Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1950 by Don James.
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
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NEW BRIDE—NEW BIER!
It was my room, all right. The room in the small hotel where I’d been living for three months. The closet door was open and I saw my neckties, my suits, my topcoat. My alarm clock was on the night stand beside me. My clothes were draped over the chair by the window.
The girl sat in the other chair. She was fully dressed and she was pretty. She smoked a cigarette and stared at me.
Despite my pounding headache I sat up in bed. My mouth was dry and foul tasting. Someone had replaced my blood with distilled water.
“King-sized hangover?” the girl said. “Mine is.”
“Any hangover is king-sized.”
She smiled and showed good teeth. “This one is extra king-sized.”
“Oh?”
She nodded thoughtfully. She had brown eyes and blonde hair. Her fingernails were painted scarlet.
She said, “Don’t you remember? Think hard.”
The old familiar alarm filled me; the time I’d wrecked a car, the time I’d knocked out a bartender. The mornings after, when someone told me what I’d done the night before because I didn’t have sense enough to stop after the third or fourth or fifth drink.
“Let’s have it,” I said. “What did I do?”
“You got married.”
I closed my eyes and pressed my hands against my temples.
“Say that again.”
“Married. You’re a husband.”
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
“Who are you?”
“The girl you married last night. Nina Larou. Now it’s Mrs. George Kalen.”
After a moment I said, “I’d like to get up.” I looked significantly at her. She smiled as if she were amused and went to the closet and found my robe. She threw it to me and looked away while I got into it.
“On you, the robe is good looking,” she said. “You need a shave. Do you shave every morning?”
“Every morning. I take a shower, too. Then I go out for breakfast and to work at an advertising agency where I write copy until five o’clock. I’m thirty-two and a veteran. I’m six feet tall and weigh one-seventy. I was born in Twin Falls, Idaho. I was married in 1946 and divorced in 1947. She said I wasn’t a good husband. I drank too much. She said that I’m neurotic, a fit patient for a psychiatrist. I say I was bored. Either way you look at it, I’m no good as a husband. That’s all you need to know about me. So if you’ll get the hell out of here and let me know who your attorney is, we’ll arrange a divorce. Providing you can prove we’re married—or that it can’t be annulled.”
She went to my dresser and opened a pocketbook and unfolded a paper. “Marriage certificate,” she said. “And it can’t be annulled. I’m your wife.”
“Maybe legally. Otherwise, no. I’m particular about wives. I like to know them before I marry them.”
She shook her head and leaned back against the dresser. She was about five and a half feet tall and all the curves were in the right places. She wore a brown jersey dress and brown shoes. A brown tam was on the dresser. At least, I thought, I retained good judgment when I was blacked out.
She said, “Let’s not try to be clever. Not with hangovers. It’s serious. We’re married and we have to do something about it.”
“Dissolve it. You look like a nice girl and you’re probably fun, but I had one wife. I don’t care for it.”
She had a short, straight nose and a generous mouth. Her chin was small and neat and determined. Her brown eyes were wide apart. When she smiled she was pretty. When she was angry, she still was pretty. I watched the transition.
“All right,” she said. “That’s your side. How about mine? What makes you think I want to be married to you? What happened last night happened because we had too many drinks, but in the cold grey dawn of sobriety—as the writers say—maybe I dislike it as much as you do. You can think what you like about me, and I can put you down as the world’s prize heel.”
“Frankly, I don’t care what you think,” I said. “You haven’t improved my opinion of women. Let’s just say I’ve been taken. How much do you want? I haven’t much, but I’ll pay off as much as I can.”
Tears of anger came to her eyes and her lips trembled.
“You are a heel!” she said.
“I said I was. How much do you want?”
She left the dresser and stood in front of me. “Nothing,” she said. “I’ll do the paying off!”
She slapped me. I grabbed her hands. She struggled and I pinned her against me with my free arm until she stopped fighting. She glared up at me, cheeks tear-stained, her lips wet.
“I’ve hated men,” she whispered. “But never like I hate you!”
There was a healthy firmness in her body, a warmth and femininity. Her lips were full and close.
What the hell, I thought. She’s my wife. It was a perverted gesture of humor—that kiss. I made it too hard and too long. I didn’t like myself for it, but my face stung from her slap. I was angry about everything—the world, the girl, and mostly myself.
When she broke away she really let me see hate in her expression. I didn’t like that, either.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry. Let’s cut out the dramatics and talk it over. Sensibly. I’ll leave you alone.”
“I know you will!”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“What you say doesn’t matter . . .”
Someone pounded on the door. I thought it probably was Mike Merica, the house detective.
I went over to open the door. “Okay, Mike, you can—” I stopped. The man wasn’t Mike, nor was his companion. I didn’t recognize either of them.
The man who had knocked was middle-aged, about my height, and heavier. He had sharp blue eyes and the hair beneath his snap-brim hat was greying at the temples.
“You George Kalen?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Del Thomas.” He nodded to the man with him. “Pat Sut.” I glanced at Sut and saw a short, heavy-set man with black eyes.
Thomas pushed by me and Sut followed, closing the door behind him.
Thomas said, “Hello, Nina. This guy your husband?”
She faced him rigidly, bright spots of color in her cheeks.
“Yes.”
“That’s fine, Nina. Just fine!” Suddenly he slashed an open hand across her face. She stumbled away from the dresser.
He said, “Did you think you could do that to me?”
“Del . . . please . . . dont . . .”
I started toward Thomas. “Not in my room,” I said. “Let her alone.”
“Stay out of this,