She put her bottle of wine on the table in the breakfast nook and slid her black mink off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. She slid in on one of the bench seats and let her long legs sprawl. The tight red dress was forced to hike up over her thighs. ”Want a little wine?“ she said.
”Makes me sleepy,“ I said. ”I drink at lunch and I’m no good the rest of the day.“
”Wouldn’t want that,“ Jill said.
She giggled and poured wine into a glass.
”You know what I’ve been looking for since I came to Boston?“ she said.
”Two tickets to Symphony,“ I said.
She made a measuring gesture, holding her hands about two feet apart.
”About that long,“ she said. ”I been looking for something about like that.“
I studied her measure.
”Looks to be about two feet,“, I said.
She held her gesture, staring at me with her head canted back. Her eyes were narrowed. She jiggled her hands as if weighing the two-foot length.
I grinned and nodded. ”You’re in luck,“ I said.
Her eyes got narrower and something that looked only a little like a smile moved on her lips. ”You?“ she said.
I shrugged becomingly. ”Unless I’m excited,“ I said.
The tip of her tongue appeared at the center of her mouth and moistened her lower lip.
”Are you excited now?“ she said. The huskiness in her little-girl voice had shaded into hoarseness. Her eyes had narrowed until they were barely slitted. Her body had gotten more lax as she talked and her thighs had slid forward on the banquette seat until her skirt was merely ornamental. Her breath was short now, and audible. Her body seemed entirely inert, almost boneless, and yet the tension in her was manifest; physical slackness over tight-coiled emotion.
’‘No,” l said.
There was silence. Jill Joyce stared at me through her barely open eyes.
“Whaaat?” she said.
I shrugged and flipped up my palms. I smiled engagingly.
More silence. More staring with her reptilian slits. She picked up her wineglass and drank most of it and lowered the glass and gazed at me over the rim of it. Then she threw the contents at me. She missed.
“Probably better than drinking it,” I said.
“Sonovabitch,” she said.
The flaccidity left her body. She rolled suddenly out of the banquette and stood in front of me and threw a punch with her clenched right fist. I blocked it with my left forearm.
“Oww,” she said. “You bastard.”
She swung at me with the other hand and I blocked that and she said “Ow” again and called me a bastard.
“Does this mean you’re not going to call me dickie-bird anymore?” I said.
She was rubbing both wrists where I blocked her punches with my forearms, her shoulders bent, huddling over the sore arms.
“Limp dick, motherfucker,” she said. Her voice sounded tight, as if her throat were closing. “Get the fuck out of here. You’re fired, you prick.”
“Fired,” I said. “How can I be fired? I haven’t been hired yet.”
She lunged against me suddenly. Her face tilted up at me, her eyes closed all the way, her face very white except for two red spots that glowed feverishly on her cheekbones. Her mouth was open, her tongue protruded a little.
“You bastard,” she gasped. “You better, you bastard. You better.” Some tears squeezed out under the tightly closed lids. “You better,” she said. Then she passed out on me. I caught her under the arms as she started to slide.
“Star quality,” I said aloud.
I looked around the mobile home. Across the back was a big double bed with a pink puff on it, and half a dozen white pillows with lace ruffles. I turned and dragged Jill Joyce to the bed. Her legs were entirely limp. Her heels made little drag marks in the carpet. When I reached the bed, I got her over my hip and plumped her backside onto the bed and eased her down. She lay crossways, her feet still on the floor. Her skirt bunched up around her waist.
A voice said, “This would be more exciting in the pre-pantyhose era.”
It was my voice and it sounded extraordinarily normal. I got hold of her ankles and half spun her around so her head was among the pillows and her feet were on the bed. Then I arranged her head so she wouldn’t smother, and rearranged her skirt and put the mink coat over her.
The voice said, “What becomes a legend most.” It was me again. I sounded sane.
I stood back and looked down at her. Her cheeks were still wet with the faint tracing of tears. Her mouth was
