Free Slate by Nathan Aldyne

“Get me that drink,” she said. “And a harpoon.”
    â€œSweeney is not worth the harpoon,” said Valentine with a shrug. “Most people don’t know who the hell he’s writing about anyway. Come New Year’s Eve, they’re going to be lined up outside no matter what he writes.”
    â€œHe makes me ill,” said Clarisse. “In fact, he’s just given me a headache. I’m going home for a little quiet.”
    â€œGood luck,” said Valentine.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI’m not sure how long Julia and Susie’s truce is going to hold up.”
    â€œThey’re fighting? About what?”
    â€œSame old thing. Julia resents the fact that Susie gets to stay home most of the day while she goes out and does manual labor.”
    Clarisse considered this a moment. “Swimming pool repair and prostitution both have their disadvantages as professions.” She shook her head and went off to retrieve her law book from the back room.
    There she found, to her surprise, Sweeney Drysdale II whispering into Mr. Fred’s ear. Mr. Fred was laughing. Miss America was not laughing. “Come on, Fred,” Miss America was saying, “our guests, our guests…”
    As soon as he saw Clarisse, Mr. Fred’s grin faded and he looked embarrassed. Clarisse knew what Sweeney had been whispering in Mr. Fred’s ear. Mr. Fred said, “Clarisse, this is—”
    Clarisse ignored the beginning of this introduction and said, “America, thank you for a wonderful party. Mr. Fred, you’re the perfect host.” Turning, her eyes grazed across Sweeney whose hand was uselessly extended. “Goodbye,” she said, with a parting smile over her shoulder for Mr. Fred and his sister.

Chapter Six
    C LARISSE’S STUDY WASN’T A large room. The shelves on three walls and above the door made it seem even smaller, but she called it cozy . Her desk and chair faced away from the single window. The floor was thickly carpeted, and the door, covered in cork, served as a bulletin board. When the door was closed Clarisse couldn’t even hear a telephone ring in the next room; the study was her sanctum.
    Half an hour after she had left Mr. Fred’s party, she sat with her elbows resting on the edge of the desk, poring over an open notebook.
    A few minutes later she went into her bedroom and took down a brilliant red football sweater from the top of the closet. It had belonged to Valentine’s father, but the Boston College letter had been removed and lost years before Valentine had given it to her. Clarisse shoved her hands into the pockets and wandered into the kitchen, wondering if a small shot of whiskey wouldn’t calm her so that she could concentrate. While trying to decide whether to pour the whiskey or not, she fished a stale cigarette from one of the packs she’d secreted at the back of her utensil drawer.
    She was about to touch the flame of a match to the tip of her cigarette when she flinched violently and very nearly seared her nose. The whole apartment seemed to reverberate with the sound of squealing tires, crunching metal, and shattering glass. She flung the match into the sink and darted to the window. The sparse traffic below moved slowly and without a hitch.
    Then there was another crash, and Clarisse realized that the noise was coming from the apartment below. More sounds of skidding tires and breaking glass surged up through the floor.
    Clarisse angrily threw the still unlighted cigarette back into the drawer and stalked through her apartment out to the hall, where the noise was even more deafening. She clattered down the stairs to the third floor and repeatedly banged the palm of her hand against the door to Susie and Julia’s apartment. The door was finally jerked open by Susie who had changed into a skintight tennis outfit, hose and heels. In one hand, she held a television remote control device.