Boucher and O’Malley got into a discussion of the coming baseball season, O’Malley liking the Yankees and Boucher liking Detroit, and soon they were entering Miami on Brickell Avenue. Imago Paraguay slipped a cold hand in Crane’s, let it remain there. Crane experienced a mingled sensation of desire and repulsion. He had never felt that way before. They went over to Biscayne Boulevard, past the tall stucco hotels overlooking Bay Front Park, and turned right over the Venetian Way.
Both women craned at expensive frocks in the brilliantly illuminated shops on Lincoln Road. They turned right again on Collins Avenue, then ran onto Ocean Drive. The traffic was heavy; they moved slowly, in their noses the damp salt smell of the sea, in their ears the pounding of the surf.
They turned right again; then, two blocks further, to the left into a lighted drive and came to a halt in front of a large blue stucco house. The Negro doorman’s brass buttons gleamed in the light. “Good evenin’.” His square teeth were white against suède skin. “Good evenin’.” He pulled open the doors of the Lincoln.
Crane got out, reached an arm up for Imago Paraguay. She uncrossed her knees and came toward him. He had a glimpse of a white thigh, of red silk, of bright needle-sharp metal. For an instant, before she stepped on the ground, she leaned against his chest. Her perfume was like the heavy odor of sandalwood.
He stiffened his arm, held her away from him. “The butterfly has a stinger,” he said.
Her face was calm. “At times one is menaced.”
He said brutally, “But rarely by men, no?”
She walked alone, ahead of the rest of them, into the house. Penn Essex, Tony Lamphier and the major met them in front of the booth occupied by the blond hat-check girl. “The gals’re in the johnny,” Penn Essex told Mrs Boucher. She left them and Essex said to Crane, “We’ve got a table … thought we’d dance a little first.”
The hat-check girl said nasally, “Check, mister?”
O’Malley handed her his Panama. “Double check, baby,” he said, looking into her eyes. He leaned an elbow on the counter. “Say! You’re gorgeous!”
“Nix,” said Crane.
The other four men had moved a little further along the hall, were talking. As if muffled by heavy drapes, music came softly to their ears.
“I’m wondering …” said Crane. “You know that Imago dame …?”
“Do I?” O’Malley ostentatiously adjusted his dark green bow tie. “Didn’t she hold my hand all the way from Essex’ house to here?”
“Did she? She held mine too. But she didn’t fall in your arms when you helped her out of the car.”
“I didn’t help her out of the car,” said O’Malley. “That’s why.”
“Anyway,” said Crane, “she’s carrying a dagger tied to her leg with red ribbon.”
O’Malley bit his lower lip in mock dismay. “That makes two.”
“Two?”
“The major’s luggin’ a pistol the size of a French 75.”
“How d’you know?”
“I saw it under his coat.”
There was a sound of women’s voices. Crane turned and saw Miss Day walking toward the group with Essex. She had the most provocative walk he had ever seen, or the most provocative hips. He didn’t know which. They were connected in a way, but not in the usual way hips are connected with walking. Her hips were sheathed in silk the color of flame, pulled so taut that light rippled over the fabric when she moved. He had a feeling she was naked under her gown. She probably was too. But the hips—they flowed under the dress like heavy and seductive liquid, like molten metal. They gave her the appearance of a big jungle cat, graceful, stealthy, dangerous.
The other women came from behind the purple door. With Mrs Boucher walked Imago Paraguay. Her eyes, under the slanting brows, sought Crane. There was a suggestion of amusement, of malice, in them. He felt goose-pimples rise on his body.
Their table was beside the dance floor. “Veuve Cliquot,” Essex told the headwaiter. “Six bottles … to start.” O’Malley gazed at him with approval.
Almost as luxuriant as a tropical jungle was the room around the black composition dance floor. Out of the floor, out of blue boxes, grew palms and bamboo trees as delicately leaved as feather dusters, banana trees with broad green leaves and clusters of green bananas. Vines clung to the trunks of the trees, bearing fragile blossoms, pink, orange, bronze, henna and cream white. Half the room had no roof and overhead there were stars.
