Уолтер Тевис - The Color of Money

“I’ve been here forty minutes,” she said, “and I was here an hour yesterday.” Her voice wasn’t bitchy; it was strong, clearly angry and had an accent. British.

“I’m really sorry, Miss Weems,” Alice said. “It’s this thing with the demolition derby Saturday….”

“I’ll call tomorrow before I come in,” the woman said. She turned and walked out of the office. Eddie watched her leave. Her figure was terrific.

He stood up and stretched. “Who’s the British lady, Alice?”

“Arabella Weems. She’s looking for work.”

“She looks like a movie star.”

“Come on, Mr. Felson. She’s a local woman.”

“I know. I’ve seen her someplace.”

“I promise we’ll have your check tomorrow, Mr. Felson.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Eddie said, leaving. He should have started a conversation with Arabella Weems. She was the most interesting woman he’d seen in a long time.

Alice had the envelope the next day at noon. The check was for the fee and expenses to Miami only: six hundred thirty-two dollars and change, after withholding. It was supposed to be over a thousand. “I’d like to see Enoch,” he said.

“Mr. Wax is busy,” Alice said. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“I’m getting tired of this,” Eddie said, and looked up to see Arabella Weems coming out of the office with Enoch.

“Maybe in a week or two,” Enoch was saying. “We’ll give you a call if we need you.” And then, “Hello, Eddie. I’m sorry about the check. Cincinnati hasn’t come through yet. All I can do is call you when they do.”

“You have a contract with them,” Eddie said, looking at Enoch levelly. He hated the bags under Enoch’s eyes, the way his tan suit and striped shirt gave him the look of an aging tout.

“I have indeed,” Enoch said, smiling sadly at Miss Weems as though she were his daughter. “But what can I do? It’s hardly occasion for a lawsuit.”

Eddie stared at him a moment and then turned and left. As he was going down the stairs to the street, he heard a woman’s footsteps behind him. Outside in the sun, he stopped to light up a cigarette. When Arabella Weems came out the door, he nodded to her and said, “Slippery, isn’t he?”

She looked at him straight. “I had an uncle like him. He was a revolving son of a bitch.”

“Any way you turn him?”

“You have it.” She was still angry but not so much so. He liked her way of talking, liked her accent.

“I’m Ed Felson,” he said. “I think I’ve seen you before.”

“Fayette County District Court. June fourteenth.”

“That’s right,” Eddie said. “You were the one whose husband didn’t show up.” They had been waiting together—like today—in divorce court.

“He was late for the wedding too.”

“Did he ever show?”

“Eventually.”

“And did it go all right?”

“Swimmingly.”

For some reason her toughness did not bother him. Her hair looked even better in natural light. “Let’s have lunch together,” he said.

She looked up at him. “I don’t know you,” she said carefully.

“Levas’s makes a good Greek salad.”

She frowned. “I’ve eaten Levas’s Greek salad. Have you tried Japanese?”

“Japanese?”

“We fought a war with them. There’s a new place on Upper Street.”

He had seen the ads, but never thought of going there. It was the sort of place chic people went, and Eddie did not consider himself chic. “I don’t understand chopsticks.”

“I’ll teach you.”

The chopsticks were a nuisance, but he could eat some of the things with his fingers. She ordered sashimi for herself—raw fish that looked like Christmas candy—and negamaki for him. It was thin slices of beef wrapped around green onions.

“Are you English?” he said, picking up one of the little beef rolls with his fingers.

“I was born in Devonshire but I’ve lived in Kentucky fourteen years.”

She wore no makeup and her eyes were very dark. She had a book beside her on the table. The title was in a foreign language.

“The university?” he said.

“My former husband is a professor.”

That explained it—the book and the fact that he’d never seen her around. The university was something you read about in the paper. “Are you an actress?”

She laughed. “I want a job in television, but I’m no actress. I’m a typist—or was before I married.”

“What about the university?”

“I don’t want to work at the university,” she said, sipping tea and looking up over her cup at him. “I have spent the last twelve years of my life being a professor’s wife. I would rather be a script girl for a sleazy TV company—” She stopped herself. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say ‘sleazy.’ You have a connection with them.”

“They’re sleazy. How do you like being divorced?”

“I left him six months ago.” She picked up a piece of sashimi deftly with her chopsticks. “He may not have noticed yet.”

“I would notice,” Eddie said.

She looked at him but said nothing. They ate in silence awhile and then he said, “I haven’t got used to it yet. Starting over.”

“It’s difficult.”

“Mine got most of what we had.”

“What was that?”

“Not much. A small business.” He did not want to say “poolroom.” “I’m scuffling now—like you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Scuffling?”

“Doing a show with Mid-Atlantic. A sports program.” He was willing to talk about himself with this woman, but he didn’t want to tell her he was a pool player or that he had, until recently, owned a poolroom. “It’s not much money. I’ve got to find something better.”

“Me too.”

She appeared well off, even if she was looking for a job. Her hair was expensively cut, and the light jacket she wore fit her beautifully. She had education and looks and poise. She probably could do a lot better running Mid-Atlantic than Wax did.

“Can’t you do better than typing?”

“I don’t mind typing,” she said. She had finished her lunch and she pushed the wooden tray away now, along with the untouched rice. “Right now I want to find work that doesn’t require thought.”

“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.