Irwin Shaw: Nightwork

Fabian himself escorted her to the bar. I didn’t see her look at a single painting. By the time all the other guests had left, it was past ten o’clock and she was alone at the bar. Drunk. Very drunk. When there had still been a dozen or so people in the room, the two young men had tried to persuade her to leave. “We’re expected for dinner, Prissy, darling,” one of them had said. “We’re way overdue. Come on. Please”

“Fuck dinner,” Priscilla said.

“We have to go,” the other young man had said.

“Go,” Priscilla said, steadying herself against the bar. Her cape had fallen to the floor and a generous portion of her excellent upper body was on view. “And fuck you, too. Tonight I’m an art lover. Fags. My old friend from Paris, Miles Fabian, will take me home. won’t you, Miles?”

“Of course, dear,” Fabian said, without enthusiasm.

“He’s an old man,” Priscilla said, “but oo la, la. Nadine Bonheur has spread the word from Passy to Vincennes. A for effort. Très bien. That’s French, you fags.”

By now, the last of the guests had vanished. I gave silent thanks that Priscilla had arrived on the scene late and that Evelyn had had to go home to mind the baby. Dora was staring at Priscilla with her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open. She had told us when we interviewed her that she was looking for a quiet, clean job where she could catch up on her reading. I avoided Fabian’s eyes.

“Stop hanging around, for shit’s sake,” Priscilla said to the two young men. “One thing I can’t stand is people hanging around.”

The two young men looked at each other and shrugged. They said good night civilly to Fabian and me and told us how much they had liked the paintings. “Incidentally,” the older of the two said, “we’re not homosexual. We’re brothers.” They made their exit with dignity, and a minute later I heard the Lincoln Continental start up and go off.

Fabian bent to pick Priscilla’s cape from the floor. He staggered a little and almost fell, but recovered quickly. He put the cape over Priscilla’s shoulders. “Time to go beddy-bye, dear,” he said. “I shouldn’t drive in my condition—” At least, I realized gratefully, he wasn’t that far gone. “But Douglas will drive us nice and slowly.”

“Your condition.” Priscilla laughed raucously. “I know what your condition is, you old goat. Give me a kiss, Daddy.” She held out her arms. “In the car,” Fabian said.

Priscilla held onto the table. “I won’t budge until I get my kiss,” she said.

With an uneasy glance at Dora, who had shrunk back against the wall, Fabian leaned over and kissed Priscilla, Priscilla wiped her mouth with the back of her hands, smudging her lipstick, “I heard you can do better than that,” she said. “What’s the matter – out of practice? Maybe you ought to go back to France.” But she allowed Fabian to lead her to the door.

“Dora,” Fabian called back, “put out the lights and lock the doors. We’ll clean up in the morning.” “Yes, Mr Fabian,” Dora whispered.

We left her there, not moving, rigid against the wall, as we went out.

Priscilla insisted upon sitting between us in the front seat. “Cuddly,” she said. She had spilled champagne down the front of her dress and the smell was unpleasant. I rolled down my window before I turned on the ignition.

“Now, dear,” Fabian said, “where are you staying?” “Springs,” Priscilla said. “That’s it. Springs.”

“Where exactly is Springs, dear?” Fabian said patiently. “What road?”

“How the hell do I know what road?” Priscilla said. “Just drive. I’ll show you the way.” “What’s the name of the people you’re staying with? We could call them and they could give us directions.” Fabian sounded like a policeman trying to get information from a lost child on a crowded beach. “Surely, you must know the name of the people you’re staying with.”

“Of course I do. Levy, Cohen, McMahon, something like that. Who cares? A bunch of jerks.” Priscilla leaned over and turned on the radio. The music from The Bridge on the River Kwai crashed through the car. “Come on, Mr Clean,” she said angrily to me, “get this crate moving. You know where Springs is, I hope.”

“Go to Springs,” Fabian said.

I started the car. But two minutes after we had passed the sign that read, Welcome to Springs, I knew it would be a miracle if we ever found the house that Priscilla was gracing with her presence that weekend. I slowed down at every fork and crossroad and every house we passed, but Priscilla only shook her head and said, “No, that’s not it.”

No matter how much money we were making from The Sleeping Prince, I thought, as I drove, it wasn’t worth this.

“We’re just wasting time,” Priscilla said. “I got an idea. I have two girl friends in Quogue. On the beach. You can at least find the Atlantic Ocean in Quogue, can’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “They’re fantastic. Original swingers. You’ll love them. Let’s go to Quogue and have a gang bang.” “Quogue is an hour away from here,” Fabian said. He sounded very tired. “So Quogue is an hour away. So what?” Priscilla demanded.

“Let’s have some fun.” “We’ve had a very long day,” Fabian said.

“Who hasn’t?” Priscilla said. “On to Quogue.” “Perhaps tomorrow night,” Fabian said.

“Fags,” Priscilla said.

We were running through woods, on a small, dark back road that I didn’t recognize, and I wasn’t sure how I could get back to town without roaming all over the Hamptons for hours. I had just about decided to try to make my way back to East Hampton and find a hotel room for Priscilla and dump her on the sidewalk, if necessary, when my headlights picked up a car facing me, pulled over to the side of the road, with its hood up and two men looking down into the motor. I stopped the car and called out, “I wonder if you two gentlemen could tell me where…”

Suddenly I realized I was looking into the muzzle of a gun.

The two men came over to the car, walking slowly. I couldn’t see their faces in the dark but could make out that they were both wearing leather jackets and fishermen’s long-billed caps. “They have a gun,” I whispered to Fabian, across Priscilla, whom I felt stiffening beside me.

“That’s right, brother,” the man with the gun said. “We have a gun. Now, listen careful. Leave the key in the ignition, because we’re going to take the loan of your car. And get out, nice and easy. And the old guy, too. He gets out on his side. Also nice and easy. And leave the lady in the car. We’re going to take the loan of the lady for a while, too.”

I heard Priscilla gasp, but she sat absolutely still. The man stepped back a pace as I opened the door and got out. The other man went around to Fabian’s side. I heard him say to Fabian, “Get over there with your partner.” Fabian came around and joined me. He was breathing heavily.

Then Priscilla started to scream. It was the loudest, most piercing scream I have ever heard.

“Shut the bitch up,” the man with the gun shouted to his partner. Priscilla was still screaming, but she was lying back, with her head on the wheel and kicking at the man, who was trying to hold onto her legs.

“For Christ’s sake,” the man with the gun said. He moved a little, as though he was going to get at Priscilla from the driver’s side. His gun had drooped a little and Fabian lunged at him. There was an enormous noise as the gun went off. I heard Fabian grunt as I jumped on the man, dragging his gun hand down. Our combined weight was too much for him and he fell back, the gun clattering to the pavement. Priscilla was still screaming. I grabbed the gun just as the second man came around the front of the car in the glare of the headlights. I fired at him and he turned and ran off into the woods. The man who had had the gun was crawling away on his hands and knees, and I fired at him. He jumped up and ran into the darkness. Priscilla was still screaming.