There it was. We were off to the races. I got the tray of drinks and brought them over to the bench.
She was Lucile Travers, divorced.
“You’re not a part of this,” I told her. “Any more than I am. You and I could raise a lot of hell if we set our minds to it.”
She raised her eyebrows and set down her fourth cocktail glass empty.
“Listen, darling.” I had hold of her hand. My voice quivered a little with weariness after my set-to with Dolly the night before. “I can go for you in a big way,” I went on, setting myself to the job. “What say we drift away from here where we can be alone?”
Her eyes narrowed, widened as she caught in her breath sharply. The garden was full of people, but there were only the two of us.
“I’d love it.” She spoke the words lingeringly. “I have seen two or three women I must speak to first. Let me attend to that...”
“I’ll sit here,” I promised.
She stood up, sinewy and straight. Touched my hand and moved away. I lifted another glass and watched her intercept a young girl coming from the conservatory. One of those radiant young things whom I had thought didn’t belong at this tea.
The late sun touched her brown hair with a glint of gold. They stood ten feet from me and talked. The girl was less than an inch shorter than Lucile. Her gray eyes were looking past Lucile at me as she talked.
I stared at her — without pretending not to. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had something. One look told me she was a girl I could go for. Yes, and damn it, one look told me she felt exactly what I felt.
That’s all there was to it. Her eyes were fixed on mine all the time she was talking to Lucile. I put down another side-car and told myself over and over that I mustn’t get sidetracked from the main issue. I could imagine what Lucile was saying to her. I looked away from the girl while I thought of her walking into the same trap Dolly was in — and June Benton had been in.
That was almost too much. Then she and Lucile were walking away together. I sat there and cursed for thirty consecutive minutes. Then Lucile came back.
She was through, ready to beat it. She had her own roadster there. The sun had vanished and swift darkness came on.
We got out without seeing Dolly or Mrs. Axelrod. I crawled into the driver’s seat and Lucile pressed herself very close beside me. She gave me the name of a middle-class Miami hotel and I started driving.
Chapter 5
There was a peculiar phosphorescent glow on the water as we drove across the bridge to the causeway connecting Miami with the beach. Everything was awfully damned serene. Lulling a man to intimate thoughts.
Lucile’s presence didn’t help make my thoughts any less intimate. She didn’t say anything. There was a half-eaten apple of a moon swinging in the sky. Bent palms along the causeway were mistily etched against the dull glow of the night that seemed to be reflected from the waters of Biscayne Bay.
There’s something in the Miami air that does things to a man and woman riding together at night. A heavy sensuousness that would be cloyingly sweet if it weren’t for the cleansing tang of the sea mingling with the scent of tropical flowers.
Nowhere else on earth, I suppose, is there just this combination that drives virgins into moods of frenetic instability, and arouses in the flabby breasts of old women an indecent urge to set about recapturing the ecstasies long denied them.
It effects men in much the same manner. Too bad that Ponce de Leon landed at St. Augustine instead of Miami in his search for the fountain of eternal youth. The magic of a Miami moonlit night was what he was looking for. Impotent oldsters grow aggressively virile; men subdued by past indulgences rediscover the urge to prostrate themselves before the lady-of-the-moment; youngsters are moved to assault, which, in turn, proves totally unnecessary.
I’m trying to say that I forgot everything except Lucile as we drove across the causeway to Miami together.
And I’m fairly certain that I was the only thing important to her at the same time.
She let her head lie back against the seat and drew in great breaths of the air. I drove slowly, catching a glimpse now and again of her taut throat and the clean profile of her face.
I’ve always enjoyed the company of women like Lucile Travers. Affairs are not for men or women of less than thirty. They’re too messy, and there’s always too damned much idealism involved. Ideals get in the way.
Curiously, my thoughts went back to the girl I had seen Lucile last talking to at the tea.
The slender girl with the gray eyes. Self-reliant eyes. Calm with the certitude of youth. Than which there is no more self-revealing certitude.
She was mixed up in the picture. I knew she was. Years of newspaper work have taught me to rely on this sort of knowingness. It springs from a secret source that defies recognition. Events were leading me toward her. Dolly had been a step. Lucile was offering herself as a step.
The gray-eyed girl had a niche some place. That was all I knew. It was enough. I could take what Lucile would give me, knowing it led me on to the girl with the glint of gold in her hair and the certitude of youth in her eyes.
Lucile directed me to turn north at the western end of the causeway. Along two or three tree-shadowed blocks, and west half a block to a patioed hotel building sedately withdrawn from the clamor of downtown Miami.
Lucile’s two rooms were on the top floor. They looked all right to me. I could see she had all the money she needed. Inside, Lucile pivoted about and faced me. In the bright overhead light, her eyes were humid.
She did not smile. Her short upper lip began to quiver. Sharp teeth came out and caught it painfully. Her face was a confused blur as I looked into her eyes. Everything faded away except sharp teeth and tautly uplifted lips.
I took a step toward her and she flowed into my arms. Her lips were cold and unyielding. She let her head fall back and I had to close my eyes against what I saw in hers.
I said, “Goddamn,” when I let her go. She nodded as though in agreement. Went across the room to pull the cord of a floor lamp. I switched out the overhead lights. The windows were open and a light breeze was coming in.
“It’s early,” she announced from across the room. “I could do with a drink.”
I nodded. She went into the bathroom and came out with an assortment of bottles while I phoned for ice.
I went to a comfortable chair and let her mix the drinks, knowing she was no Dolly.
She poured liquids out of several bottles and brought me a cool, minty drink. She lifted hers and smiled warmly. Her voice was unexpectedly husky. “Here’s to us.”
I touched her glass with mine and we drank.
She sat down near me and let the smile fade off her lips.
“This is unexpectedly nice.”
“Are nice things unexpected?”
“Very much so... lately.”
“You’re the sort of person to whom nice things should come as a matter of course.”
She finished her drink and regarded me obliquely.
“Perhaps I haven’t allowed them to come. Or, perhaps my definition of nice things is not your own.”
“Quite possibly.”
She got up and mixed herself another drink. My glass was still half full. She acted like a woman who could take plenty. I wanted her to get enough — not too much. She came back, saying casually:
“I’d like to get drunk with you.”
“There’s nothing to prevent it.” I nodded toward the array of bottles on the center table.
“Would you like to get drunk with me?”
“Why not?” I lifted my glass and downed it.
“Do you know what I mean?” She was leaning toward me. Her upper lip was twitching.