Free A Deadly Shade of Gold by John D. MacDonald Page B

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    High up on one of those crappy buildings they were building, a slab of some kind of imitation stone gunk came out of a sling and fell and hit a cornice and ricocheted across Park Avenue and smashed Tony dead. It was a nice day. He'd decided to walk. A lot of money came out of that, Sam. An awful lot. But I should work at what I'm good at, shouldn't I?"
    "Of course."
    She put her empty glass down. "It's such a family thing, you know. I'm a Borlika. I'm caught in it.
    Probably forever. At least it isn't, for God's sake, a chain of laundries. Beautiful things, Sam.
    Beautiful lovely things to buy and sell."
    We went out. It was well below freezing, and the sky had cleared, the high stars weak against the city glow. The sidewalks were dry. We walked to her place, her tall heels tocking, her arm hooked firmly around mine.
    "You don't say anything about yourself Sam."
    "Nothing much to say. I keep moving. I hustle a little of this and a little of that. I avoid agitation."
    "When this is over, what will you do?"
    "Bahamas, maybe. Lease a little ketch, ram around, fish, play with the play people. Drink black Haitian rum. Snorkel around the coral heads and watch the pretty fish."
    "God! Can I sign on?"
    "As cabin boy? Sure."
    We arrived at her place. Three stone steps up to the street door. "Nightcap time?" she said as she got her key out.
    "If it doesn't have to be brandy"
    "Right. The hell with brandy."
    The elevator was a little larger than a phone booth. It creaked and juggled and shimmied upward, taking a long time to reach the fourth floor. She had become very animated and chatty, posing her face this way and that as though I held a camera aimed at her, talking as though we were recording it all. Women act that way on television commercials.
    Her apartment was big. She bustled about, turning on strategic lighting, tossing her cape aside.
    Modern paintings, lighted by spots, made big bright explosions on the walls. A complex wire sculpture on a low pedestal was lighted in such a way it threw a huge mysterious shadow form on a far wall.

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    "In spite of all the Borlikas," she said, "my personal tastes are contemporary. I happen to feel that...." The phone started ringing. She excused herself, started toward it, then went into the bedroom and closed the door. The phone stopped. She came back out a few moments later, brisk and chatty.
    She opened a small lacquered bar and scurried off to the kitchen to get cubes. I made us two tall highballs. She took me on a circular tour of inspection of the paintings and sculpture, lecturing like a museum guide.
    Then she said, "I do have one little collection of eighteenth century art. Come along." With a brassy and forlorn confidence she marched me into her bedroom. It was more persuasively feminine than I would have guessed, canopied bed, pastel ruffles and furry rugs. She turned on a display light which illuminated a dark blue panel in the bedroom wall. In random arrangement against the panel were a dozen or so delicate little paintings, most of them round, a few of them oval, all framed in narrow gold, all a little smaller than saucers.
    "French," she said. "Metallic paints on tortoise shell. It was a precious little fad for a time. They are quite rare and valuable."
    "Very nice," I said.
    "Look at them closely, dear," she said, with a mocking smile.
    I did so, and suddenly realized that they were not what they appeared to be, not innocent little scenes of life in the king's court. They were not pornographic. They were merely exquisitely, decadently sensual.
    "I'll be damned!" I said, and she gave a husky laugh of delight.
    She moved closer and pointed to one. "This is my favorite. Will you just look at the fatuous expression on that sly devil's face."
    "And she looks so completely innocent."
    "Of course," she said. Her smile faded as she looked at me. She turned and with exaggerated care placed her empty glass on a small ornate table with a white marble