“Yes.”
“What kind.”
“Forty-five automatic,” Burke said.
“It’s making a bulge in your jacket,” she said.
“Big gun,” Burke said.
“Have you ever shot anyone?” she said.
“Yes.”
He glanced at her. The tip of her tongue appeared briefly on her lower lip.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
“No.”
Her tongue touched her lower lip again.
“You could at least be pleasant,” she said.
“You too,” Burke said.
She opened her mouth, and closed it and looked at him some more. Then she laughed.
“Well,” she said. “My goodness.”
Burke didn’t say anything. Lauren shifted further in the front seat so that she was facing Burke with her legs tucked up under her. She let some smoke out through her nose and watched it dissipate.
“Do you know why you’re protecting me?”
“Hundred bucks a week,” Burke said.
“Do you know what you’re protecting me from?”
“Whatever shows up,” Burke said.
“And you think you can do that?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Lauren said, “if we’re to be together, however gruesome that may be, at least we should know each other. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Were you ever?”
“Yes.”
“Were you in the war?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about all of that,” Lauren said.
“I was in the Marine Corps,” Burke said. “I got shot. I came home. I got divorced.”
Lauren waited. Burke didn’t say anything else. Lauren laughed.
“You should work for Reader’s Digest,” she said.
Burke didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” Lauren said. “I’ll talk.”
Traffic downtown was heavy, mostly cabs. Burke didn’t mind the traffic. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’m a bad girl,” Lauren said.
She looked at Burke. He had no reaction.
“I’m rich and dreadfully spoiled,” she said. “I spend summers in Bar Harbor and winters in Manhattan. I’m selfish. I’m frivolous. I drink too much and smoke too much and am drawn to the worst kind of men.”
“Like Louis,” Burke said.
“Ah. You do pay attention. Yes. Just like Louis.”
Burke nodded. He cut off a taxi. The taxi blew his horn and held it. Burke paid no attention. Lauren watched him. Again she started to speak, and stopped.
“Louis is like me,” she said. “And his father’s a gangster.”
They stopped at the light at Sixty-first Street. She looked at Burke. Burke was silent, his eyes on the traffic light.
“Frank Boucicault,” she said.
The light turned, Burke let the clutch out and they moved forward.
“I’ve met him,” Lauren said.
Burke nodded.
“He’s very old school, gangsterish. Like the movies,” Lauren said.
“Swell,” Burke said.
“But he has an odd charm about him,” Lauren said. “Power, I suppose.”
“Probably,” Burke said.
“He’s more charming than you are,” she said.
She took out another cigarette and lit it from the dashboard.
“Most people are,” Burke said.
“And Louis is heavenly,” she said.
He could see the tip of her tongue again.
“He’s very handsome, tall, slim, dark. He has all his clothes made. He’s a wonderful dancer. . . .”
Burke was aware that she was watching him closely. She wet her lower lip again.
“And he’s a splendid lover.”
“I’m happy for both of you,” Burke said.
“Does that shock you?”
“That he’s a good lover?” Burke said.
“No. Not that. That a girl would say right out that a man was her lover.”
“It doesn’t shock me,” Burke said.
The traffic had cleared below Sixtieth Street. Burke made an illegal U-turn at Forty-ninth Street and pulled up in front of the Waldorf. The doorman stepped out and opened Lauren’s door.
“Not yet,” she said sharply.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the doorman said and closed the door.
“Does anything shock you?” Lauren said to Burke.
“Not so far,” Burke said.
“Oh God,” Lauren said.
She opened the car door before the doorman could reach it and got out and walked toward the hotel. Burke got out his side and handed the doorman a five-dollar bill.
“Hold this for us,” Burke said.
The doorman palmed the five as if it had never existed. And Burke went after Lauren into the Waldorf.
9.
THEY WERE AT a very small table in Café Madagascar. Lauren was drinking martinis. Burke had a glass of beer. Lauren was singing along with the band.
“In a quaint caravan there’s a lady they call the gypsy. . . .”
A heavy man in an expensive tuxedo came to the table and said hello to Lauren. She didn’t introduce Burke.
“Tony Bixley,” Lauren said to Burke when the heavy man left. “He owns the joint.”
“Friend of your father’s?” Burke said.
“He’s a friend of both of us,” Lauren said and finished her martini. A cocktail waitress dressed in harem pants brought her another one. Lauren took the olive out and nibbled on it. The band started a new song. Lauren knew the lyrics.
“A rose must remain with the sun and the rain. . . .”
She looked straight at Burke as she sang. Her voice was light but it seemed to be on key. She would probably flirt with a Christmas tree if that was the best available.
“To each his own, I found my own, and my own is you. . . .”
Burke looked around the room. There were palm trees and African masks and murals of African tribesmen hunting lions and tigers. The upholstery of the banquettes along the wall was zebra striped.
“Two lips must insist, on two more to be kissed. . . .”
A languid young man moved among the tables toward them. He was tall and almost willowy, wearing a dark double-breasted suit, a white shirt, and a white tie. His dark hair was long for a man’s, and wavy. Burke watched him come. He stopped beside Lauren and said, “Hello, darling.”
