Stone 588 by Gerald A Browne

was referring.
    Springer believed that fair enough.
    It was especially important to Audrey that Springer see her marriage in its true light. The person she'd been married to (she didn't say man) was Tyler Briggs. She'd known him most of her life. They had, as they say, gone to different schools together. Tyler was her age, twenty-eight, bom the same month, in fact. She'd felt all along that a marriage to him wouldn't work, but it had always been not a matter of Are you going to marry Tyler Briggs? but When? Her Aunt Libby had been the most insistent promoter. Aunt Libby was always quick to point out anything Tyler did that might be entered on the positive side of his ledger, and for him, going to his tailor was an accomplishment. On the good side, Tyler had a quick mind, an attractively cynical sense of humor, and was capable of sorties of thoughtfulness if they weren't expected of him. He was a victim rather than a survivor of extremely wealthy parents. An only child because his mother was dead set on never having to go through that again. It was impossible for Tyler to commit to anything that asked for effort, be it a career or a dutiful sit-down dinner, Audrey said. She hadn't, of course, realized how terribly hopelessly lopsided he was until after they were married. Not to bitch, just to relate, Tyler was the world's worst loser and winner. Whenever he lost, at backgammon or tennis, for example, he would brood and snap and go into a pout. Whenever he won he rubbed it in and gloated as though that was his real reward. Honestly, Audrey told Springer, as rationalizing as it might sound, the main reason she married Tyler was to get it over with. Was that weak of her?
    "No," Springer assured her too quickly.
    "Besides," she added, "at the time there were just too many damn Tylers around by one name or another."
    (One afternoon the next September, Springer and Audrey were bound for a couple of hours with Monet and his friends at the Met. They happened onto Tyler. He was standing there on the sidewalk in front of the museum looking at girls in skirts, who, by being seated on the steps above, were unknowingly exposing their panty-covered crotches. Tyler made no pretensions about what he was doing. He resented being interrupted. Audrey introduced Springer and there was some neutral small talk. Tyler, as visualized by Springer, was a slim-to-bony, under-height, vainly dressed, superior-nosed, privileged-looking sort. The real Tyler was six-foot-five and two hundred forty. A lot of pudge in a dark-blue hard-finished business suit and a plain dark tie, knotted too tight up into the straining top button of his white shirt collar. His prematurely receding hairline provided more forehead to perspire. He appeared closer to forty-eight than twenty-eight.
    "See you," Tyler said dismissively and continued with his diversions.)
    Springer was relieved to learn the extent of Audrey's marriage. He told her she could mention Tyler any time.
    What did disturb Springer, however, was Aunt Libby. He knew her — at least knew of her: Elizabeth Hopkins-Hull. Those with her measure of social and financial power, no matter how they went on with their liberal rantings and posturings, did not want any middle-bracket diamond dealer seriously turning the head of one of their darlings. The prudent way to cope with Aunt Libby, Springer decided, was to keep away from her.
    The Aunt Libby problem was not on Springer's mind now, as Audrey, at the wheel of the BMW, turned off at exit 3 of the Major Deegan to take the Cross County Parkway. Springer was lost in one of his favorite pastimes: stealing from Audrey. This day she was wearing the palest of blues. Her oversize linen blouse was deep at the neck and gave a side view of the beginning of a breast. Her wrap skirt parted high in front, offering the inside of a thigh.
    Audrey glanced and caught him at it.
    "You're spiffy." He smiled and concentrated some on her hair. There was a lot of red in her hair,