Free The Caveman's Valentine by George Dawes Green

wear?”
    “Twelve.”
    “Bob’s a ten. No good. Better try to keep them under the piano when you’re doing your gig.”
    Then she called to Bob. “Darling, you know your old black topcoat?”
    “Which one?”
    “With the tortoiseshell buttons that I don’t like?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Can Romulus have that?”
    Bob chuckled. “You don’t want him to freeze to death, do you?”
    She ran and got the coat. Romulus tried it on.
    “Very nice,” said Betty.
    Bob brought the drinks. He lifted his own and said, “To
reorga
nization.
”
    They all took a sip. Then Bob lifted his glass again.
    “To the eternal cycles of
failure
and
reorganization.
”
    They drank.
    “Well, you can take it off now,” said Betty. “Relax awhile.”
    Romulus took off the coat and draped it on the sofa, and sat beside it. He took another sip of his drink.
    Betty, staring, asked him, “OK, now tell us, who is Cornelius Gregg Stuyvesant?”
    “Gould.”
    “And you say he’s
watching
us?”
    “Where do you work, Betty?”
    “Seventh Avenue. I’m a rep for Mizzy Jeans.”
    “Right. See, Stuyvesant owns Mizzy Jeans. It’s a subsidiary of Robert Hall, Incorporated, which he bought in the sixties. He’s your boss, Betty.”
    “Oh.”
    “It used to be owned by this guy Robert Hall, but Stuyvesant had him killed.”
    “How did he do that?”
    “Had him injected with some disease. It’s his usual method.”
    “Oh. And he
watches
us?”
    “Damn straight. You don’t see him?”
    “Where?”
    “In his fucking tower.”
    Bob didn’t raise his eyes. He muttered, “He’s talking about the Chrysler Building, darling.”
    She said, “Which one is that?”
    Bob told her, “Left of the Empire State. That little needle.”
    She found it. “Oh, yes.”
    Romulus scowled. “And do you see the Y-ray beam, Bob and Betty?”
    “The what?”
    “Look, spare me the bald-ass innocence act, OK?
I know damn
well you see it.
”
    Bob coughed significantly.
    “Darling, maybe we better not talk about Cornelius Gould Stuyvesant right now.”
    “Makes you nervous, Bob? Something you don’t want her to
know
? Huh,
Bob
?”
    Romulus realized he hated the name
Bob.
He took another sip and made it a big swallow. Crossed his legs again. What’s the matter with my shoes? They don’t like the holes in my shoes? He wagged his foot at them, insolently.
    “In fact,” he said, “Stuyvesant’s got a
lot
of methods for killing people. And so often he likes to toy with them first. Torture them awhile, then dump their bodies in the snow. And what do you know about
that,
Bob?”
    Bob had nothing to say.
    Said Romulus,
“‘You wouldn’t want him to freeze to death, would
you?’
Oh, I just
loved
that one.
Bob.
”
    Bob and Betty took a sip. Romulus didn’t. He shut his eyes.
    Boom-boom,
went the blood in his temples. The Moth-Seraphs swarmed and whirled.
    He took a breath. Set his teeth. After a long while he produced a brief chuckle, and then said hoarsely: “OK, listen. It may be that I have been impolite. Please . . .”
    He found he could speak civilly if he spoke with formality.
    “Please if I have been impolite, or ungenerous in any way, please.
Please?
Forgive me, and I think I better go. Right. But my undying gratitude for the clothes. And the shave and haircut. And the lime rickey, which was needless to say excellent. Heh heh.”
    In silence, he went to the bathroom and gathered up his own forlorn rags.
    When he came out he dug in his pocket.
    “I nearly forgot. Your pen. Thank you.”
    He set it on the chrome-edged coffee table.
    “Thank you, Romulus.”
    “I’m very outspoken sometimes. Forgive me that.”
    “Good luck, Romulus.”
    “Good luck, Romulus.”
    That’s when he saw it. Out the big window he saw the blast of light shooting from Stuyvesant’s tower. Though it was thicker than light, and heavier, and not quite so fast. Romulus saw it coming.
    He gaped at it, and he was astonished and terrified.
Because this
was not a