"What was that you called this?" he asked.
"Calalou," answered the waiter.
"You can say that again. . . . D'you like it, honey?"
"Well yes, I do," answered Diane. She was hungry, and the unfamiliar dish was appetizing. "I'd hate to have to cook it, though."
"I'd hate to have to eat it," said Gerson. He looked up again. "Did you say ham and eggs?"
"Yes, sir."
"Bring 'em on. And I'll want a rain-check on half of this."
"Sir—" began the head-waiter.
"Don't argue!" barked Gerson. "It tastes like crap, and you know it. Pour it back down the can, and bring me a double-order of ham and eggs. And let's have some music. This joint is dead on its feet."
Presently an orchestra, of five young boys in tight black trousers and scarlet frilled shirts, filtered on to the stage and began to play. The music was unexpectedly moving; the two guitars, the singer, and the skin drummers presiding over an array of eight differently textured drums, combined to produce a melodious and haunting line. Under its influence, Gerson essayed a dance, though the rhythm was a tricky one, and he was inclined to stumble. The few other dancers, all coloured, made way for them with indulgent smiles. He held Diane in a rock-like grip, pushing his considerable bulk against her with exploring fervour; he hummed as best he could the intricate, off-beat tunes, and occasionally stroked her bare shoulder with a wandering hand.
"You enjoying yourself, honey?" he asked presently.
"Oh, yes," said Diane.
"Better than that old ship, eh?"
"Well, it's different."
"I told you I'd show you a good time." His grip tightened. "Come to Daddy, then. . . . Gee, honey, you feel good."
"Let's have a drink," said Diane after a couple of minutes.
"Whatsa matter—you aiming to tease me?"
Diane put her cheek against his for a moment. "I'll tease you good," she promised, alluringly, "when there aren't so many people around."
The remark put Gerson in a high good humour; when they returned to their table he ordered fresh drinks, and began to talk about the various techniques of drilling for off-shore oil. He fondled her hand throughout, and his knee kept up a steady pressure against her thigh. She might have been worried at the way the evening was going—he had really drunk an enormous amount since lunch-time, and he might turn sleepy and unambitious on the way home; but he seemed to have that occasional North American capacity for drinking endless shots of hard liquor without reacting at all. The row he was doubtless going to have over the bill should wake him up, anyway. She maintained, throughout, a reasonable return pressure on her thigh, and an unwinking expression of interest.
"Now down at Galveston, Texas," said Gerson, "they've got a rig that's a real honey." Then he broke off, and said, grinning: "What the hell—let's talk about something else." He snapped his fingers, and the head-waiter crossed the dance-floor towards him. It was past midnight, and there was now only one other couple in the room.
"Let's have a refill," said Gerson. "When's the floor-show going to start?"
"Sir," said the head-waiter, "we have no floor-show tonight unfortunately."
"It says cabaret outside."
"That is for Saturdays only."
Gerson stabbed with his thumb at the "Welcome Alcestis Passengers!" notice on their table."Couvert is cover charge, isn't it? What do we get for the cover charge? Knives and forks?"
"That is to pay for the orchestra, sir."
"And the floor-show. Come on, you're not dealing with peasants, you know. Give!"
"We might arrange something," conceded the head-waiter. "A speciality. Just for you and madame. Would you enjoy limbo?"
"We just ate that," said Gerson.
"No, sir, that was calalou. This is the limbo dancer. She bends backwards until she passes under a bar not more than sixty centimetres from the ground."
"This I'd like to see."
"It will cost two thousand francs," said the head-waiter.
"Now what the hell—" began Gerson, and then paused. "Say, how much is that in money?"
"About four dollars, sir."
"It's a deal," said Gerson. And as the head-waiter retreated, he added: "Private cabaret, eh? Jack Gerson, the Big-Time Charlie. That's me!"
The orchestra started up again, a sinuous tune with an insistent beat and a crescendo rhythm. A long thin strip of wood, and two uprights, like a high-jump apparatus, were placed on the dance-floor, and after a moment a tall girl, almost naked, appeared and took up a position in front of it, swinging her body in time to the music. Though she was painfully thin, she was still beautiful—a ravishing sangmelee, her skin the colour of cloudy white Burgundy. The music quickened in tempo; she began to bend backwards, weaving her arms, and to edge forward towards the strip of wood which was not more than eighteen inches from the ground. In time with the music, she sank lower and lower, insinuating first her knees, then her thighs, then her pelvis under the bar. There was a wavering interval when it seemed impossible that she could bend backwards far enough to allow her breasts to pass under it. But at the last moment, with the music reaching a jungle flurry of uproar, she wriggled quickly, and passed through, and then sprang high in the air with a scream of triumph. She looked exhausted, and her whole body was bathed in sweat.
"Jesus!" said Gerson. "I'd hate to tangle with that babe." But he was plainly impressed; the girl coming towards him with her thighs spread and her back impossibly arched had started an inevitable train of thought. He clapped loudly, and the girl, walking away, turned her head and gave him a brief smile.
"Must be double-jointed," said Gerson, "just where it counts most." He squeezed Diane's shoulder, and let his hand remain where it was. "Could you do that, baby?"
"I could try," she said. "But I doubt it. I just can't bend that way."
He looked at her appraisingly, his eyes roving freely. "I'll bet you could, at that. Well, what do we do now? It looks like we've closed this joint."
"Go back on board, I suppose."
"And?"
"Oh, we'll take it from there."
"You said something about teasing—remember?"
"I haven't forgotten."
"How are we going to make it?"
He was far from drunk, she decided; he was sweating freely, and his eyes looked like small boiled onions, but there was a quality of insistence about him which alcohol had not affected. So much the better. . . .
"We'll organize something," she reassured him. "You can always come and have a drink in my cabin."
"That's my girl!" With a snap of his fingers he summoned the waiter, and told him: "Let's have the bill. And keep it good and low, or I won't pay."
But he was in great spirits now, and the bill, though high, was not outrageous. He had a shot at adding it up, but this proved too difficult; it seemed to be all noughts, arranged in different columns. To the waiter he said:
"You take American Express credit cards?"
"No, sir," said the waiter, and added, surprisingly: "Only Diners' Club."
"No kidding?" Gerson looked round the tawdry twilight of the room, now completely deserted. "They must have a better list than I figured." He flipped out a traveller's cheque for a hundred dollars, and signed his name with a flourish. "Here—take it out of this."
The waiter went in search of change. "Never carry any cash around," said Gerson. "You never know when you'll get rolled." He looked at her. "I won't need any more money tonight, will I? Or will I?"