Free An American Dream by Norman Mailer Page A

right there in the hall, her back against those velvet flowers while I fired one hot fierce streak of fierce bright murder, fierce as the demon in the eyes of a bright golden child.
    Something in her leaped to catch that child, I felt some avarice shake its way through; she was beginning as I was done, pinching and squeezing at the back of my neck: she came in ten seconds behind. “Oh,” she said, “you are trying to woo me.” By which time I was cold as ice, and kissed her mockingly on the nose.
    “Now, listen,” I said, “take a shower.”
    “Why?” She shook her head, pretending a half-bewilderment. But those forty seconds had drawn us to focus with each other. I felt as fine and evil as a razor and just as content with myself. There was something further in her I’d needed, some bitter perfect salt, narrow and mean as the eye of a personnel director.
    “Because, my pet, the police will be here in five minutes.”
    “You called them?”
    “Of course.”
    “My God.”
    “They’ll be here in five minutes, and I’ve got to pretend to be overcome. Which of course I am.” And I smiled.
    She looked at me in wonder. Was I mad, asked her eyes, or deserving of respect.
    “But what,” she said like a German, “do you have to explain to them?”
    “That I didn’t kill Deborah.”
    “Who says you did?” She was trying to keep up with me, but this last had been a racing turn.
    “I didn’t like Deborah very much. She detested me. You know that.”
    “You were not very happy with each other.”
    “Not very.”
    “A woman doesn’t commit suicide for a man she detests.”
    “Listen, pet, I have something awful to tell you. She had a sniff of you on me. And then she jumped. Like that. Before my eyes.”
    “Mr. Rojack, you are hard as nails.”
    “Hard as nails.” I pinched her shoulder a little. “Are you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Let’s get out of this together. Then we have fun.”
    “I’m scared,” she said.
    “When the police talk to you, tell them the truth. Except for one obvious detail. Obviously, there was nothing between us.”
    “Nothing between us.”
    “You let me in tonight. A couple of hours ago. You don’t know the time exactly, a couple of hours ago. Then you went to sleep. You heard nothing until I woke you up.”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t trust the police. If they say I said we were having an affair, deny it.”
    “Mr. Rojack, you never laid a hand on me.”
    “Right.” I took her chin between my thumb and forefinger, holding it as if precious. “Now, the second line of defense. If they bring me down to see you, or bring you up to see me, and you hear me say we went to bed tonight, then agree. But only if you hear me say it.”
    “Will you tell them?”
    “Not unless there’s evidence. In that case I’ll tell the police I wanted to protect our mutual reputation. It’ll still be all right.”
    “Shouldn’t we admit it from the start?”
    “More natural to conceal the fact.” I smiled. “Now, wash yourself. Quickly. If there’s time, get dressed. And look—”
    “Yes.”
    “Make yourself plain. Comb out your hair for God’s sake.”
    With that, I quit the apartment. The elevator would take too long, but I rang anyway, five piercing rings to manifest impatience and then took the stairs. For the second time that night I was on my way down ten flights of stairs, but this time on the run. When I reached the lobby, it was empty, the doorman was doubtless ascending, a bit of good luck or bad luck (I could not keep up with the possibilities any longer) and then I was on the street and running a few steps to the Drive. There was one instant when the open air reached my nose and gave me a perfect fleeting sense of adventure on the wind, of some adventure long gone—a memory: I was eighteen, playing House Football for Harvard; it was a kickoff and the ball was coming to me, I had it, and was running. Off the river came a light breeze with the hint of turf to it. There was a fence