"I heard he's worth sixty million dollars," said Mr. Gerson, at one of these lunch-time sessions. Mr. Gerson was a great gossip; he enjoyed it, he could suck it out of his thumb if need be; and Diane, perched beside him on a stool at the long bar, found him useful. He was going to be useful in other ways, too, as soon as he made up his mind to it. At the moment he had wife-trouble—which meant, in this area of endeavour, that Mrs. Gerson watched him like a hawk every waking hour of the day and night. It was only on occasions like this, when she was having her hair done and would miss lunch, that he managed a modest run of freedom. Diane had an idea that this time he was going to make the most of it.
"Sixty million?" repeated Diane, in awed tones. When money was mentioned, she always made her eyes go large; for sixty million dollars, she made them go very large indeed. "Gee—what does he do with it?"
Gerson watched her with great pleasure. He was four rum Collinses ahead, and hazily happy; he liked the shape of her, and the way her breasts touched the bar before anything else did, and the kissing mouth she made when she sucked on a straw. ("You want a piece of tail?" his friend Bancroft had asked him, very confidentially. "Go ahead and help yourself. She loves it!") He didn't believe Bancroft had had it, but he believed that he could himself, if he played it right.
"I don't know what Tillotson does," answered Gerson, "but I know what I'd do. Have a good time, that's what I'd do! Like they say, you can't take it with you. Isn't that the truth? Who wants to be the richest man in the graveyard, for God's sake?"
"What's your idea of a good time?" asked Diane.
"Well, now . . ." Their eyes locked momentarily as she turned on him a candid, inquiring glance, and he felt a stirring of the blood in his solid loins. It was true, this babe was hot. . . . Maybe Bancroft had been steering him right after all. . . . "Well, I'd live it up, that's what I'd do. Yes, sir! I'd get me a yacht—well, I've got a yacht, but I'd get a real big one, hundred feet,hundred-fifty feet, and I'd go around the world just having fun."
"That's for me," said Diane. "Just take me along, that's all!"
"You'd come?"
"Try and stop me!"
"It's a date." He signalled to Edgar, who came forward with a shaker to refill their glasses. "Yes, sir, that's what I'd do with sixty million dollars. Or six million, for that matter. I'd have fun!"
"You're so right," said Diane.
"They say Zucco's loaded too," said Gerson, momentarily brooding. He sipped his fresh drink. "All those guys in the film business, they make money like they printed it themselves. 'Course, he's a Jew, it's different. Mind you, I like Jews. Don't get me wrong. But they certainly know how to make a buck, and they certainly know how to hang on to it."
"I never could save money."
"You and me both."
Within their orbit of vision, Louis Scapelli came to the wide double-doors of the bar, glanced slowly round the room, and crossed with a smile to a small corner table at which Mrs. Consolini was already seated. By the way they fell into animated conversation, they were cordially glad to see each other.
"Isn't that your cousin?" asked Gerson, watching them.
"Yes."
"Seems to be consoling himself."
"How do you mean?" asked Diane warily.
"Well, there was a lot of talk about him giving the other old girl a whirl. You know, Mrs. Stewart-Bates. What happened to that one?"
"I don't know.Was he giving her a whirl?"
"You know darn well he was." But Gerson was smiling; he recognized family discretion at work, and approved of it. "He had her spinning six different ways at once. Now, bingo!—he's switched. What gives? You don't even see her around any more."
Diane decided it would be easier to play it at Gerson's level of comment.
"Lovers' quarrel, maybe," she said, with a confederate grin. "You know how it is."
"I know how it is. Do you know how it is?"
"What do you think?"
"Lots of boy friends, eh?"
"Oh, scads. That's why I'm taking a rest-cure. They just wore me out."
I'll bet, Gerson said to himself, thinking back to his friend Bancroft again. He looked down at her bosom; it was by far the easiest place to look, and it recalled once more a memorable conversation. "I tell you, she loves it!" Bancroft had said, encouraging him. "And you'll love it, too. No kidding, that babe can do more with her tits than you and I can do with a knife and fork!" "What's the angle, then?" he had asked. "No angle," Bancroft had answered. "She's like they say, an enthusiastic amateur. It's for free. I know." "In a pig's ear," he had scoffed, disbelieving on principle; and Bancroft, who sometimes affected a frightful travesty of an Irish accent, had answered: "That wasn't the place at all, at all!" and had choked with uproarious laughter. Then, more serious, he had added: "You gotta conscience, slip her five bucks."
It hadn't run quite true when Bancroft told him about it—if she was all that good, why was Bancroft being such a pal, why was he spreading it around?—but now he was beginning to believe it. Sometimes they just had to have it, in triplicate; one guy couldn't keep up. . . . Anyhow, there was no harm in making a bit of time with her. She looked like the best bet in the ship, and the trip was damned dull otherwise.
He was ready to pursue the allusive topic of the boy friends she had left behind, when there was a disturbance at one of the tables nearby, and they both turned their heads. It was, as usual, Mrs. van Dooren, insisting on her constitutional right to buy a round of drinks. Above the steady roar of conversation they caught the words: "Lunch? Don't be a radical! George! Set 'em up in the other alley!" Edgar snapped his fingers, and one of his aides hurried over.
"I don't know how she keeps it up," said Gerson. "Must have hollow legs."
"She's got pretty ones."
"You know, that's what I like about you!" he exclaimed. "Generosity! Most women, look at another woman's legs, they say 'Oof, take 'em away!' They can't stand competition. But you, you say straight out: 'She's got pretty legs.' I like that."
"Maybe I can stand competition," said Diane.
"Baby," said Gerson, "you never spoke a truer word." He leant over, slightly drunk, amorously happy. "I bet you can stand it all over. Know what I mean?"
But this was a little too raw for her. It was lunch-time; there were too many people around; at any moment his wife might duck out from under the hair-dryer, and come running. Diane looked away from him, as if preoccupied, and caught Edgar's eye; and Edgar, who had been watching and intermittently listening, and who recognized a situation when he saw one, moved across till he was opposite them.
"Can I interest you folks in tomorrow's pool?" he asked cheerfully. "We're still giving money away."
"You know it's just a racket," said Diane, smiling.
"Of course it is, madam," said Edgar. "Otherwise I wouldn't be in it, would I?"
"How much?" asked Gerson, straightening up. "As if I didn't know."
"To you, sir, one hundred dollars even."
"Put me down for two chances," said Gerson. He gestured towards Diane. "Her and me."
"No, please!" said Diane. "You mustn't do that."
"Forget it," said Gerson, suddenly a big spender. "We'll bring each other luck." He signed the chit which Edgar had passed over to him. "Whoever wins nine hundred bucks buys the other one a drink. Two drinks. O.K.?"
"It's O.K. by me. And thanks a million!"
"Forget it, baby. You deserve it." Edgar was still standing in front of them, and Gerson asked him: "Who won it today, anyway?"