“Not unless it led to too many more.”
“Well, it probably will; unfortunately, that seems to be what happens practically every time. At this party I went to unexpectedly this afternoon, for instance, I was determined to have two Martinis before leaving, but I kept meeting people who brought me more, and I was compelled to drink them out of politeness, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
She looked at him sharply past the edge of the heavy hair.
“Did you say that sarcastically?”
“Not I, lady I was only being agreeable.”
“Yes. Of course you were. You’re a superior, agreeable bartender, and I admire you very much. I apologize for my suspicions.”
“It’s all right, lady. No apologies necessary.”
“Looking back, I confess that I wasn’t quite so moderate as I thought I was.”
“Well, what’s moderate for one isn’t for another.”
“That’s true. You’re exactly right. I have quite a capacity for drinking Martinis, and I’m positive it would do me no harm to have another now.”
“Sure, lady. Very dry.”
He mixed it and poured it and went away to wait on another customer who had arrived a minute or two before. The new customer was a grossly fat and ugly man with a scarred hairless scalp. He ordered a beer and sat looking into it with a slack, transported expression, as if he saw in the brew a vision of another place — a white sand beach, perhaps, in a far, hot country. Yancy, after drawing the beer and ringing up the price, returned to Charity. She had drunk half the Martini and was waiting to mention something she had just thought of and was concentrating on until it could be mentioned.
“Why did you ask me if I’d had another blackout?” she said.
“Because you came back here. I thought maybe you repeated yourself in them.”
“Oh. I see. I don’t, however. I never do exactly the same thing over. I’m perfectly aware of where I’ve been and how I got where I am now and why I came from there to here.” She revolved half around on the stool, looked down the room, revolved back. “Where’s that beautiful Joe Doyle who plays the piano?”
“He’s not here.”
“I can see that he’s not here. That’s apparent. I want to know where he is, not where he’s not.”
“He’s home, I guess. That’s where he’s supposed to be, anyhow.”
“Will he be here later?”
“No.”
“Why not? Is it his night off or something?”
“He’s sick.”
“Sick? What do you mean, sick? I wish you wouldn’t just answer each question one at a time. Can’t you simply tell me everything at once?”
“He’s sick, lady. A real sick guy. I told you that before. He was here last night, playing piano to Chester Lewis’s drum as usual, and about eleven, a little after, he fainted. Went out like a light and fell over on the keys.”
“Is this true? Are you only trying to make me feel bad?”
“I’ve got no reason to want to make you feel bad.”
“That’s right. You haven’t. And even if you had, you probably wouldn’t do it. Do you think it was a heart attack?”
“No. I don’t think so. He just fainted.”
“Isn’t it rather odd and unusual for a man to faint? What do you think could have caused it?”
“Joe’s a guy who doesn’t give himself much chance, lady. He doesn’t eat right or sleep right or do anything right that he can do wrong. He oughtn’t even be playing a lousy piano in a joint like this.”
“Perhaps he needs someone with him.”
“He’s getting along all right. I went to see him this morning, and he was all right. He needs to eat and sleep a little, that’s all.”
“Just the same, I think I had better go and see him. Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I went?”
“No. I think it would be a good idea if you let him alone.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s already got all the trouble he needs.”
“Do you think I want to bring him trouble?”
“What you want is something I couldn’t begin to guess, lady, but what you’ll do is something else entirely. You remember what I said when you walked in here out of a black fog night before last? I said you looked like a Martini and smelled like a Martini, and I was mostly just joking, but there was something else you looked and smelled like, and I’ll tell you what it was, and this time I won’t be joking at all. You looked and smelled like trouble, lady. Bad trouble. Joe’s got all he needs without you bringing him any more, and you ought to leave him alone.”
“Why are you talking to me this way? I thought we were becoming good friends, and now you are saying these cruel things to me.”
“We can’t be friends, lady. Not you and me. You’re one thing, and I’m another, and that’s the way it is. I mix you Martinis, and you pay me for them and drink them, and we talk a little and maybe kid each other a little, but that’s all there is, there isn’t any more. Maybe you think it’s different with Joe, and maybe it really looks a little different on the surface, but underneath it’s the same with you and him as it is with you and me. You make a little of what passes for love, and you think what a big difference that is, but there’s no difference, not really, and all he’s really done is mix you another Martini.”
“I don’t believe I want to sit here and listen to you say such things,” she said.
“I don’t blame you, lady, and I’m sorry I had to say them.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“You can stay as long as you like, and you can leave when you want.”
“I don’t suppose, under the circumstances, that you’d care to mix me another Martini.”
“It’s my business to mix Martinis for anyone who wants them. You’re no exception.”
“Very well. I’ll have another.”
When it was in her glass, she drank it slowly, finishing it in silence. Then she pushed the glass away with the tips of her fingers and stood up.
“It’s apparent that you dislike me,” she said, “and I’d better go.”
“I don’t dislike you, lady. Just the contrary.”
“In spite of what you said?”
“In spite of it.”
“Perhaps you didn’t really mean it.”
“I meant it. Every word.”
“In that case, I must go even if you don’t dislike me and want me to.”
“If you’re going to see Joe, I might as well tell you where he lives. It won’t make any difference as far as he’s concerned, and it’ll save you some time.”
“You’re very kind, I’m sure, but it isn’t necessary for you to tell me. I’ve been there before.”
“I thought you probably had,” he said.
She went out and got into the Jaguar and drove toward Washington Square, toward the house in which Joe Doyle lived, and she had no difficulty at all in reaching it, in spite of her condition now and the condition she had been in the first time she had gone there. Her assurance was rather astonishing, everything considered, and she even remembered exactly the floor and exactly the door, and she knocked on the latter without the least thought of being mistaken, and she wasn’t. Joe Doyle opened the door and looked at her across the threshold, and whatever surprise he may have felt, he didn’t show.
“Why are you up?” she said. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”
He grinned wryly.
“Ever since yesterday morning? I’ve been up twice since then.”
“I didn’t mean that. I mean because you’re sick. I went to the place you work, and the bartender told me you fainted last night and were home sick.”
“Yancy likes to talk. It gets to be a habit with bartenders.”