“Oh, yes! I’ve had my troubles, too,” Terabon admitted.
“It isn’t fair!” Carline exclaimed. “Why can’t a man enjoy himself and have a good time, and not—and not––”
“Have a headache the next day?” Terabon finished the sentence with a grave face.
“That’s it. I’m not what you’d call a hard drinker; I like to take a cocktail, or a whiskey, the same as any man. I like to go out around and see folks, talk to ’em, dance—you know, have a good time!”
“Everybody does,” Terabon admitted.
“And my wife, she wouldn’t go around and she was—she was––”
“Jealous because you wanted to use your talents to entertain?”
“That’s it, that’s it. You understand! I’m a good fellow; I like to joke around and have a good time. Take a man that don’t go around, and he’s a dead one. It ain’t as though she couldn’t be a good sport—Lord! Why, I’d just found out she was the best sport that ever lived. I thought everything was all right. Next day she was gone—tricky as the devil! Why, she got me to sign up a lot of papers, got all my spare cash, stocks, bonds—everything handy. Oh, she’s slick! Bright, 80 too—bright’s anybody. Why, she could talk about books, or flowers, or birds—about anything. I never took much interest in them.”
“And brought up in that shack on Distiller’s Island?”
“Stillhouse Island, yes, sir. What do you know about that?”