'No. Did you?'
'No.'
Her black dress was cut in such a way that when she stood up only about one half of her breast was exposed, but when she bent over the table he could see she wasn t wearing a brassiere. She noticed his eyes, but she didn t bother to sit upright.
'You know whose girl I am, Arthur?'
'Sure. Mine.'
Her laughter was mocking, throaty. It came from way down in her chest. It was deep. It sounded as though it would bring up phlegm.
'I wish I was,' she said.
'Don t you like Slats?'
'He s all right, but he don t know what a woman wants.'
'I thought he gave you plenty of do-re-me.'
'Don t be smart.'
'I m not.'
'I m not talking about cash.'
He nodded his head wisely. People were dancing near their table. A jigaboo was singing, ' I ll always hear that melody…' The orchestra was finishing 'Star Dust.' A waiter filled their glasses. What was she talking about? Oh yes. She was talking about not talking about cash.
'Any dame, even one like me, wants love,' Delia Young said seriously.
'Have you ever been in love?' Crane asked. She nodded her carrot-red head. 'That s nice.'
'Like hell.' She leaned toward him, and he modestly averted his eyes. 'It hurts.'
'You picked the wrong guy?'
'I d pick him again if I had the chance.'
'Why haven t you?'
'He s dead.'
'Oh. What was his name?'
Her purple eyes studied his face. Her skin had the color, the smooth appearance of very rich milk: it was the kind of skin that went out of favor with the Gibson Girl. She had large, beautiful shoulders.
'If it s any of your Goddamn business,' she said, 'it was Richard March.'
Crane put a great deal of disbelief in his voice. 'You knew him?' Here was his chance to learn something.
'You don t think I did, Arthur?'
'Who am I to doubt a lady?'
'Get this.' Her crimson mouth was grim. 'I m no lady, but I knew Richard, all right.'
He tried to get further revelations from her. 'I bet you wrote him mash notes.'
'Would you like to have your throat cut, Arthur?'
'No,' he said. 'I d rather dance.'
The orchestra was playing 'Sugar' and the trombone player was having a jam for himself. The other black boys in the orchestra showed white teeth and eyeballs in appreciation. The dancers moved about the floor rapidly, and they smiled, too.
Crane said, 'That s the tonic.'
Delia said, 'Wasn t you with that party over there?' Crane looked, but all he could see was a vacant table. 'What party over there?'
'The one that left a half-hour ago.'
'If they left I am not aware.' He tried again. 'If they have left I was not aware. I am not aware they have…'
'I get the idea, Arthur,' Delia said.
'They ve ditched me,' Crane said.
'Well, it s four o clock.'
The music stopped with a dum-titi-dum-dum on the piano; there was a crackle of applause; and the boys went out for an intermission. They went back to their table. Crane signaled the headwaiter.
'How much s the bill for that table over there?'
'Mr March paid it, sir.'
Delia Young s hand closed on Crane s wrist, hurt the bone. When the waiter had gone she said huskily, 'What March is that?'
'Peter March.'
'Richard s cousin?'
'Unhand me, madam.'
'Richard s cousin?'
'Yes.'
'Is he a friend of yours?'
'I don t think so.'
This apparently satisfied her. She let his wrist go, took a drink of champagne. She poured some more in her glass.
'What do you do in your spare time?' he asked. 'Work in a blacksmith shop?'
She said, 'I m tall.' She seemed surprised.
'My wrist ll never be the same.'
'I feel as though my guts had been shot out,' she said to nobody in particular. 'I feel hollow inside.'
Crane said, 'I think the bone s broken.' He gave his arm a tentative shake.
'Richard March,' she said. 'The only mug I ever loved.'
Crane saw this was his opportunity to inquire further about Richard March. He said. 'I m tired of hearing about Richard March.'
Her eyes were angry. 'You don t think he d look at me, Arthur?' She took hold of his wrist again. 'You think I was the one who wrote letters? I ll show you. Come on.'*
'Where?'
'Up to my apartment.'
'What ll people think?'
'Listen…' She scowled at him, then laughed. 'You re going to be the first guy I ve had to drag upstairs.'
Crane said, 'I ll come quietly, madam.'
He followed her through a door behind the magenta curtain, into a dim hall with a bare floor. Another door, with a red bulb burning over it, and a flight of wooden stairs were at the end of the hall. Two Negroes from the band were smoking reefers under the light. Their eyes showed yellow-white as Delia passed. A man lurked by the stairs.
'Hello, Lefty,' Delia said.
He blocked her way. 'What d you think you re doing, Dee?'
The voice was the unearthly, metallic, whistling voice of the burglar. Crane kept in the pit of shadow beside the stairs.
Delia said, 'You came back, did you?'
'Just in time, too,' Lefty said. She started to push past him, but he caught her arm. 'What s Slats going to say?' he croaked. 'I don t give a damn.'
'Yes, you do.' His voice sounded like voices of persons supposed to be making telephone calls in plays on the radio. 'You re not going upstairs with anybody.'
'No?'
'No.'
She hit him. It was a fine punch, right on the neck, right on the Adam s apple. Lefty s head flew back, he caught the banister with his right hand. She moved up a step and hit him again. He fell down.
'Come on,' she said.
Crane bent over Lefty. He was on his back, face to the red bulb, one arm twisted under him. He looked at
