasses were fixed on Alicia.
    “How much have you got in mind?”
    “Much?”
    “Money.”
    “We have enough,” she said.
    “Of course you do. That’s why you’re scrubbing other people’s shit out of toilets.”
    Alicia’s surge of fury blanked out fear.
    “For the time being, Mr.
    Cordiner, I work. Later on Barry’ll support me. “
    “Bullshit.”
    “He’ll have his law practice.”
    “If you’ve a brain in your head you’ll see that he’ll never make it through college, much less law school, if he’s married to you.”
    “I will, Uncle Desmond,” Barry muttered.
    “You don’t have the staying power, you never did. Beth got the stamina and sense of responsibility. All you want to do is waste your time at the typewriter and pretend you’re Ernest Hemingway.” His shielded gaze returned to Alicia.
    “I want your claws out of my nephew—so tell me the tab.”
    “Uncle Desmond” — “Shut up, Barry. This is between me and Mrs. Bigmouth Cordiner here.
    One thousand bucks? “
    “You’re only embarrassing yourself, Mr. Cordiner.”
    “I’ll do a damn sight more than embarrass myself to get one of my family out of hot water. Fifteen hundred?”
    “I don’t want your money.” The fury that gave her courage had blanched her face.
    “Two thousand.”
    Alicia got to her feet.
    Desmond Cordiner’s frightening tension remained, but for a moment his head tilted as if her continued refusal not only surprised him but also challenged him.
    “Twenty-five hundred.” He shifted his weight so he could reach into the back pocket of his slacks to draw out a large wad of bills that were divided by five paperclips. Heavy paper thumped and metal clicked as he tossed the money on the coffee table.
    Alicia stared. Angled across the corners of the visible bills was the number 100. She had never before seen a hundred-dollar bill. It was incomprehensible to her that anyone, even a man who owned—no, ran—Magnum Pictures, could carry all this money, much less toss it at a stranger.
    “Not a nickel more.” Now Desmond Cordiner was smiling benignly.
    “Cash on the line.”
    “Barry,” she said quietly, hiding her sudden, panicky dizziness, “I’d like to go home. Right away.”
    The blood drained from Barry’s head. Desmond Cordiner was the man before whom all Magnum trembled, and none of the hierarchy of executives, none of the major stars or the thousands of employees—including his father and uncle—dared walk out before he signaled the interview was over. Yet Barry found himself mutely leading the way to the front door.
    The instant Alicia got into the old De Soto, she crumpled and began to weep.
    Barry drove jerkily