Barbary Shore by Norman Mailer

There’s the child to think about,” she said smugly.
    “And then,” I suggested on an impulse, “you’re religious now, too.”
    For an instant I could have sworn Guinevere looked at me in perplexity. She shrugged dubiously. “Oh, yeah, that. Yeah, I’m religious.” For conversation like this, her footing was always stable. She might have stumbled, but without visible effort she drew to a gallop, and spoke once more of the Witnesses. “And you know, it was my husband who first converted me. He’s a religious man, religious as they come.” She bent forward and chuckled. “When I think about him in private, I call him the deacon. If you ever met him you’d be amazed I married a man like that, but then opposites attract, you know there’s some truth in that.”
    “He’s Monina’s father, isn’t he?”
    She nodded carefully as though debating her next words. “Lovett, I’ll tell you something. I don’t know.” She held up her hand. “Not that I was fooling around with anybody else at the time, but I could swear it wasn’t him. She don’t look like him, she looks exactly like me, and she ain’t got any of his temperament.” Her voice lowered; this, the deepest of secrets, to be revealed, she bent forward again, confiding. “Now, you know I ain’t a Catholic, but there’s times when I think they got something, like with Mary. I’m not saying Monina was born the same way they claim for Jesus, but you know it might have been a similar kind of thing, the doctors are always discovering new secrets, and who’s to say?” Reflectively, sensuously, she caressed her arm, her large blue eyes staring at me in calculated innocence.
    I offered my small fagot. “Lots of odd things happen.”
    “That’s what I think. There’s always something fishy going on. If I was to tell you some of the things that happened in this house. You know I just can’t keep up with it all, and I’m supposed to keep a lookout.”
    “Well, what do you care?”
    She snorted. “I got a pretty good setup here. We get our rent for nothing, and I don’t want to lose it.” Guinevere lit a cigarette with great deliberation. “Now, I don’t know what’s going on upstairs, but you’re three single men up there, and who knows what kind of floosies you guys are bringing in.”
    “There’s an orgy going on every night.”
    She shook her head. “Listen, you’re all right, Lovett. It’s not you I’m thinking about. I can see you’re a man of honor, and anyway you go for me so you’re accounted for. It’s those other two jokers. McLeod’s a queer fish, and Hollingsworth, although he seems okay, could have an ace or two up his sleeve. He’s still waters.” With her hand she molded a curl in her red hair. “Now, what I was thinking is maybe you’d care to keep an eye out on them, and let me know about it.” She was casual, deliberately casual; she yawned as she finished.
    I had the impression that this finally was the purpose, if there were a single purpose, behind her note. “In other words,” I said, “you want me to spy on them.”
    She shrugged. “What’s wrong with that? Everybody does it all the time anyway.”
    “Well, I don’t care to assume the role.”
    Her manner altered. “I’m just asking you to let me know what’s going on.” Cunningly she added, “You mean you wouldn’t do me a favor?”
    “Not one like that.”
    Guinevere put her hand over mine and squeezed it. “I thought there wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do for me.” She sighed. “Well, let’s forget about it. I’ll lose my job when the cops come in some night and find out what’s going on, but that’s none of your affair.”
    I grinned. “You can always go back on the stage.”
    “I’m too fat now.”
    “You’re incredible,” I said.
    I have no idea what passed through her mind. Conflictingexpressions molded her mouth and eyes. “Aaah, you stink, Lovett,” she said at last. “Why do you think I wrote you that