James Chase - I'll Get You for This

The lobby had the lush look of a drop curtain for a high-class musical comedy. It was all tinsel and glitter. Even the mirrors that hung on the walls were tinted pink to make you feel better than you looked. To the right of the lobby was the entrance to the dining-room. The captain of waiters stood in the doorway, menu in hand, and officiated like a well-fed Greek god.

On the other side of the lobby was the bar, luxurious under indirect lighting. The rattle of ice cubes in a shaker made sweet music.

“This is really something,” I said, speaking out of the corner of my mouth. “I don’t think there’ll be much of our nine hundred bucks profit left by the time this joint’s through with us.”

“You can always order a glass of milk and tell them you belong to an obscure religious order,” Clair murmured, and drifted away to the ladies’ room.

I stood around, tried to look as if I spent my whole life in this kind of atmosphere, didn’t succeed very well.

A girl who I assumed was out of the cabaret strutted across the lobby. Except for a G-string and two gold saucepan lids where they were most needed she was as bare as the back of my hand. When I gaped at her she sneered in disdain.

As she passed me, I said quietly, “Don’t go sitting on a cane-bottomed chair.”

Her long slinky stride faltered, but she kept on. I tried not to peep at her naked back, but I peeped just the same. I decided I was going to like this place.

Clair came out of the ladies’ room. Her dress looked like sea-water sifted over with gold dust.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” I said, leering at her. “My wife’s left me. Shall we go off together and have fun?”

“Wouldn’t she mind?” Clair asked gravely.

“She’d be wild,” I returned, “but I’m infatuated with your dress. Let’s go and neck in my car.”

“You mean now—this very minute?”

“Why not?” I said.

She slipped her arm through mine. “Don’t let’s pretend I’m not your wife,” she said. “I like being your wife.”

“I’m glad and proud about that, Mrs. Cain,” I said, and meant it. “Shall we talk to that important-looking gentleman with the menus and see what he would like us to eat?”

She nodded.

We presented ourselves to the captain of waiters. He bowed to Clair, bowed to me.

“This is our first visit,” I explained. “We want a good time. Can we leave it to you?”

“Certainly, monsieur,” he returned, his voice was as dry as sand. “Perhaps you would care to decide what you will eat first, and then perhaps you would like to visit our cocktail bar? The cabaret begins at eleven. I will arrange a table near the floor for you.”

I wasn’t kidding myself he was making a fuss of me. He was making a fuss of Clair.

We decided, after some thought and discussion, to have anti-pasto, steaks broiled over charcoal, hashed brown potatoes in cream, combination salads and a bottle of Liebfraumlich.

The captain of waiters wrote the order in a little gold-covered note-book, bowed, said it would be ready for us in half an hour. He personally conducted us to the cocktail bar, signalled to the barman, left us.

“Royal stuff,” I said to Clair. “I believe they’ve all fallen in love with you.”

She shook her head. “It’s your determined chin and blue eyes.”

I knew she was wrong.

The barman waited, admiring Clair without attempting to conceal the fact. He glanced at me; there was respectful envy in his eyes.

I ordered two large, very dry martinis.

We went over to a sofa seat, sat down, lit cigarettes. People looked at us, but we didn’t worry. We were happy enough in our own company. After a while, the barman brought the drinks. I

paid him, tipped him, and he went away silently, as if drawn along on wheels.

We sipped the martinis. They were very good.

There was something about the hard standard of prettiness of the women at the bar that reminded me of Lydia Hamilton. I said as much to Clair.

“Don’t let’s talk about her,” Clair said. “She was ghastly. I was so sorry for Hones. She hurt him terribly.”

“Not half as much as the judge hurt her,” I said with a grin. “Bones is a good lad. I think I’ll give him a raise. Do you think it’d be an idea to give him a uniform as well; a red and white check overall or something? I think all the boys might wear a uniform. It’d give the joint tone.”

She laughed. “Darling, I’m so glad you like your old gas station. There was a time—”

“Forget it,” I said, taking her hand. “It’s fun, but it wouldn’t be fun without you.”

“Honest?”

I nodded. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be still kicking around as a bum.”

“I have an idea,” she said, looking at me out of the corners of her eyes. “Now, don’t say no until I’ve explained. How would it be if we opened a restaurant ? We could use the waste ground by the house. It needn’t be an elaborate building. We could serve meals out of doors. Barbecue cooking: chicken, steaks, spareribs, the way we know how to cook them, salad and things. I’d love to organize it all if you’d let me.”

I stared at her. “It’s a terrific idea,” I exclaimed. “However did you think of it?”

Her face brightened. “Oh, I wanted to help. I know I run the house, but I’d rather make some money. Shall we?”

“We’ll find out how much it’ll cost to put up a suitable building first thing tomorrow,” I said, and we forgot our surroundings in the discussion that followed.

After a while, I noticed Clair wasn’t concentrating. I looked at her, saw she was flushed, said: “What’s on your mind, honey? Got an attack of grippe?”

She didn’t smile, shook her head, looked away. “Promise you won’t make a scene?” she whispered.

“I never make scenes,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a man over the way who hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he came in,” she said. “He’s making me uncomfortable. Now, please …”

I looked across the room, located a man in a white dinner-jacket sitting on his own. He had grey hair. There was nothing unusual about his heavy handsome face except a small puckered scar on his left check that had almost the effect of a dimple.

I gave him the hard eye, and he immediately looked away.

“Well, anyway,” I said, putting down my empty glass, “it’s time we had something to eat. If he really bothers you I’ll talk to him.”

“You’re not to,” she said, walking across the bar at my side. “Those days are over.”

The barman bowed to her as we left. She gave him a nice smile. I was very proud of her.

The captain of waiters personally conducted us to our seats. The table he had reserved for us was on the edge of the dance floor. I noticed a number of the men diners looked at Clair. She was worth looking at.

We sat down. The antipasto was fine. There were salty anchovies bedded on a firm slice of tomato; scarlet peppers soaked in white vinegar; thin bologna sausages; fat white shrimps; transparent slices of ham, and celery stuffed with cottage cheese. We had two large dry martinis to go with it.

Half-way through the meal, the man in the white dinner-jacket wandered in. He seemed to be known. People nodded to him as he stalked between the tables. He passed close to us, and gave Clair a long penetrating stare. She avoided his eyes. I scowled at him, but he didn’t notice. He sat a couple of tables away from us, waved to the waiter, ordered a Rye straight. He lit a cigarette, settled down to stare at Clair.

“I think I’ll drop over and talk to that masher,” I said, suddenly very angry.

Clair gripped my arm. “No, darling, don’t. It’ll spoil everything, and I’m having a lovely time. Please, let’s forget him. I don’t mind.”