Community of Women by Lawrence Block Page A

home with him. But first—”
    The man touched her. That was nasty, Elly thought. The son of a bitch had to go and put one hand on her breast, damn him, and that was all she needed. It was enough before, without his hands on her. Now, with him touching her, it was horrible.
    She needed him.
    “Right through that doorway,” he said persuasively, “there is a bedroom. It is empty now. We can go in there. We can lock the door, and no one will disturb us.”
    “How do you know?”
    He looked at her, puzzled.
    “About the bedroom,” she went on. “You act as if you’ve been here before. Do you take many women into that bedroom?”
    “Only my wife. Most of the time, that is. Sometimes other women, but generally my own wife.”
    “Huh?”
    “I live here,” the man said.
    Elly nodded slowly. All the martinis were piling up now, and she was quietly bombed, and martinis were never noted as having a particularly repressing effect upon the libido.
    “Your house,” she said dully.
    “That’s right.”
    “You’re the host.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “It’s your party.”
    “Sure, honey.”
    “Well,” she said carefully, trying her best to avoid slurring her words, “that makes a difference. After all, it’s only right to go to bed with the host. Like saying thank-you for the party, or something. Don’t you think so, honey?”
    “Sure,” he said.
    “Then let’s go.”
    They went. He still held her arm, and now he led her across the floor, through the doorway, into a bedroom. He closed the door and turned around just as she was getting her bra off.
    “Like?”
    “Sure,” he said.
    “You’re the host,” she said. “I have to present my offerings for inspection, you see. For your approval.”
    “I think you’re a little drunk, honey.”
    “I think I’m a lot drunk, honey.”
    “Come here.”
    She went to him. It was wrong, and she knew damn well it was wrong, but there was nothing she could do about it. He was her phantom lover for the time being just as sure as God made little green virgins, a phantom lover on a coal-black stallion, and she was stuck.
    She had to go along for the ride.

13
    L INC B ARCLAY sat in the tavern with the townies. The tavern was Early American in decor, with candle molders and footwarmers hanging incongruously from the ceiling, with plenty of old wooden paneling and wide board floors. The bartender drew a mug of ale and passed it to Linc. The townsfolk ignored Linc masterfully. It seemed at times that this was the townie’s mission in life—to serve the commuter, to take the commuter’s money, to make love on occasion to the commuter’s wife, and then, ultimately, to ignore that same commuter when their paths happened to cross socially.
    Linc did not concern himself with the philosophical aspects of the situation. He drank his ale. It was fine ale, and it went down smoothly. This was good. Everything else was pretty rough, and the smooth ale was a blessing.
    He lighted a cigarette, took two drags, ground it out on the wide board floor under his heel. He asked for, and received, and paid for, another mug of ale. Which he drank.
    He was a flop. Linc Barclay, Portrait of the Writer as a Young Flop. Man in a Slump. Man doing nothing with everything to do. Man—
    Man who wasn’t even a man. Man who couldn’t make love to his own wife because he was too hung up over everything else in the world. God, what was the matter with him?
    He belonged at the typewriter, but he hadn’t done a lick of typing in too long. He belonged with his wife, but here he was at the damned tavern drinking smooth ale and thinking unpleasant thoughts. He belonged elsewhere, and here he was, and to hell with it.
    He had another mug of ale.
    A jukebox, new and shining and not at all in keeping with the colonial air of the old tavern, gave forth with rock and roll. Linc scooped up his change, pocketed it, and headed for the door. He walked out into the night. His car was parked at the curb, but he