Free Mermaids on the Golf Course by Patricia Highsmith

and mugging victims the same; street urchins of wherever; sad-faced animals in zoos. He would make himself famous as the photographer compelled to photograph the seamier side of life.
    He envisaged a book with a few lines under each photograph which would reflect his personal conflict in regard to God and justice. Craig Rollins was convinced of his own conviction, and that was what counted. Plus the belief, of course, that such a book would sell. Hadn’t he proved by Two Battles that such a book would sell?

Chris’s Last Party
    A mong the six or eight letters waiting for Simon Hatton in his hotel suite, he noticed a telegram and opened that first. The sender was Carl, a name that didn’t ring a definite bell.
        
    CHRIS NEAR THE END! WE ARE ALL HERE EXCEPT YOU. ELEVEN OF US. PLEASE COME DONT HESITATE. KNOW YOU ARE WORKING BUT THIS IS IMPORTANT. PHONE 01-984-9322 AND CONFIRM. CHRIS WONT BUDGE WITHOUT YOU! YOUR OLD PAL CARL.
    Carl Parker, of course, and not an old pal, rather an acquaintance, even a rival once. But Christopher Wells on the brink of dying? It seemed incredible, but the old boy was ninety at least—no, ninety-four. And it was emphysema, of course. Chris had been living with an oxygen gadget in his bedroom for the last decade, Simon knew, inhaling from it when he needed it, trying not to inhale the mild cigars the doctor had yielded to and the occasional cigarette that Chris had never totally abandoned. The telegram had come from Zurich. Chris had a chalet with generous grounds near Zurich, and Simon had been there once, the last time he’d seen Chris, perhaps four years ago. Chris had spent half the time in a wheelchair, and what must he be like now? But Simon could imagine: Chris would be throwing a party, keeping his butler busy with champagne, his cook with gourmet dishes at all hours. Chris loved his protégés, and he wouldn’t die without saying good-bye to all of them in person, including Simon, the twelfth (what a coincidence) of the disciples.
    Simon felt suddenly afraid, and it occurred to him that he could ring Zurich and say he ought not to come because as long as he didn’t show up, Chris might go on living, not to mention that Simon was giving eight performances a week now in William in New York.
    Simon jumped at a knock on his door. “Yes? Come in.” He knew it was his champagne arriving.
    “Good evening, sir,” said the white-jacketed waiter. He bore a tray with a quarter bottle of champagne and a few English biscuits of a nonsweet variety. “Am I too early, sir?”
    “No, no, just right.” Simon knew it was six or five past, but he glanced at his wristwatch anyway (it was four past six), then removed his overcoat and noticed that a drop of moisture fell from it. It was snowing today. His fair, rather crinkly hair was damp too.
    Johnny took his coat before Simon realized it, and hung it in a wardrobe. “You’d like to be called as usual, sir, seven-twenty?”
    “Y-yes.” Seven-twenty for a curtain rise at eight-forty.
    Simon always took a nap at this hour until the hotel switchboard awakened him, though he had his own travel clock’s alarm set too. Yesterday being Monday, he’d had the day off and gone to Connecticut to visit friends. He’d been fetched late Sunday night after the show and driven up to Connecticut in his host’s car with a driver. Now Simon felt tired, though it hadn’t been a strenuous holiday. Was he starting to feel old at forty-nine? Awful age, forty-nine, because the next number was fifty. No longer middle-aged, that number, but elderly, definitely.
    He slipped out of his shoes and walked back to the sitting-room table for the rest of his letters. He took off his jacket, trousers and shirt and got into bed. Two letters were fan mail, he saw from the strange names on the return addresses, and one letter had a red expres-eil-sendung stamp on its front. He didn’t recognize this hand either, but it was from Zurich. He opened this, bracing himself