He came out of the bathroom, polishing a glass with a towel that was, I noted enviously, larger and thicker than the ones Blanche had given me.
‘How about ice?’ he asked casually.
‘Oh, I couldn’t-’ I started.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ he said suddenly. ‘You know mine.’
He said this in an odd, challenging way, as if we were making a bet.
‘Beatrice Flanders,’ I told him. ‘Bea for short.’
‘But not for long, eh?’ I didn’t know what that meant, but it seemed to amuse him.
He went over to the refrigerator and busied himself prying the trays loose. I had a chance to inspect him.
It wasn’t accurate to call him handsome. There was an inhuman regularity in his features. Each side of his face was an exact mirror image of the other, a rare thing in human physiognomy. The result was cold perfection. Only that frequent smile gave warmth and humanity to what otherwise would have been a chilling and disturbing mask.
He moved well, lithely and with grace. I imagined his body would be dark, smooth, all long muscles covered with soft, almost hairless skin. All his actions — bending, turning, lifting — seemed fluid and effortless; his gestures were just as light and flowing.
His voice was musical, with a remarkable range. He knew how to use it for effect.
He wore his slacks and knitted sports shirt well; he had the kind of relaxed body that makes clothes look good. His hands and feet were surprisingly small for such a tall man,
tapered in a pleasing fashion; they completed him, as if he were enclosed in one artful, continuous line.
He emptied the ice cubes into a plastic bowl, then went into the bathroom to refill the trays.
‘Where you from, Bea?’ he called.
‘Here, there, everywhere,’ I said casually after he came back into the main room.
‘Yeah,’he said. ‘Me too.’
‘What kind of work do you do?’
‘This and that. Well, I’ve got the glass and the ice ready for you.’
He looked at me.
The ball was in my court.
‘Care for a drink?’ I asked. ‘I have vodka, scotch, brandy.’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’ He grinned. ‘What are you having?’
‘Vodka.’
‘That’ll do fine.’
‘I’ll bring it in here. Your place is more comfortable than mine.’
‘Sure,’ he said.
We drank the vodka on ice, with a splash of water. My first of the day. We sat sprawled in the armchairs. He had kicked off his loafers, and we wiggled our stockinged toes at each other.
‘Just arrived?’ he asked idly. ‘I mean in New York?’
‘A few days ago.’
‘Who’s the Tooth Fairy?’
‘Who?’
‘The guy I saw you with.’
I tried not to smile, but it was a descriptive name for Dick.
‘Friend of a friend. He helped me move in.’
‘He’s a flit, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s an okay guy.’
‘Uh-huh. Well, it’s no business of mine. Live and let live. Where were you? Before New York?’
‘Chicago. You?’
‘Miami. I like the tracks down there.’
‘Now I know where you got the tan. You follow the
horses?’
‘My secret vice,’ he said, his smile a little tighter.
‘You do all right?’
He flipped a palm back and forth. ‘I get by. The luck runs in streaks.’
‘How’s it running now?’
‘Out,’ he said ruefully. ‘But the only thing you can say about luck is that it’ll change, sooner or later. Maybe meeting you will change my luck.’
‘I’ll drink to that if you’ll fill my glass.’
We sipped in silence a few moments. He stared at me over the rim of his glass. His eyes were narrowed. He seemed a little puzzled, a little uncertain.
‘Cocktail waitress?’ he asked finally. ‘I don’t mean to pry; I’d just like to know if I’ve got you pegged. Tell me to go to hell if you like.’
‘That’s all right,’ I told him. ‘Yeah, I’ve been a cocktail waitress. But not recently. Not for the past two years.’
‘Boyfriend?’ he guessed shrewdly.
‘That’s right.’
‘You split up?’
‘Permanently. He croaked.’
‘Sorry to hear it.’
I shrugged. ‘Those are the breaks.’
‘You come to New York to go back to cocktail waitressing?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Never again. Not for me. I’m going to take it easy for a few weeks. Look around. See what I can lineup.’
‘Mmm,’ he said. He looked up in the air. ‘Maybe we can do each other some good.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well … you know,’ he said cautiously, ‘sometimes there are more chances around for a couple than for a single.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, just as cautiously, ‘that’s true. Got anything particular in mind?’
‘Nooo,’ he said slowly, ‘not at the moment. Maybe we could line up something.’
‘Maybe,’ I said thoughtfully, staring at him. ‘How heavy will you go?’
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.
‘Depends,’ he said. ‘On what’s in it for me.’
I never doubted for a moment that he was speaking about an illegal hustle.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘I’ve got one thing going. It’s just an idea right now, but it may work out. If it does, I’ll need help.’
He was silent for a long time, apparently trying to make up his mind. Then he decided….
‘Help? You’ll need help? You’re talking about muscle?’
I nodded.
‘I’d like to hear more about it. When you’re ready.’
‘All right,’ I said. Then I took a chance. ‘You’re not hurting, are you, Jack? If a few bucks will help …?’
He shook his head, grinning.
‘Not that bad. Not yet. But thanks for the offer. I appreciate it.’
‘Just paying for the ice,’ I said nonchalantly.
I wanted to keep the talk going. It wasn’t hard. He was a witty raconteur with a seemingly endless supply of anecdotes about horse racing, poker games, the casinos of Las Vegas. He had a wry self-mockery that I thought might disguise a kind of self-hatred.
‘Married?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah,’ he confessed. ‘Still am. She waltzed out on me when the gambling got too much for her. Caviar one day, beans the next.’
