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called that progress. "But everybody missed the point. Here's the point this is what sexual politics is all about a man needs a woman more than a woman needs a man. Emotionally, I mean. And neither John Wayne nor Phil Donahue allowed for that. "Personal fulfillment. Independence. It's all crap. Ineed Sally. I'll crawl, I'll eat crow and eat quiche, I'll do whatever I need to do to keep her. Maybe that's wheremacho comes from. Who could blame a guy for trying to compensate for a condition like that? "You know, now I think of it, I never met a Don Juan in my life who wouldn't tell you, when he'd had a few drinks on a slow night, that he was only tomcatting to fill in time, until he found that right girl. "Then there's you, of course. The last of the rugged independents. How do you manage that? Are you made of iron? Stop too many lowballs playing baseball as a kid?" Martell frowned. "I found the right girl. Unfortunately she was looking for the right guy. So I learned to do without. It's like losing a leg, I suppose. You narrow your horizons and cope." Corson took another drink, refilled Martell's glass. "What'll I do, Carl? Knowing she's banging another guy I can live with that. I think. I lost my pride years ago."(Lie.) "But what if she comes to me and says she needs to leave me to fulfill her human potential with her young stud? No names, Carl, but he's somebody I don't think I can compete with. He even makes more money than I do, but then who doesn't? "I shouldn't have married a younger woman. Oldest dirty joke in the world it was a chestnut to Chaucer. Although I suppose there's a kind of comfort in knowing I'm part of a venerable tradition. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html "The cuckolds of old had it better, of course. They could just kill the pair of them and nobody'd raise an eyebrow "My God, did I say that?"Ray's eyes went wide in horror. "No wonder she doesn't want me. I'm a monster. I didn't know I was a monster..." Martell said, "You're not a monster. You're a man in pain. It was yourself you meant to kill, not them." Corson looked at the automatic. "It's still a good idea. Maybe you should just go home and leave me alone, like they used to do when they caught London clubmen cheating at cards." "I don't think so." It was nearly 3:00 a.m. when Martell finally walked Corson to his own apartment and tucked him into bed. He collapsed on the sofa and slept until after noon. Corson's gun he had dismantled as they walked, and dropped into a series of trash containers. * * * "Dala horses. You know, those painted wooden horses from Sweden they sell in the gift shops," Deputy Stokke was explaining to Esther, the dispatcher, a thick, blonde woman in a uniform a size too tight. She sat in front of the radio control board, smoking a cigarette and looking tired. "Yeah, I've seen 'em. Never saw the point of 'em." "They're a traditional Swedish folk craft. But what I'm saying is, they actually look like carvings of Norwegian Fjord Horses." "Don't the Swedes have horses of their own to carve?" "I'm not sure. I think we have the horses and they have the cars." "How come I'm not surprised?" Deputy Stokke was working on an answer when a call came in. Esther listened on her headset, then pulled it off, saying, "It's McAfee. You'd better talk to him." "How come? He get somebody else claiming they saw wild Indians on the streets? Tell him to do his job, for pete's sake." "This one's touchy. He just found Mayor Sorenson walking out on County 12." "What happen, his car break down?" "Hard to say. He was wearing a cardigan sweater and nothing else, and singingKan Du Glemme Gamle Norge? ." "Oh boy," said Stokke. "Full Moon City." Esther began to laugh, noisily and damply, and he didn't get it at first. * * * Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html The wolf skulked from the cover of a windbreak to lap water from a low spot in the ditch, at the mouth of a culvert. The smell of man was everywhere, and wherever its own scent blew, dogs barked. The wolf was weary, but it could no longer sleep. It was hungry, but too weak to run down prey. It was frightened, but the excitement blanketed the fear. Fenris. Fenris. The itch in its brain had become something like a noise. A thing it could not understand, a thing no wolf had ever known before. A thought. The wolf had learned its name. WASHING DAY CHAPTER XII Martell was awakened by the telephone. From the couch, it wasn't far to answer it. "Good morning, Mr. Martell," said a female voice that sounded familiar. "I'm calling from KARE-TV in Minneapolis. I wonder if you could make some kind of statement on that Runestone at the W.O.W. farm." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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