Free McMurtry, Larry - Novel 05 by Cadillac Jack (v1.0)

             "Jake's waiting for him to die,"
Cindy explained.
                   "Why?"
                   "Jake's writing his autobiography,"
she said. "It's called The Last Professional.' Actually, it's finished,
but he can't publish it while Dunny's alive, because Dunny's a professional,
too. I hope I'm around when he finally publishes it."
                   "Eager to read it,
huh?" I said.
                   "Are you kidding?" Cindy said.
"I just wanta go to the parties. All the right people will give him
parties. They do anyway, but these will be better parties. People from London and Paris will have to fly over."
                   "Why is Mrs. Cotswinkle beating her
husband?" I asked.
                   "That's plain as a peanut," Cindy
said. "She just found out he's fucking Olivia Brown."
                  

Chapter XIV
     
                   To Jake Ponsonby's evident disappointment,
Dunscombe Cotswinkle was not dead.
                   For that matter, he was not even subdued. As
the next-to-last professional, he did not take kindly to being slapped around.
When he finally got the sleep out of his eyes anger took its place. I twice saw
him try to backhand his wife, but both times Perkins caught his arm and
pretended to be stuffing it into a coat.
                   Within his limited domain, Perkins'
professionalism was equal to either Cotswinkle's or Ponsonby's.
                   If anything, Ponsonby was harder to handle.
The evening seemed to have taken a good deal out of him. He began to wobble, as
if his legs were made of rubber, and wandered off down the hall in search of
Lilah Landry.
                   Unfortunately, Lilah had just left with Eviste
Labouchere, the small French journalist. This fact surprised no one but me.
                   "Lilah's a star-fucker," Cindy said.
"Only she can't figure out who the stars are. On the whole I find her
vague.
                   "I think she's got Eviste mixed up with
Bernard Henri L6vy," Cindy added. "Can you imagine?"
                   I couldn't, since I had never heard of Bernard
Henri Levy. Naturally I didn't admit it.
                   At that point Ponsonby wobbled back in. Seeing
a tall woman, he assumed he'd found Lilah.
                   "My dear, they said you'd gone," he
bleated, staring upward toward Cindy's bosom.
                   Cindy just laughed her vigorous laugh.
                   "You got the wrong lady, Jake," she
said. "Lilah went home."
                   The news struck Ponsonby to the heart.
"It isn't time to leave. I haven't left.
                   "Premature, so premature," he added. "The silly girl."
                   With that he turned abruptly and wobbled off
in search of a lower bosom. He promptly found one, too—it belonged to the
Guatemalan who was gathering up the brandy snifters. The maid was swifter of
foot than he was, but he trailed forlornly after her for a while, until she lost him completely by reversing her field and darting off toward the
kitchen.
                   "It's my impression that this means the
end of Western civilization as we know it," he said, as he came back by.
                   "Gee," I said, once he was out of
earshot. "Maybe Lilah should have stuck around."
                   Cindy wasn't worried about Western
civilization. "Let's split," she said.
                   The Penrose mansion was on N Street, while
Cindy's house was on Q, down the alphabet but up the hill.
                   It was a brisk night and we walked along
briskly, in tandem with it. Cindy seemed indignant, a state that comes
naturally to her.
                   "Pencil's had it," she said, after
half a block.
                   "Why?"