Lauren looked at Burke and then up at the man.
“Go away, Louis,” she said.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Louis said.
“Go away.”
“Oh, but I must meet him, darling. He looks so . . . so authentic.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Louis,” Lauren said. “This is Mr. Burke. This is Louis Boucicault. All right? Now go away.”
“So,” Louis said. “My successor. Have you gotten her into bed yet?”
Burke tilted his head back slightly and stared at Louis.
“This can be easy,” he said. “Or it can be bad. If I have to stand up, I’ll put you in the hospital.”
There was enough force in Burke’s look to make Louis flinch back a little. Louis knew he’d flinched and two red smudges showed on his cheeks.
“Well,” he said. “Well, well.”
Burke didn’t speak.
“Do you know who I am, Mr. Burke?”
“I know who you are,” Burke said. “I know who your father is. Now take a hike.”
Burke kept looking straight at Louis, his hands resting motionless on the tabletop. Louis hesitated, then he smiled down at Lauren.
“I certainly don’t wish to intrude,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll see you again, both of you again.”
Lauren didn’t look at Louis. She didn’t say anything. Louis bowed slightly toward her and looked at Burke and walked away. He moved very gracefully.
Without a word, Lauren emptied her martini glass, and held it u
p to the waitress. Then she looked at Burke.
“Wow,” she said.
Burke continued to look at Louis.
“No one has ever talked that way to Louis.”
Louis was at the hat check counter.
“I was hired to talk that way to Louis,” Burke said.
The hat check girl handed a gray felt hat to Louis, and a white silk scarf.
“Everyone is afraid of him,” Lauren said. “Because of his father.”
Louis draped the scarf around his neck, put the hat on, adjusted it so that the brim raked down over his eyes. Burke watched him as he left. The waitress arrived with Lauren’s fresh martini. She looked at Burke’s half-empty glass. Burke shook his head. The waitress swished away. Lauren was eating her olive.
“Almost everyone,” Burke said.
“Why aren’t you afraid of him?” she said.
“Hard to say.”
Lauren held her martini in both hands and looked at him over the top of the glass.
“I love martinis,” she said. “Do you?”
“No.”
“What do you love?”
“Hard to say.”
Lauren drank some of her martini.
“Well, aren’t you funny,” she said. Her voice slurred a little bit. “You don’t fear anything. You don’t love anything.”
“Funny,” Burke said.
“I guess I’m a teeny bit funny as well,” Lauren said. “I . . . There’s something really wrong with Louis. At first you don’t see it. He’s so charming and good-looking and he has money and clothes and knows his way around and everyone was a little afraid of him. But at first I really went for him.”
“People love funny things,” Burke said.
“Love? My God, you are funny. I didn’t say anything about love. I said I went for him. I had hot pants.”
“Maybe you had hot pants for what was wrong with him.”
Lauren sat back a little and put her glass on the table. She looked silently at Burke for a time. Then she picked up her glass and drank and put it down and looked at Burke some more.
“Almost certainly,” she said.
10.
THE LEAVES HAD turned in Central Park, and some of them had fallen. But it was still warm. Burke walked south beside Lauren. She was wearing a long tweed coat, a matching tweed skirt, and a mannish-looking little snap-brim hat that matched the coat and skirt.
“Do you have a cigarette?” she said.
“Camels.”
“I smoke Chesterfields,” she said.
Burke shrugged.
After a couple of steps Lauren said, “Oh very well, I’ll take a Camel.”
Burke took the pack from his shirt pocket and shook one loose. She took it and put it between her lips. He lit it for her. Without taking the cigarette from her mouth, Lauren inhaled deeply, and let the smoke trickle out.
“Why did you get divorced?” Lauren said.
“I was away. She took up with someone else.”
“Away in the war?”
“Yes.”
“Did you like being married?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish you were again?”
“I don’t wish,” Burke said.
Lauren stopped. Burke stopped with her.
“For anything?” she said.
Burke shook his head.
“Good God,” she said.
Burke was silent, his eyes moving as he looked at whoever walked toward them.
“I wish for more,” Lauren said. “More money, more freedom, more cocktails, more music, more clothes, more canapés, more men. I’m wishing all the time.”
“We differ,” Burke said.
“Don’t you get bored? Wanting nothing? Feeling nothing? Isn’t it damned dreadfully boring.”
“Life’s boring,” Burke said.
They began to walk again toward midtown. Lauren nodded her head as she walked.
“Of course,” she said. “Of course. That’s why you’re not afraid of Louis.”
Burke didn’t say anything. He was watching two men in dark topcoats as they approached, and passed, and moved away uptown.
“You don’t care if you live or die,” Lauren said.
“Not much,” Burke said.
“Is there anything?” Lauren said.
“I’d kind of enjoy shooting my wife’s boyfriend between the eyes,” Burke said.
“Do you still love her?” Lauren said.
“No.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“Better than nothing,” Burke said.
11.
