Free Corkscrew by Donald E. Westlake Page A

friend of the rat's once said he'd never heard of a trial separation that didn't work, but I say the trial comes before the separation. So who left who? What's she like?'
    What to say? How to handle this? He had to tell some lies, but not too many. He could describe Susan as she was, but give her a bit more of that hard edge she could sometimes have, not with him, but that tough flat voice he'd heard her use on the phone a few times, talking with people about things related to her job. 'Her name is Susan,' he said. 'Susan Costello.'
    'She kept her maiden name?'
    'On the job.'
    'What job?'
    'She works for an outfit called UniCare,' he told her. 'They allocate money to charities.'
    'What does she do there?'
    'She's the assistant director.'
    'Of the whole thing?'
    'Yeah, the whole thing.'
    'It sounds like a big deal,' she said. 'Is it?'
    'Yeah, it is. She's testified before congressional committees a couple times. Mostly, though, it's just keeping everything running.'
    The waitress brought a small dish, then an
amuse gueules
'compliments of the chef': avocado puree on sesame-crusted salmon with a dab of Japanese barbeque sauce. When they'd admired it and eaten it, Lucie said, 'So your Susan makes good money.'
    'Pretty good,' he agreed. 'Charity work isn't that great, but pretty good.'
    'That explains it,' she said.
    The waitress took away the small plates and brought their first courses. Lucie started to eat, and Wayne said, 'Explains what?'
    She held her fork up to say,
wait, my mouth is full,
then put it down to sip some wine. 'Very good wine.'
    'Thank you.'
    'And a really good restaurant. You chose well.'
    'Thank you again.'
    He waited, but she didn't say anything else. When she reached for her fork, he said, 'Explains what?'
    'Oh,' she said, as though it hardly mattered. 'I looked you up in Amazon.'
    'Oh, did you?' She was that interested, at least.
    'You haven't published anything for years and years.'
    'Eight years.' No point getting into the tribulations of Tim Fleet.
    'And everything's out of print,' she said. 'I clicked for used copies, and there were just a few, for not much money.'
    'I've never looked myself up in Amazon,' he said. 'I suppose I ought to.'
    'Don't,' she advised, 'you'll find it depressing. But I wondered, what were you living on? I mean, you don't have a job, you go around saying you're a writer. But now, I guess, the only question is, what will you live on after Susan divorces you? She's the one leaving, isn't she?'
    'Yes,' he said. 'But I'm not living on Susan, if that's what you mean.'
    'Oh?'
    'I've had editorial work,' he said, 'other writing work. I support myself.'
    'Well, you don't have to be defensive about it,' she said, but there was a gleam in her eye.
     
     
    Between the appetizer and the main course, she said, 'Will you get alimony?'
    'What, me? From Susan? No, of course not.'
    'Men can, you know. And, God knows, she won't get any from you.'
    'You'll be getting alimony,' he said.
    'You're damn right I will,' she agreed. 'Once the lawyers get finished with their little dance, and I don't care how long it takes, the longer the better for me, I'm going to be rich, and glad of it. And don't think I haven't earned it. Seven years of
his
ego. And let's not even
talk
about sex.'
    'I didn't intend to,' he said.
    She looked at him with laughing surprise. 'Wit!' she cried. 'I had no idea you could be witty! Wit
and
brilliance. What a catch you'll be for some solvent girl.'
     
     
    He paid cash, to avoid any record in this neighborhood. Walking homeward, Columbus Avenue traffic behind them now, giving the sidewalk ahead of them a shifting dull gray gleam, the sky above them featureless, not black but like a thick black cloth over a faint source of light, she said, 'I had fun.'
    I'm sure you did, he thought, but said, 'So did I. That's a good place.'
    'Do you miss writing?' she asked.
    'I write,' he said, but he himself could hear that he was being defensive again.
    'I mean novel writing,' she said.