By George Axelrod
From the Academy Award nominated screenwriter of Breakfast at Tiffany's and The Manchurian Candidate comes a wide ranging tale of homicide and mischief… it is the tale of a big-game hunter, fisherman, fighter, customer to Cuba, under the influence of alcohol, and Nobel Prize-winning writer, lately deceased of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, whose ultimate unpublished manuscript may possibly fetch a mint… it is the tale of a quick, balding guy with a high-pitched voice and a vicious wit, whose cocktail events are the controversy of town, specifically while a gorgeous lady dies at one among them… it is the tale of Hollywood’s sexiest starlet, who manages to hide issues even if she’s donning not anything yet a towel… …and it’s the tale of Dick Sherman, intrepid ny writer, at the path of the literary locate of the century – and the killer who will cease at not anything to maintain it from being came across.
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Then I went back into the bathroom. She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub drying herself with a towel. She had taken off her wet underwear. ” “I think maybe you got yourself plastered, baby,” I said. ” I handed her the other cigarette. She took it, inhaled deeply, coughed, then recovered and inhaled again. “Thanks, baby,” she said. I realized suddenly that I was staring at her body, at her slim shoulders and firm, full breasts. I picked up my coat and handed it to her. She put it on. ” “I’m trying to think,” she said.
He cut the shoes to pieces. Then he threw them on the floor. “Get up,” he said. There was no expression at all on Jean Dahl’s face. Her eyes told you nothing. Slowly, she stood up. “Dress,” he said. For a moment I thought she was going to resist and he was going to slap her again. I tried to speak but no words came out. My hands were icy cold and my shirt was soaked with sweat. Very slowly Jean Dahl took off her dress and handed it to him. Under it she was wearing a brassiere and half slip. He examined the black dress with his usual care.
After a second or two I was as wet as she was. I stood holding her under the shower, slapping her face as gently as possible and talking to her. We were both gasping and once I lost my footing and fell heavily, pulling her down on top of me on the wet tile floor. When I let her out of the shower her breath was coming in short heavy gasps. Her knees buckled and I let her sink to the floor. I held her there with her head between her knees. I went to the medicine cabinet and found, among the aspirin and toothpaste, a tin of bicarbonate.