SEVENTH AVENUE SOUTH, in front of the Village Vanguard, was almost empty when Burke came out of the club with Lauren. There were cars at the curb, and a few taxis cruising, but the late night street, in the warm steady rain, was as empty as any hamlet. Lauren had on a pale green raincoat with a caped top and a belted waist. And a flared skirt. Her matching rain hat had a short bill and was draped in the back like a Foreign Legion cap. Burke carried a black umbrella with a crooked walnut handle.
“Let’s walk uptown a ways,” Lauren said. “I love the rain.”
“Umbrella?” Burke said.
“No.”
Two blocks ahead, in front of a silent Nedick’s stand near Greenwich Avenue, a black prewar Cadillac pulled into a no parking area beside a hydrant and Louis got out of the front seat. Burke heard Lauren gasp softly. From the back seat two other men got out. Louis was wearing a trench coat and a Borsolino hat. The other two men wore blue overcoats and scally caps. They were big men. The overcoats were tight. All three men leaned silently on the Cadillac.
“Keep walking,” Burke said.
Lauren put her hand on Burke’s arm.
“Don’t hold my arm,” Burke said.
Burke’s voice was soft, but it was urgent, and Lauren pulled her hand quickly away. Burke shifted the umbrella to his left hand. His pace didn’t quicken. He could hear Lauren breathing. He could hear the click of her heels on the sidewalk. The streetlights were softened by the rain. The colorful lights in the store windows, filtered through the rainfall, had a jewel-like quality. There was no wind. The rain was coming straight down, steady but not hard. A cab rolled by heading uptown, its wipers arching back and forth. They reached the Cadillac and didn’t slow. Louis and his escorts didn’t speak. Burke looked at them as he walked by, between them and Lauren. Louis smirked at him. There was nothing in Burke’s face. They passed Louis. No one spoke. Lauren’s breathing was harsh as they walked. Her shoulder touched Burke’s. Another cab went past them. They didn’t look back. At Fourteenth Street they turned west. Looking back down Seventh Avenue as they crossed the street they could see the Cadillac still sitting there, silent and black in the rain, like some sort of predatory beetle. Louis and the other men were no longer visible. They turned uptown at Eighth Avenue. Both of them looked back. No one was behind them.
At Twenty-third Street, Burke managed to flag a cab and they were in out of the rain.
12.
“I DON’T WANT to go home,” Lauren said.
Her voice was odd, Burke noticed, more excited than fearful. She sat close to him in the back seat of the cab.
“Where would you like to go?” Burke said.
“The park.”
“Central Park?”
“Yes. I love the park in the rain.”
Burke leaned forward and spoke to the cabbie.
“Ask him if he knows where we can get a bottle of gin,” Lauren said.
The cabbie knew where to get gin, but it would cost them fifty dollars. Burke gave the cabbie fifty dollars. He stopped at a darkened liquor store on Eighth Avenue and went out of sight down an alley to the side and reappeared with a pint bottle of Gilbey’s Gin.
They sat under the umbrella, in the light steady rain on one of the rock outcroppings on the west side of the park near Sixty-fourth Street and sipped gin from the bottle. Burke sipped very little.
“Don’t you like gin?” she asked.
“I don’t,” Burke said.
Sitting in the woods, in the dark, in the rain, he watched for movement in the park. It made him think of Bloody Ridge.
“What do you like?” Lauren said.
“We’ve been through that,” Burke said.
Lauren drank some gin.
“Do you like me?” Lauren said.
“Sure.”
“I could make you like me a lot,” she said.
Burke didn’t comment. Lauren drank some gin. The nighttime park was full of sounds. Squirrels perhaps, night birds. Burke smiled to himself. Rats.
“Louis used to lace gin with ether,” Lauren said. “It’s quite an exotic feeling.”
Burke nodded. None of the park noises sounded human. Lauren drank more gin. She was drunk. But she wasn’t sloppy. She was a contained drunk. Almost dignified. She handed him the gin bottle. He didn’t drink. She slid away from under the umbrella and stood up suddenly. She was steady enough on her feet. She had risen gracefully. She took her rain hat off and threw it away from her. Burke heard it skitter on the rocks. In the dim light that drifted in from the West Side, Burke could see the rain begin to glisten on her thick hair. She unbuttoned the raincoat and let it slide down her arms into a heap on the rocks behind her. She was looking steadily at Burke. He was pretty sure her eyes had gotten bigger. She unzipped her white dress and pulled it up over her head, and bending forward, slid it down her arms and dropped it on the rock. She wore no slip. Her white underwear had lace trim. She wore stockings and a garter belt. Still looking straight at Burke she smiled and raised her arms over her head and touched the backs of her hands together. The rain slid down her half-naked body. Her thick hair was straightening as it got wetter.
“Shall I go on?” she said.
“Up to you,” Burke said.
If there were ambient sounds in the park, he no longer heard them. He saw nothing moving.
“Would you like to take off the rest?” Lauren said.
Burke’s voice sounded a little hoarse to him.
“If you want them off,” Burke said, “you’ll take them off.”
“Yes,” she said. “I will.”
She slipped out of her underwear and stood naked in the rain except for her garter belt and stockings.
“Do you like garter belts?” she said.
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