O’Malley was seated across the table, between Camelia Essex and Mrs Boucher. Miss Day looked at him, then leaned toward Crane. “I think your friend’s kinda cute,” she said.
“You do?”
“Well, he says the cutest things.” She leaned toward Crane and his senses reeled under the impact of about four dollars worth of Essence Impériale Russe (“the essence that quickened the pulse of kings”). “J’know what he said to me?”
Crane said he did not.
“Well, I asked him what I oughta wear tonight, my black dress or this? And he said”—she giggled a little—“he said, ‘A lovely lady is garmented in light from her own beauty.’”
“You should have slapped his face,” said Crane.
“Oh, Mr Crane! He didn’t mean for me to come nak—nude. He just meant it didn’t make any difference what I wore.”
“You should have slapped him anyway.”
The orchestra leader raised his arms, made a one-two movement with the baton. Drum and violins carried the melody for a minute; then out of the trumpets rolled muted notes like balls of quicksilver, round and smooth.
“Come on, Penn,” cried Miss Day. “Let’s go.”
Crane turned to Imago Paraguay. Her jet eyes watched the dancers on the floor.
“Would you care …?” he asked.
“If you wish.”
He imagined her body would be soft, but the back muscles were firm against his arm. She was taller than he thought and she danced beautifully. Her face was exquisite, like a painted ivory mask, but her hair was the remarkable thing about her. As black, as dull, as coarse as soot, it skull-capped her head and bunched in an ebony knot at the nape of her neck. Its distinction was its lack of luster. It seemed to pocket the rays from the lamps. It might have been dead.
The floor was not crowded and he pivoted a few times, ending up near the orchestra. A man in a green gabardine suit scowled at him from beside the stand. Before he danced away he noticed the lobe of the man’s ear was missing.
Imago Paraguay said, “You da-ance quite well.”
They had made three circuits of the floor when the music stopped. They went back to the table and found a tall, dark man with a mustache talking to Camelia Essex. He was handsome and his brown eyes were lively.
“Paul, I’d like to have you meet these people,” said Miss Essex. Her voice was excited. “Miss Paraguay, this is Count Paul di Gregario.”
The smile fled from the count’s face. He drew back a step from the dancer. His skin faded to the color of a peeled banana.
“We ha-ave met before,” said Imago Paraguay in her soft, flat voice.
The count bent over the dancer’s hand. Imago’s face was serene. Crane nodded to the count when he was introduced, made no offer to shake hands with him.
With the sush-sush of bird shot in a gourd the orchestra started a tango. The count nodded to Tony Lamphier and took Camelia Essex onto the floor. Crane would have danced again with Imago but for the fact that the waiter was pouring the champagne. Boucher took her instead.
The major was off somewhere with Mrs Boucher and that left only three of them at the table. The waiter started to put the champagne bottle back in the bucket, but O’Malley said, “Wait.” He drained his glass and held it toward the waiter. The waiter filled it and Crane, holding out his emptied glass, said, “Me too.”
Between them the quart vanished. “Have another, Mr O’Malley?” asked Crane.
“Why yes,” said O’Malley.
“Another,” said Crane to the waiter.
Tony L
amphier was watching them. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked. “It looks like fun.”
“Not at all,” said Crane. “Waiter, a bottle for this gentleman.”
“And one for me,” said O’Malley.
“That’s a good idea,” approved Crane. “A bottle for everybody.”
Lamphier grasped his bottle by the neck, rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, I propose a toast.”
“To the queen …” said Crane.
“Yes, to Camelia Essex.”
They drank that toast. They drank a toast to the United States of America. They drank to the army and navy. They drank to “the Stuarts o’er the sea.”
People at neighboring tables began to eye them.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Crane. “I give you the finest toast of all.…”
They waited attentively.
“I give you our regiment … the 7th Hussars.”
They drank the toast.
Tony Lamphier said, “Now I want to give a confusion.”
O’Malley was surprised. “A confusion?”
“Yes. I drink to the confusion of Count Paul di Gregario.”
