“You look like you could do almost anything,” Eddie said.
“I don’t feel that way.”
“Do you want dessert?”
She looked at him. “I live a few blocks from here. Let’s go to my place and have a drink together.”
Eddie blinked at her, shocked.
Her apartment was one large room on the fourth floor, with high windows overlooking Main Street. The walls, the ceiling and even the floor were painted white. When they came in, she went to the windows, pushed them open on their hinges, and the enormous white curtains at each side billowed out into the room like parachutes. There was a white sofa and two white chairs; one wall was covered with a white bookcase. From the center of the high ceiling hung a glass chandelier; it was shaped like an inverted bell, and etched. Over the sofa was a huge painting of a car driving through a field of yellow wheat. It was amateurishly painted—as though by a child—but bright and lively.
He turned from the picture and looked at her. She had taken off her jacket, and the T-shirt she wore showed her figure. She had a strikingly narrow waist and her breasts were high, even though she was not wearing a bra. “You’re the first person from the university I’ve met,” he said.
She frowned. “I’ll fix drinks.”
The wall by the door held a unit with stove, refrigerator and sink. On a shelf over this were some bottles. “Is Scotch all right?” she said.
“I’d rather have bourbon.”
“Okay.” She got a bottle down and a shot glass. She set two tumblers on the sink and poured a shot and a little extra in each.
He took the drink and walked over to the window, ducking around the billowing curtains. He looked down at the street, full of traffic. He had never thought of living like this—right downtown. Across the street were Bradley’s Drug and Arthur Treacher’s and a clothing store. The sidewalks were full of people. He liked it, liked the noise from it. He drank his drink, not looking back to see what she was doing. It was ten till two. He turned and saw her seated on the couch with her legs under her, looking up at him. She was holding her glass and it was still full. “Nice apartment,” he said.
“Thanks. Shouldn’t we make love?”
He looked at her. “Don’t be like that,” he said.
She looked as though she were going to say something, but she was silent, still looking up at him. Her nipples were evident under the white T-shirt. Her figure was fine and she had a beautiful face and voice and he liked her accent. But she did not arouse him. “I’m not ready to make love,” he said. “This is all new to me. This place…” he gestured back toward the windows “…and you. I don’t feel at home yet.”
“I’ll fix you another drink.”
“What for?”
“Maybe you’ll feel more like it.”
Suddenly he was annoyed. “Don’t give me that,” he said. “I don’t think you’re in the mood either.”
She looked at him.
“You just want to put the ball in my court.”
She hesitated. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I am right. You’re not the only sex that gets exploited.”
She frowned and took a long swallow from her drink. “You’re so good looking,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be smart.”
He walked back to the window and looked out again. Far to the right, on the next block downtown, was a theater. He could just read the marquee.
He turned back to her. She had moved her legs out from under her and was now sitting on the sofa in the regular way, with her feet crossed at the ankles. She had nice feet, with pale blue shoes that fit her well. In the light from the window her complexion glowed. “Have you seen Reds?” he said.
“Reds?”
“The movie. With Warren Beatty.”
“No.”
“Let’s go see it.”
She looked astonished. “At two o’clock in the afternoon?”
“They wouldn’t play all afternoon if people didn’t go.”
“People who have nothing better to do.”
“Do you have something better to do?”
She looked at him and then shrugged. “Let’s go,” she said.
It was a long movie, with an intermission in the middle, and they didn’t get out until after five. Arabella was a lot more at ease when they came out. While they stood blinking in the bright afternoon light—startling after the dark theater—she said, “I used to be a Socialist. My grandmother wanted me to work for the Party, but I never did.”
“Why did you come to America?”
“I don’t like English men.”
“Laurence Olivier?” he said. “Mountbatten?”
“They never asked me out.”
“I could have been a Socialist,” he said. “Some people say it’s subversive. What goes on in daily business is what’s subversive.”
“Daily business?”
“Real estate. Insurance. Mid-American Cable TV.”
“I wish you could have met my grandmother.”
“Let’s go back to your apartment.”
“Don’t you have to be anywhere?”
“No. Do you?”
“I don’t want to make love.”
“That’s a relief,” Eddie said. “I want to see your place again. I like all the white.”
“Eddie,” she said, “you are a prince. What do you do for a living?”
He was silent awhile before he spoke. “I don’t want to tell you yet,” he said.
Eddie knocked, and then opened the door to Fats’ room. Fats was in a Danish Modern chair by the window, almost completely obscuring the chair, his enormous bottom stuffed into it and hanging over. The plastic swag lamp above the table by him shone theatrically on boxes of junk desserts: King Dongs, Devil Dogs, Twinkies. He held a Ring Ding Junior—a kind of chocolate hockey puck—in his hand and was chewing on another. The television was off. Nothing else was going on in the room. Eddie felt for a moment as though he’d found him masturbating. He stood with his hand on the doorknob, silent, while Fats finished chewing.
“Come in, Fast Eddie,” Fats said.
Eddie walked in. “I thought you were more of a gourmet than that.”
“Don’t gourmet me,” Fats said. “Do you think they sell French desserts in the Rochester Holiday Inn? Éclairs? Mousse au chocolate?”
Eddie shrugged and seated himself on the bed. “That’s quite a few of them.”
Fats looked at the Ring Ding in his hand with distaste. “I am not overweight for nothing.” He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “What do you want, Eddie?”
“I was thinking,” Eddie said. “Maybe we shouldn’t finish the tour.”
Fats looked at him and said nothing.
“If ‘Wide World of Sports’ isn’t going to pick us up…”
“You’ve heard something?”
“If they haven’t done it by now they probably won’t.”
Fats finished his Ring Ding and picked up a package of Twinkies. “Well,” he said, “I’ve been enjoying myself. Relatively speaking.”
Eddie frowned. “You’re being paid more than I am.”
“And I’m winning.” He pinched the top of the Twinkie pack and zipped it open expertly—the way a wino opens a bottle of muscatel, Eddie thought. He slipped out a Twinkie, held it between finger and thumb. “My game has been good and I enjoy the applause. Now that you’ve got glasses, you should practice.”
“It bores me, Fats.” He leaned forward. “I mean it seriously bores me.”
“Then something’s wrong with your head.” Fats popped the Twinkie into his mouth and picked up his glass of Perrier.