Sleeping like that frightened me. I started walking and had more hot dogs, clams, root beer, fried potatoes, pizza, and custard—all of it senseless, nervous eating. I still didn't know what to do with myself. Jackson Clair was in the phone book, and after making a note of his number, a trifle astonished there was such a name, I drove home. Undressing to my shorts, for no reason I dusted the apartment thoroughly, and hosed the garden. There was a letter from my mother, the usual small writing: something about she hoped Michele and I would come to California on my vacation. Vacation? Not this year. When I finished Matt's ads I'd be starting a new job on Madison Avenue.
Stretching out on the couch I got in about twenty winks when the phone rang. I answered it eagerly only to hang up on a wrong number. Like in a bad comedy, the second I fell asleep again the doorbell rang: A wire from Miss Park with Jackson Clair's office address and phone.
I got my pipe working and was watching a not bad Western on TV when the phone rang again. A throaty voice asked, “Mr. Connor?”
“Yes.”
“This is Wilma Hunter. I just found your wire.”
“I'm the advertising manager of Longson, Mr. Anthony's publisher. I'd like to talk to you and Mr. Hunter.”
“Joel has gone away—for a few days.”
“Can I see you tomorrow? Say for lunch?”
“Be rather hard, I work from noon on. I'm free tonight As I told you, Joel's away.”
“I'm a grass bachelor myself, if that's the correct term. If I'm outside your house in... about a half hour, could we go to a quiet cafe and mix a little talk with drinks?”
“Indeed we can. It's eight-twenty now. I'll expect you at nine.”
“Fine.”
“Oh... the hall bell hasn't worked in years. No point in you climbing stairs. Will you be in a cab?”
“Yes.”
“Have the driver honk his horn a few times. I'll be down.”
We didn't have to sound the horn. The Hunters lived in a narrow tenement facing the approach to the Queens Tunnel and the East River—an old building sandwiched between a truck garage and a swank corner apartment house. As soon as the cab pulled up a young woman in a yellow dress stepped out of the doorway, crossed the sidewalk toward us.
For an odd second I thought she was wearing shoe boxes— her legs were slim and she was in these wide form-fitting shoes. She seemed to walk with a slight flat-footed waddle. But when she bent forward and asked, “Mr. Connor?” I forgot all about her walk.
Wilma Hunter had a most attractive face. Not pretty— unless the face of any woman under 25 has a certain youthful beauty. Rather, it was a forceful, intense face, with bold eyes and features, and a warm, heavy mouth. Her bright, kinky red hair was drawn back into a severe bun, accentuating the bony intenseness of her face. She looked exciting.
If her legs were too thin, the rest of the body was solid. Of course, as she bent over, looking into the cab window, her dress top fell away a little and my eyes
I said “Mrs. Hunter?” like an idiot as I opened the door. She slid in beside me. There was a slight odor of perfume, sweat and the smell of rye on her lips: adding up to a fascinating musky smell. She didn't look tight, merely high. “Have you had supper, Mrs. Hunter?” I asked, still full of bright talk, as the cabbie ran his eyes over her in the windshield mirror.
“Oh, yes. Oh, not really. It's too damn sticky-hot to eat.” She turned and looked me over—very openly.
“Any special bar you like?”
“Tonight I like them all.” The husky voice was probably practiced, I decided.
I gave the driver the address of a quiet place on 69th Street and she leaned back in the seat, said, “I hope this isn't one of those backyard joints. They're always hot and it seems crazy, sitting out there as if people weren't looking down from the surrounding apartment houses.”
“This is a simple, air-conditioned spot, Mrs. Hunter.”
“That's good. Also, I would appreciate your not calling me
“Norm.”
For a while we didn't talk; I sat there, staring at her. I offered her a cigarette, lit it, then took out my pipe. She asked, “What the hell are you, one of those gentlemen things? Oh, well, I suppose it is nice of you to caddy a pack of butts around. Joel is never that considerate. Not that I'm sure I'd want him to be.”
“Sorry he's out of town, I want to talk to him. Expect him back soon?”
“Who said he was out of town?”
“You told me he'd gone away for a few days.”
“The little sonofabitch is home, humoring his whims. If anything, he's out of this world at the moment, gone... real gone.” She suddenly laughed, a warm live sound that filled the car, made the cabbie grin. “Don't look so startled. A writer often has to get away from it all—and there's a devastating little phrase. Tell you, phone the house in two days, he'll be there. When you come up to the apartment you'll see this purple monstrosity he calls a den. Joel's too poor to hop a plane for Paris or Mexico, so when the routine gets him, or something upsets him—like this Anthony stuff—why be locks himself in his den with a bottle, some food and a stack of his favorite records, gets stewed on music and rye. Music really sends that boy. I hate it, but I can see his point: no radio, TV, newspaper, typewriter or people. He even has his own bathroom. After a day or two he comes out all rested up and rather