“Good,” said Crane.
“May he take the count,” added O’Malley.
“That’s very good,” said Crane. “Don’t you think that’s very good, Tony?”
“Yes. I think that’s very good.”
“I wish I had said that,” said Crane. “You know, that’s very good.”
“I wish I had said it too,” said Tony Lamphier.
“It’s very good,” said Crane.
As they were drinking the orchestra stopped. Crane walked away from the table, skirted the dance floor and came out into the hall leading to the front door. He saw the blond hat-check girl and went over to her.
“Madam …” he began.
“To tha left,” she said. “Down tha hall.”
Doc Williams and a Negro attendant were in the washroom. Williams was slapping eau de cologne on his face while the attendant rubbed his patent leather shoes. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” said Crane. “What’s the word?”
Williams glanced warningly at the colored man. “Our guy’s here.”
“I saw him.”
“Three of his pals too. They’re up in the roulette room.”
“They better stay there,” said Crane.
The attendant finished the shoes, pushed the dirty towel through the swinging opening of a green metal container.
“Another thing.” Williams flipped the attendant a quarter. “A guy I used t’know in New York told me——” He looked at the attendant, said, “You don’t mind if we go off in the corner and whisper?”
The Negro rolled his eyes. “No saaar.”
In the corner Williams whispered, “Tortoni’s in a jam and is plannin’ on leaving in a couple of days.”
“A money jam?”
“Not exactly. That is, it doesn’t have to be. He’s been cuttin’ in on the slot machine racket, accordin’ to my friend, and some people are kinda mad.”
“How mad?”
“A week ago they knocked off Tony Ghenna, Tortoni’s muscle man.”
“That’s pretty mad,” said Crane.
Major Eastcomb came into the washroom. His face was flushed from drinking, his bloodshot eyes were angry, his jaw was set. His shoulders were bulky under his black dinner jacket.
“I can’t possible make it,” Crane said to Williams. “I haven’t got time for golf. I’m down here on business.”
“It’s a darned good course.”
“So I’ve heard. But nothing doing. I’ll try to look you up some afternoon, though, Doc.”
They shook hands and Williams departed. The major scowled at Crane. “Who’s that?”
“A fellow I used to know in New York.”
The colored man filled a bowl full of warm water and laid a face towel beside it. Crane washed his hands and face and dried them. On a glass shelf in front of the long mirror was a large assortment of perfumes, pomades and powders in fancy bottles, jars and cans. Fascinated, he stared at them, inwardly struggling against a desire to try them on himself.
Through the mirror he saw Count di Gregario come into the room. He saw the count was really handsome in a Latin way. That is, handsome and pretty. He was tall, almost as tall as O’Malley, but his figure was slender. His double-breasted dinner jacket, of heavy linen, was tailored in the Cuban style, padded and squared at the shoulders, pulled tight at the waist. Long, curling lashes shaded his brown, eyes and his skin, cream rose, was as smooth as a girl’s.
Major Eastcomb saw him a second later. He swung around and said, “Ha!” He looked ferocious.
The count halted abruptly.
“So you’re around again,” said the major.
The colored attendant bent down and began to wipe off Crane’s shoes.
Count di Gregario began, “I assure you …”
“You bloody scoundrel.” The major mumbled his words, as though he were talking with his mouth full. “I told you to keep away from that girl.”
The attendant got down on one knee, turned his face so he could look at the two men. Crane could see the whites of his eyes.
Count di Gregario laughed. “Since when must I obey your orders, Major Eastcomb?”
The major looked like a bull about to charge. He was shaking his head from side to side. “You be out of town tomorrow or——” His voice was hoarse with rage.
Count di Gregario smiled and turned to leave the room. The major caught his arm, swung him around, hit him a solid blow on the chest. Count di Gregario came back at him. “You pig!” he cried. He got a hand on the major’s face, shoved. The major stepped backward, his buttocks striking a porcelain washbowl, his head the mirror, cracking it vertically. A piece of soap skidded across the tile floor.
