There was some real laughter from the tables this time and a dutiful belly laugh from the sax man behind him. The laughter faded quickly, leaving only a little mumbled conversation and the occasional clink of glass. Barnes tried to look at his audience, but he could see nothing beyond the spotlight. “And now,” he said, “‘Basin Street’! Done as only the Dixie Dukes can do it!”
The spot faded to darkness. At the first wail from the band, he turned to his left. When he had taken a couple of steps, he could see a naked redhead smiling at him from the wings. She had freckles.
On the rough brick wall behind her, someone had spraypainted: KILROY WAS HERE.
As Sandy Duck’s little car rolled into the parking lot, its headlights picked up a small boy who stood weeping in the snow. Moved by a motherly instinct she would have hotly denied, Sandy got out, picked him up, and sought to comfort him. “Now, now,” she said. “Now, now, now.” It seemed foolish even to her, but she could think of nothing better.
“My—my—Daddy—”
“Yes, he’s gone, isn’t he? And you’re lost, poor little tyke. Where did he go?”
Mutely, the boy pointed to the winking electric sign atop the low, brick building at the end of the parking lot.
“The Flying Carpet?” Sandy asked. “I’m going in there. I’ll take you with me, and maybe we can find your Daddy.”
As she spoke, a side door opened. For an instant, the naked figure of Ozzie Barnes appeared there like the scarlet devil who materializes in a magician’s box; two naked women pulled him backward, and the door swung closed again.
“On second thought,” Sandy said, “I don’t think I’ll go there after all. Not tonight. Maybe you’d better come with me.”
Serving The Country
The waistband of her nurse’s skirt had parted an hour before. One of the lower buttons of her blouse had broken its thread and slipped unnoticed to the carpet; three more had been pulled through their holes. Her belly, drum taut and flushed with wine, protruded through the triangular space, pressing firmly against the table and spilling (as it were) three inches over the snowy tablecloth.
The table held a large platter of French pastries and bonbons, and a very large glass of champagne. Slowly, she reached for one of the bonbons and held it up as though to examine it in the candlelight. It was raspberry. “This … last one,” she said.
“Certainly.”
She put it slowly into her mouth as though performing an onerous duty, and although she was already leaning nearly as far back as the tall chair permitted, contrived to lean back farther still until her head rested against its red leather cushion. Delicately and unsteadily she raised her glass to her lips and washed down the raspberry bonbon with champagne. When she set the empty glass on the table again, a solicitous waiter refilled it.
Another, taller, waiter arrived bearing a white telephone, which he plugged into a connection in the floor. Sweet identified himself and listened for half a minute or so. “Of course I need help,” he said. “I need all the help I can get.”
She said nothing. Her eyes were half closed. Her cherrycolored face, propped and cradled by three chins, wore the expression of sleep, though her left hand wandered with hesitant slowness over the surface of the tray.
Sweet beckoned the tall waiter, and when the waiter stooped to disconnect the telephone, tapped him on the shoulder and extended the handset. “It’s for you.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said. He gave his name; there was a long pause. “I’ll have to speak with the manager, sir.” He returned the handset to Sweet. “Don’t hang up, sir. I’ll bring the manager. Just a moment.”
Sweet nodded a little grimly, and the waiter hurried away.
She fingered a pastry, a tiny mountain of colored cream and meringue. For a moment, it almost seemed she was going to put it down, then she nibbled at the edge and licked her lips.
The white handset lay on the table in front of Sweet. He picked it up and put the palm of one hand over the mouthpiece. “I really am a vice president of Mickey’s Jawbreakers,” he said.
If she heard him, she gave no indication of it.
“I wanted you to know. They made me do this. I was contacted at the airport; they bounced me off my plane.”
The pastry was nearly eaten. She opened her mouth a trifle wider, pushed the last of it in, and took a swallow of champagne, leaving the glass lightly rimmed with pink cream filling. Dazedly, she looked around for her napkin. It had dropped to the floor beside her chair; she used the edge of the tablecloth instead.
“I’m sorry,” Sweet said.
A lean, foreign-looking man in a business suit hurried over to their table two steps ahead of the taller waiter and picked up the handset.
“I am Paul de Vaux, the manager here,” he said breathlessly. “Yes, yes, we have been informed … . I will give the instructions.” He listened for a moment more, said, “Yes, yes,” again and hung up, then turned to Sweet. “You will be in need of assistance, Monsieur. Walter,” he indicated the taller waiter with a minute movement of his head, “will supply it. There will be no charge for these dinners.”
“You had been contacted before,” Sweet said. It was not a question.
“Yes, yes. Concerning the dinners. Not concerning the assistance. Now we have been told of the assistance,
