A Season for Violence (1966) by Thomas B. Dewey

Author:Thomas B. Dewey [Dewey, Thomas B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: crime, noir, murder, gangster, mystery
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2016-05-04T21:00:00+00:00

He could hear Evelyn stirring around upstairs and he decided to shower and shave in the downstairs bathroom in order to be out of her way. When he went up to dress, wearing his bathrobe, Evelyn was at her dressing table, working carefully at her face. There was the fragrance of powder and toilet water in the room, and she had laid out one of her most engaging cocktail dresses on her bed.

“Well—” Dick said. “Very stunning around here!”

“I thought I’d try to be ready on time for once,” she said.

“That’s very cooperative,” he said. “Got a big date?” He was heading into the wardrobe, loosening the belt of his robe.

“Haven’t I?” she said. “Edith said there was a cocktail party—at Steve Carolla’s?”

He felt as if someone had plunged a cold fist into his belly. I explained to her. I’m sure I did.

He looked out from the wardrobe. She was applying rouge skillfully. Her narrow shoulders were hunched in concentration.

“I thought I explained,” he said. “This is a kind of business thing—men only.”

She looked up at him with her rouge-pat poised. She had that wounded deer look in her eyes that had wrung him so when they’d been younger. It was wringing him now.

“Men only?” she said.

“Yes. Some of the county committee, maybe the Senator—people like that—cracker-barrel stuff. I won’t stay long, but I have to show up.”

“Oh,” she said. She lowered her arm slowly to let it rest on the dressing table, the rouge pat dangling between her slim fingers. “I didn’t understand,” she said quietly.

I told her yesterday, goddam it! he thought. I know I did. “Didn’t I tell you yesterday?” he said.

She looked up again. “Did you?”

“I’m sure I did.”

“Well, maybe I didn’t hear you,” she said.

He hovered there, looking at her helplessly, unable either to approach her or turn away.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll find something to do.”

She got up, turning away from him, which released him, at any rate, so that he could go on with his dressing.

When he came back to the bedroom, she was standing at the bed, fingering the hem of her cocktail dress. One more try, he thought.

‘Tell you what,” he said. “I’m not going to stay at this thing long. You go ahead and get dressed, and as soon as I can get away, we’ll go some nice place for dinner. How about that?”

She was slow to answer. “I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s depressing on Sunday, everything half empty—”

“We could go to the club. The steaks are always good.”

She shook her head, sat down on the bed, her face lowered. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to. The Dexters might be there.”

So there was no way, he thought. No way at all. “Well,” he said, “if you change your mind, anything you decide will be fine with me. I’ll try to get back by five-thirty.”

“Don’t hurry,” she said listlessly.

He went out of the bedroom and down the backstairs. I know damn well I told her explicitly the exact thing about the cocktail party, he thought.

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