They caught a cab and rode to the Cort. “This is funny,” Elly said. “It feels like... like a date. Do you know what I mean?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Of course we’re hardly dressed for the occasion.”
“You look fine, Ell.”
“Thanks. But I look fine for a shopping splurge at Saks, not for an evening on the town. Everybody will stare at us.”
“They won’t,” Maggie said. “They may think we’re tourists from Peoria, but they won’t stare at us. Besides, who cares if they do?”
“Not I,” Elly said gaily. “They can stare until their eyes bulge. Whee! We’re on a date, Mag.”
“Uh-huh. Maybe we should neck in the back seat of the cab.”
“Wonderful,” Elly said. “After the show we’ll have our cabby drive through Central Park. And we’ll neck like high school kids. Okay?”
“Fine with me.”
A Sound Of Distant Drums turned out to be all the critics had said it was. Elly let herself get lost in the play, let herself become absorbed by characters and dialogue. When the final curtain fell she had to shake herself in order to remind herself that she was in a theatre, that the action which had transpired was action on a stage and not the real thing.
Then they were outside, in the middle of after-the-theatre pedestrian traffic on Broadway. They ducked into a bar for drinks and had two each, enough to get Elly a little bit high again.
“This is fun,” she said earnestly. “So much fun.”
“I know it is.”
“You want to know something? I don’t even want to go home. I want to stay here in Manhattan until hell freezes. Maybe even longer.”
“That’s a long time.”
“I know it. Maggie, I don’t even want to call Ted. I just want to stay.”
“We could stay the night, you know. We could go to a hotel.”
“Let’s! Oh, it’s an adventure, Mag. I need an adventure.”
“Well have one,” Maggie promised, her eyes gleaming strangely. “But first call Ted so he doesn’t worry. Then we’ll have our adventure. We’ll go to a night club or two and get stinking drunk and stay over at a hotel. Sound like fun?”
“Sounds heavenly,” Elly said. “Whee! An adventure!”
16
Roz Barclay sat reading in a comfortable chair. The book in her hand had been written by a fellow with whom Linc had been friendly years ago. When they all lived in Manhattan, the writer and his wife and Linc and Roz were a frequent foursome. Now, while Linc and Roz had moved to northern Westchester, the other writer and his wife had wound up in Bucks County, in Pennsylvania. Both families lived within commuting distance of New York, but in opposite directions. They never saw each other any more.
The book was a rather moody novel about a disturbed teenager, and only loyalty to a writer who had been a close friend kept Roz from putting the book down unfinished. She plowed onward, hoping at least to be able to save Linc the monumental chore of reading the thing. This way she would finish it herself and tuck it away in the bookcase, and if he ever asked about it, she would tell him how rotten it was.
Because, for the time being, Linc did not have time to waste reading lousy books. He had his own lousy books to write.
And he would be coming to her soon. She shuddered in delighted anticipation, knowing that soon he would come to her, taking a break from the book to bring another slump to its end. He had told her not to wear anything under her dress, saying it would save time. And she was not wearing anything under her dress. When he came she could throw the dress over her head and be naked for him, nude for him, ready for him. Then he could take her, quickly and passionately and breathlessly, and the world could pour itself into a deep pit and dash itself to fragments.
Her eyes were busy with the bad book about a disturbed adolescent. But her mind and her body waited for Linc.
Elly was having a wonderful time.
She and Maggie were at a front table in Endsville, a progressive jazz club on the East Side. On the stand, an instrumental quartet was working wild changes on I’ve Got Rhythm. The original melody had disappeared, and the four Negroes were swinging with the basic chord structure, twisting the song through new and wonderful channels.
Elly listened to the drums, to the bass. The drummer worked the top cymbal, keeping the beat steady, playing on top of the beat. The bassist moved up and down the chord patterns, backing the group. She looked at the pianist, then at the tenor sax. The music was wild and her ears and brain were filled with it.
“Maggie,” she said, “this is fun.”
“You’re enjoying yourself?”
“I’m having a ball.”
“You like the music?”
“I love the music. I haven’t had this much fun in... in years. I’m glad we decided to stay in the city. This beats the damn train home and quitting early.”
Maggie smiled, and Elly noticed again just how beautiful the redhaired girl was. So beautiful, and so good to her, and so good for her, and so much fun to be with.
“When you’re having a good time,” Maggie said, “there’s no point in stopping early.”
“I know.”
“We’ll stay here for another drink or two. Then we’ll find someplace else to go. I already made reservations at the Hasbrouck House. Our room is waiting for us any time we want to go there. So we don’t have to worry about finding a place to stay. We can paint the town scarlet all night long.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It is fun, Ell.”
She got lost in the music again. The tenor man unwound with a long solo, gutty and bluesy, and she let her mind float along on the ribbon of pure melody, let herself get immersed in the music. When the solo ended she saw Maggie ordering another round of drinks.
“Not for me, Mag.”
“Of course for you. I can’t drink them both all by myself, Ell. One’s for me and one’s for you.”
“I’m pretty well stoned already, Maggie. I don’t want to pass out. I’d make a fool of myself.”
“No fool like a pretty fool, Ell.”
“I’m tipsy, Mag—”
Maggie’s hand moved across the table, caught Elly’s wrist, held it. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “We’re out on the town, sweetie. We’ve got a perfectly good right to get stoned.”
“I suppose so.”
“So you just drink your drink, Ell. We’ll stay here until the band takes a break. Then maybe we’ll take a hansom ride through Central Park. You know, one of the old horse cabs.”
“I’ve never been in one of those, Mag.”
“They’re fun.”
She looked at Maggie. Her eyes were bright now, alive. She sipped her drink and studied the redhaired girl over the brim of her glass. She was all keyed up, all excited.
“And we can neck in the back,” she said, giggling a little. “Like on a date. Can’t we, Maggie?”
“Of course, sweetie.”
Something was a little funny, she thought. Something was a little bit out of the ordinary.
She pushed the thought from her mind and finished her drink.
It was a Monday night, of course. And, since it was a Monday night, Howard Haskell had brought work home from the office. He’d taken a later train than usual from New York, and he’d hardly said a word through dinner, and now he was locked up in his den with the tentative plans for some advertising campaign or other.