The Last Match by David Dodge

around the Cote that any good strong-arm could liberate any night, but most were either too sporty-looking, or formal wear. One evening during the period we were marking time while Bernard’s friends cased the field, Reggie wanted to be driven to Monte Carlo.
    It wasn’t unusual. What was unusual, she was alone when I picked her up at the hotel. No guy. I figured we’d gather him up somewhere along the way, but no, she had no escort that evening unless he was waiting for her in Monte Carlo, and besides she wasn’t the type of girl to go out with characters who didn’t call for her at her own door. Mine not to reason why, or volunteer small talk about things that were none of my business. I pointed the Mercedes-Benz in the right direction and drove.
    When we were coming into Nice she said, “Take the Grande Corniche, please.”
    I said, “Yes, madame,” and took the Grande Corniche. It’s not the fastest road between Nice and Monaco, but it offers the most spectacular scenery. During the day you can see all the way over into Italy, the hills of Corsica as well if the day is clear. At night you look down on the sparkling lights of Cap Ferrat, Beaulieu, Villefranche, Eze, and, if the American Sixth Fleet happens to be in the roadstead at Villefranche, a whole bunch of brightly lit-up battle wagons looking like toy boats far below. At any hour of the day or night the Grande Corniche gives you your money’s worth of view. The trouble is, if you let your mind wander from your driving to the spectacular scenery you’re as liable as not to end up participating in the scenery, and it’s a long way down. The Grande Corniche is that kind of a road. I kept my attention focused on my driving and left the enjoyment of the view to the Honorable Regina.
    We never got to Monaco, although we had a fine view of the lights of the whole principality spread out below us when, nearing La Turbie, Reggie said, “Can you pull off the road here, Curly?”
    “Not here, madame. There’s no room. A bit farther on, I think.”
    “As soon as you can, then.”
    I said, “Yes, madame,” thinking, What gives? Even if she did have to make a hurried trip into the bushes, she’d have strangled first before letting me know she was pressée . Whatever else might be on her mind, she wasn’t pressée for the bushes. Maybe she just wanted to look at the moon. It wasn’t as full or as spectacular as it had been on the night she busted me on her balcony, but it was pretty spectacular. Maybe she wanted to bust me again, for exercise.
    I pulled off the road and parked as soon as I could manage it. After we’d sat there for a while she said, “Turn off the lights, please.”
    “I have to leave at least the veilleuses burning, madame. It’s the law.”
    “And you’re always law-abiding, aren’t you?”
    It was a crack, and yet it wasn’t a crack. She sounded more depressed than sarcastic. I switched off everything but the veilleuses and offered no comeback.
    After a while she said, “Would you like a cigarette?”
    “I’ve given up smoking.” I hadn’t, but the hell with it. I’d smoke my own cigarettes on my own time, not hers. She was a little late with the handouts.
    She lit a cigarette. When it would have been about half-smoked she said abruptly, “You can’t believe that I’m doing this for you own good, can you? That I don’t hate you, or wish you ill?”
    I said nothing to that, either. She said, still depressed, not in temper, “I asked you a question.”
    “You also told me on another occasion that you did not want to hear my views about your actions.”
    “I want to hear them now.”
    “I’d rather not express them.”
    I could hear her sigh. I thought she started to say something more, but changed her mind. I said, “But if madame wishes, I’ll be glad to tell her of my experiences in the army.”
    She was an intelligent girl; more than intelligent enough to know I wasn’t talking to hear the enchanting sound of my