The phone rang fifteen minutes later. It was Beebo.
Terry answered and handed Jack the phone, listening to the conversation with his eyes half open.
“Absolutely no soap,” Beebo said. “I’ve been all over the damn Village. Nobody’s seen her.”
“She saw Landon earlier this evening,” Jack said.
“She did? Does he know where she is?’
“He doesn’t know from nothing, doll. She gave him a first class concussion. Walloped him with a glass ashtray. On the back of his head. Must have snuck up on him when he had his back turned.”
“God!” Beebo exclaimed.
“And then took off, hysterical, according to the elevator boy. She screamed all kinds of stuff at him. He says. Half of it’s crap, of course. But he did tell me one thing—”
“What’s that?”
“She told him those pants he was wearing would never make a man of him.”
After a surprised silence Beebo gave a wry tired little laugh. “Jesus,” she said. “She must have been screwy.”
“The elevator boy thought so. It sounds kind of bad. I’d better call Marcie.”
“I called her at three.”
“God, Beebo, don’t make it any worse than it is!”
“Relax. I didn’t leave my name. Just asked for Laura and Marcie said she wasn’t there. Well, Jackson? Now what? We call the cops?”
“You want us all to get thrown in the jug? They’d love to run in a bunch of queers. No, let’s wait a day. She’s a sensible girl underneath it all. She’ll come to her senses and I’m the first one she’ll call.” Terry, on the bed beside him, gave a contemptuous snort.
“I wish I felt so confident,” Beebo said.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I do too,” he admitted.
“Okay, boy, keep in touch.”
Jack hung up and sat drooping on the bed, the fatigue showing in his face.
“God, you look old,” Terry said with a characteristic lack of tact. “How old are you? You never told me.”
“Eighty-two,” Jack said.
Terry grinned. “I don’t believe you.”
“You’re not supposed to.”
“How old? Tell me.”
Jack stood up and turned to face him, in no mood for jokes. “Terry, don’t bug me. I’ve had enough of you today.” Terry gaped at him. Jack had never talked harshly to him and now he was doing it every time he opened his mouth. “I love this girl,” Jack told him. “I don’t know why, but I do know that for once I’ve found a decent sweet kid who isn’t out for every damn thing she can get from me. She can give a little, she doesn’t have to take all the time.”
“Oh, you love her!” Terry said sarcastically, propping himself up on his elbows. “That’s swell. Just swell! Thanks for letting me in on it.”
“And I’ll probably love her long after you’ve climbed out of this bed for the last time, you little bastard. You and a dozen other guys. It’s a kind of love you don’t know much about, Terry.” He was too tired, too worried, to take much heed of what he said or how. His resentment spilled out and it felt good to let go with it and he did.
Terry wasn’t used to being disciplined. He had managed, in eighteen crafty years, to avoid it. So he was surprised at himself when he reacted to Jack’s tongue lashing with a renewal of interest in him. He lay back on the bed and watched Jack strip to his underwear. Jack was not a beautiful man physically; tough and wiry, but not beautiful. Yet Terry watched him with enjoyment, wondering what to expect from him next.
Jack stretched out on the bed next to Terry. There was an hour or so when he could sleep before he had to get to the office. He turned his head a little and saw Terry watching him. “You still here?” he said. “I thought I told you to go.”
“I think I’ll stay,” Terry said, smiling. “I’m a glutton for punishment.” He was intrigued by this new side of Jack.
Jack turned over and looked at him, surprised. “You’re a brat,” he said finally. “A beautiful, unbearable, stuck-up, silly, irresistible brat.”
Terry laughed. “That’s why you love me, Superman,” he said, poking Jack in the ribs.
“Who says I love you?” Jack said wearily and turned away from him.
“Jack, be nice to me.”
“I’m worried sick and he wants me to be nice to him. Ha!” Jack told the walls.
“Damn it, I think you do love this girl.”
“She bought your oysters, lover. You can spare her a little good will yourself.”
Terry dropped back on his pillow in silent surprise. It was the first hint he had had of the state of Jack’s finances.
Jack went to work. There was nothing to be accomplished sitting around the apartment quarreling with Terry. It wouldn’t bring Laura back any sooner, and there was not much he could do to find her now. Except call in the police, and he gagged on that idea. He would wait at least until the next morning.
But at the end of the day things were getting black. Laura was still gone; Marcie was panicky and agitating for a call to the police; Beebo was glowering, furious at herself for caring what happened to Laura and yet calling anyway in spite of herself; and a thunderstorm was brewing.
They waited alone, Jack and Marcie and Beebo, in the gathering dark: each with his own peculiar fears and hopes. Jack drank. Marcie paced around the roof, praying God that Laura hadn’t killed herself. Beebo came over after a while and talked to Jack.
They talked, they drank, the phone rang. Terry wandered around the apartment in a pet because nobody was paying any attention to him. In another part of town Burr cursed silently because Marcie would pay no attention to him. And still elsewhere Merrill Landon lay with an aching head and heart and peppered the detective agency he had hired with evil-tempered calls while they labored to locate his daughter.
Finally Terry exploded at Jack, “If you don’t talk to me I’m going to get out of here!” He gave the nearest chair a petulant kick. “I
