“Bad news, hey?”
“I had no idea he was here.”
“He trying to block your divorce?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t see how he can.”
“Maybe wants money.”
“I imagine it’s nothing but some foolish last-minute stunt to get me to change my mind, and incidentally sign a new contract with that picture company I’ve been trying to break away from for the past two years. Something silly, but nothing serious. But, I don’t want him around! I don’t want him around the hotel. I don’t want him around my sister. I—”
Tony’s eye caught the slip of paper in her hand, and he gave a little clk of surprise. “You know that number, Miss Shoreham?”
“No, I don’t.”
“That’s the Galloping Domino.”
“Oh, on the road west.”
“My other place.”
“Your— What’s he doing out there?”
“Looks funny.”
They peered at the slip, and he said: “I tell you what we’ll do. I’ve got to go out there anyway, so you come with me, talk to him, see what he wants. Then if it’s bad you stall him and I’ll slip back to town. Hazel and I will move you out of the hotel to my house, and you’ll be there where nobody can reach you with a subpoena, a camera, or anything at all.”
“Oh, dear, I’ve asked somebody to lunch.”
“O. K., my wife’ll serve the lunch. And you’ll love my little daughter Maxine. She’s just about Hazel’s age, acts in all our productions here in town, crazy to get in pictures—”
But at this Sylvia’s smile became a little glassy: picture people are usually wary of girls crazy to get in pictures. Quickly she said. “I’d just love it, Tony. I’ve seen Maxine and I think she’s the sweetest thing in this town. But — first of all, let’s find out what he’s up to.”
They drove out the main highway to a place that looked like a cross between a country club and a Kentucky thoroughbred farm. It was a rambling white building surrounded by trees, with a low, shingled roof, green shutters, and brass doorknobs. Inside, it was a replica of the place they had left, except that it was smaller, and a little gaudier, and a little more cut-rate.
As they turned in at the gate, Sylvia pointed to a green car out front, and he drove around back. They entered through a side door that led into Tony’s office, which was exactly like the one in town except that it had green leather chairs instead of red. In the door at the other end of the room was a little metal slot, the kind that speakeasies used to have. Tony opened it, peeped out. Sylvia peeped, and her face hardened as she spotted a lone player at one of the blackjack tables, who handled his cards with nonchalance and chatted flirtatiously with the pretty dealer. Tony looked incredulously at Sylvia. “Not that guy?”
“Of course. Why?”
“He’s been in every night for a week.”
“Here? At the Galloping Domino?”
“He’s a regular.”
The bartender went by with bottles. Opening the door, Tony called him, and he came in. “Jake, that guy over there, the one playing blackjack with Ethel — you know anything about him?”
Jake looked and said: “Sure, he comes in.”
“What names does he go by?”
“Search me. He’s some kind of a foreigner. He said call him Vic, so that’s how we left it.”
“What’s he do?”
“Fishes most of the time, I think. Took a shack by the river, couple miles up the line. He’s got plenty of dough.”
“Send him in, Tony.”
Jake and Tony went into the casino and Sylvia sat on the edge of the big desk, her face set, her eyes narrow. In a moment a burst of waltz music entered the room, transformed itself into a man, took her hand as though it were a water lily, brushed a kiss upon it, wafted it gently to her knee again, and stood murmuring her name, as though such a vision of loveliness were more than human fortitude could endure. He was a rather large man, but made with such grace that he almost seemed small. About his lean hardness there was something of the cavalry officer; about his small hands and feet something of the ballet master; and about his bright black eyes something of the pimp. But his mouth was poetic, and it throbbed now, like the throat of a robin, as he kept repeating “Sylvia-Sylvia-Sylvia” in a soft, sibilant whisper.
She looked at him for a time, then lit a cigarette and crossed to one of the leather chairs, sinking back in it and hooking a reflective knee over one arm. Then she said: “Believe it or not, Vicki, I’m a little glad to see you. And my hand has a little tingle spot on it, where it was kissed. Even when I know the whole routine frontwards and backwards, it still does things to me.”
“But it is no ruttine! Is from ’ere. Is from ’eart.”
“What do you want?”
“To see you, Sylvia! No odder t’ing. To sing one song, to break one glass, to blow one kees, before comes a end!”
“The worst of it is, it could be true.”
“Of course is true! I say myself, Vicki, what you do? You sit ’ere! You let time go by. You act like damn full! Tomorrow you lose Sylvia, you no do one t’ing! I jump in car, Sylvia! I drive in one night! I swear you, I live ’Ollywood last night, no stop even buy gas! I see thees place, I coon wet! I coon wet, had to see you Sylvia. I jump out! I stop car ’ere thees place, I jump out, I phone huttel, I—”
“You lying Lithuanian heel, what do you want?”
“O. K., Sylvia, I tell you.”
“And not so loud. And not so funny.”
“Is all true! I most see you!... But why I call up? Was afred! Was afred you live thees place before I find you! I say to myself, I most ’ave thees t’ing—”
“Have what?”
“Thees ring!”
She looked down at the ring that was still on her finger, a plain gold band with steel oval on which was cut a coronet. Without a word she slipped it off and handed it to him. When he had kissed her hand passionately again, she said: “I would have sent it to you. I don’t know why I haven’t already, except it’s one of those things you just don’t have a box to fit. But why the phone call, and the fuss, and—”
“I get marrit again, Sylvia.”
“You — what?”
“Yes. I get marrit today.”
She got up, lifted the phone, asked that Tony be paged for her. When he came in she said: “Tony, a bottle of champagne.”
“Yes, Miss Shoreham.”
“No, Sylvia, I coon permit—”
“Tony, champagne. And be sure it’s very expensive champagne. Champagne in every way fit for a bridegroom-elect—”
“Miss Shoreham, don’t tell me—”
“Not I, Tony. My husband.”
“Ah yes, champagne.”
With a deferential bow to Vicki, Tony left the room. Sylvia said: “Does she live here, Vicki? Is that why you took the shack?”
For a long, worried moment he stared at her. She laughed. “You didn’t expect to get away with that midnight drive from Hollywood, did you?”
“Who tell you about shock?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes, plizze.”
“The bartender.”
“Jeck?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“Nobbudy else?”
She laughed again. “No, Vicki, nobody else. So if delicious naughtiness has been enjoyed by all, I don’t know a thing and you’re perfectly safe.”
Tony came in presently, with an icebucket, a bottle with gold foil on it, and two glasses. When the bottle had been well-twirled in the ice, he cut the wire, winked as the cork popped, and poured. At the toast to happy days he backed out, and Sylvia said: “Do you know what I thought, Vicki?”