Hands fluttering, the count followed. “Aah!” he said. The major rolled off the washbowl; jerked an army automatic from under his coat, thrust it at Di Gregario.
The colored boy at Crane’s feet moaned, “Lawd Jesus!” and slithered under the row of washbasins. His skin was the color of coffee with cream in it.
Cat-quick, Di Gregario snatched the pistol, struck the major across the face, across the bridge of his nose with the butt. Blood stained the major’s white dress shirt, splattered on the lapels of his dress suit; his knees folded under him; his head hit the washbowl. There was a silvery bong, like the strike of a distant clock.
Di Gregario stood over him. “Pig!” he said. “Murderer!” He wiped the automatic with a towel, thrust it in his pocket. He turned to Crane. “I do not think your amigo will bother me again.”
Crane looked at the major. “I don’t think he’ll bother anybody for a while.” The major was making a feeble effort to get to his feet. Blood was still running from his nose.
“Señor, it is not well for anyone to bother me,” said Di Gregario. “I wish you to speak of this to the others.”
“I will,” said Crane.
“Thank you. Adios, señor.”
“Adios.”
Cold towels quickly cleared the major’s head, helped stanch the flow of blood. There were red bruises on his forehead and cheeks, and his left eye was going to be black, but Crane did not think his nose was broken. The colored boy, induced to come out from under the washbasins, found some cleaning fluid and they got most of the blood off the dinner jacket.
“There,” said Crane at last. “I guess you’ll do.” He saw another spot, reached for it with his cloth.
“That’s enough,” said Major Eastcomb. “That’s enough.” He pushed Crane away.
“I’ve paid money to see worse fights,” Crane said.
The major scowled at Crane. “You’re a fine coward!”
Crane’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
Anger made blood ooze again from the major’s nose. “You stand there and let that dago beat me up.” He daubed at the blood with his handkerchief. “You’re through.” He waved the handkerchief at
Crane. “Through! You get out of the house by tomorrow morning”—he shouldered past Crane—“or I’ll have you thrown out.” The door slammed behind him.
His eyes as big as halves of hard-boiled eggs, the colored boy turned to Crane. “You work for him, boss?”
“I guess not,” said Crane.
Chapter V
WILLIAM CRANE went back to the table, but there was no one there. He examined the bottles beside the table, found one with champagne in it, filled his glass. He put the bottle back in the bucket and sat down at the table. There were many dancers on the floor now, but he didn’t see anybody he knew.
He had finished his glass and was reaching for the bottle when a crowd of people at a neighboring table got up to leave. A pretty redhead in a green gown detached herself from the crowd, ran over and threw her arms around Crane’s neck.
“Don’t lettum take me home,” she begged.
This created quite a sensation. “Lookut Janey!” cried a girl in the crowd. The others giggled, halted. Two men, one of them quite drunk, came over to him. Vainly they tried to pry the girl’s arms from his neck.
“I like you,” the girl said, rubbing her cheek against the back of Crane’s head.
“You …” said’ the drunker of the two men to Crane. “Try to steal my girl, will ya?”
“Now you wait a minute, Jake,” the other said. “I’ll handle this guy.”
“I like you,” the girl said. “Don’ lettum take me.” Most recently she had been drinking crème de menthe.
The drunken man assumed a fighting pose. “Steal my girl, will ya?”
“Wait a minute, Jake,” the other said. “Janey, don’t you want to go home with Jake?”
She cuddled closer to Crane. “No!”
“But, Janey …”
The drunken man asked, “Ya wanna fight or not?”
“Now, Jake, I’ll handle this guy.…”
The drunken man said, “Nobuddy’s gonna steal my girl.” He waved his left arm in front of him.
The other man attempted to drag the girl from Crane. He was afraid the drunken man would hit him when she was pulled away so he held her tightly. The other man tugged at her. “Don’t be a damn fool, Janey.…”
Suddenly the girl released her hold and slapped Crane’s face. “You held me,” she accused him. She ran and threw her arms around the drunken man’s neck. “Oh; Jake, he wooden lemme go,” she wailed.
The Dead Don’t Care Page 5