“I’ll get right on it,” Lucille said. But those oriental eyes said Go fuck yourself.
Which didn’t in the least bother the pouty blond waitress, who parked herself on the stool next to me while the drinks were getting made.
“You got a smoke?” she said.
“No,” I said.
“I’ll do you a favor sometime,” she said, and moved over a stool.
I nursed my gimlet.
“Hey,” I said, after a while.
The pouty blonde, not looking, said, “You talking to me?”
“Yeah. Tell me something.”
“Such as.”
“Who’s that big guy that’s been circulating all evening?”
A guy about fifty, a young-looking and healthy fifty at that, several inches over six foot, shortcropped white hair, modest pot belly, craggy good looks, had been winding through the tables incessantly as long as I’d been there, though he never would butt in, never made conversation unless a player at a table began it, a constant presence in the room without being obnoxious about it. And though he wore a conservative but well-tailored suit with a solid-color blue tie, he had a rugged look that fit right in with the image the Barn sought.
“Why don’t you take a great big guess and see if you just can’t figure it out yourself?”
“He runs the place.”
“He owns it, too.”
“What’s his name?”
“Tree.”
“What?”
“Tree, I said. Frank Tree.”
“Is that a real name?”
“How should I know? Ask Mr. Tree.”
“You still want a smoke?”
“Sure.”
I got a buck out and wadded it up and tossed it down the counter in front of her.
“Buy yourself a couple packs,” I said.
She turned her nose up at the wadded-up buck. Then she put it in her denims.
Meanwhile, Lucille was on her way back with a tray full of drinks. One of the drinks was another gimlet for me; the rest of the tray went with the pouty waitress out into the room of cardtables.
I tasted the fresh drink and said, “I may give up Coke completely.”
“Oh shit,” Lucille said. “Here comes another empty tray to fill. Listen. We close in an hour and a half. I’ll be out of here fifteen minutes after that. Let’s do something.”
“Fine,” I said.
While I was waiting I went back out to the tables. By closing I’d lost half of my winnings from draw poker at seven-card stud.
I wasn’t sure yet whether I was winning or losing tonight.
10
“You’ll have to excuse this place,” she said, flicking on the light as we came in and locking the door behind us, “but I haven’t exactly had much time for decorating. As a matter of fact I haven’t unpacked.”
“Looks fine to me,” I said.
It also looked smalclass="underline" one twelve-by-twelve room serving as living room and bedroom and everything else, except for a cubbyhole kitchenette off to the far right and a bathroom to the near right. There was a beat-up couch against the left wall, a coffee table nearby, an armchair by the window, and on the kitchen table a portable television with a screen the size of a TV Guide folded in half. The walls were plaster, light green, the carpet wall to wall but worn, dark green. Not an elegant layout, but clean and not as depressing as some places I been in. The major problem was a pygmy could get stir crazy in there.
“I’ll fix us something to drink,” she said.
“Nothing with booze.”
“This time I agree with you. Instant Sanka okay?”
“Sounds fine.”
“Just take a second to make. You go ahead and pull out the bed.”
“The bed.”
“You know, the couch. It’s a hideaway bed.”
“Oh. Well, sure.”
I pulled out the bed.
“Are there sheets on it?” she asked from the kitchenette.
“Yeah. Also some blankets.”
“That’s a relief. This friend of mine who was supposed to be getting this apartment ready for me, well, she’s a kind of a scatterbrain. I didn’t expect things to be so well organized. She’s got the cupboard and refrigerator stocked for me and everything.”
“How’s the Sanka coming?”
“Just take a minute to get the water heated up. Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”
“On the bed, you mean.”
“Of course on the bed. Is it hot in here?”
“A little, yes.”
“I don’t think the heat can be turned down. I think the thermostat’s broken or something.”
She fixed the Sanka, brought a cup over to me, and pulled off the sleeveless red sweater she’d filled out so admirably at the Barn. “I hope you know I’m taking terrible advantage of you.”
“Oh?”
“Sure,” she said, undoing her bra. “If it wasn’t for you I would’ve had to hitch a ride home with one of those creeps at the Barn. And you saw how well I got along with the waitresses there.”
“Maybe they were just giving you a hard time because it’s your first day.”
“First day and every day. I mean, I make more money than they do, so what can you expect? I could’ve got a ride from one of those guys dealing for the house, I suppose, but fraternizing with them is against policy, I’m told. Besides, I didn’t see anything in that room that appealed to me… with one exception.” She unzipped her denims. “Excuse me a second, would you?” She let the denims drop, stepped out of them and went into the bathroom.
“You see, I have a car of my own,” she called over some running water, “but I loaned it to my girl friend.”
“The one who got this apartment for you?”
“That’s right. How could I refuse her? She gave me a ride out there and I told her I could find a ride back. And I did, didn’t I?”
She emerged from the bathroom, walked over to the kitchenette, got her own cup of Sanka, and flicked off the kitchen light, and the overhead light, too. She was wearing transparent panties. That’s all. She’d left a light on in the bathroom, and left the door open a crack, but otherwise it was dark in there. Still, I could see just fine. Subdued lighting can do nice things to a naked body. Nearly naked.
She was a study in dark and light contrast: dark Florida tan against the untanned flesh where her bikini had been, dark nipples against otherwise white breasts, dark pubic bush against the whiteness of her loins.
She was an architectural wonder, this girl. One day, if she lived long enough, those massive breasts would have to droop. Gravity, like death, is inevitable. But right now she and her high, huge breasts were alive and well in Des Moines, Iowa.
“Sorry I was such bad company, on the way here,” she said, stretching out on her stomach on the bed, cupping her chin with one long-nailed hand, the dark blue, gold-flecked eyes with their oriental slant catching what little light there was and making electricity out of it.
“Bad company?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I slept all the way.”
And she had, head against my shoulder, for the whole thirty-minute ride from the Barn to the east side of Des Moines where this apartment was.
“You didn’t snore,” I said.
“I never snore.”
“Neither do I.”
“I want you to know something.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“I don’t usually do this kind of thing. I want you to know that.”
“Do what kind of thing?”
“You know. Fuck on the first date.”
“How do you know we’re going to?”
“Just a hunch.”
“You may be right. But right now I’m going to drink this Sanka.”
“See.”
“See what?”
“You do think I do this kind of thing all the time.”
“If I said something, I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t say anything. It was how you said it.’’
“I’ll pretend I understand that. I’m done with my Sanka.”