Jack and Susan in 1953 (4 page)

Her face was wreathed in a sudden, triumphant smile.
“I found it.”

“Lady—” cried the croupier, nervously.

“Watch, everybody, wa—”

At that moment the hulking ladder man finally broke through the crowd to Libby. “All right,” he said to her, at the same time casting a menacing eye toward Jack. “All right, that's it. That's enough. No more. We go home—we all go home and we don't never come back. You got me, lady? Mister, you got a leash for this one? You got a muzzle?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Jack, barely beneath his breath.

“Of course. Now that I've placed a bet on the zeros and pressed their little button, they're going to try to get me out before I win—before my little bet closes down the whole damned table.”

“Move,” said the ladder man.

The white ball rolled around and around.

Susan suddenly looked at Jack, with a surprised look on her face. Surprised and frightened. She raised a single finger and pointed; only Jack saw the movement. He saw in an instant what had startled Susan. The ladder man was holding a small revolver at Libby's back, pressing it against the black material of her dress.

The ball slowed.

“Just go,” said Jack quietly to Libby. “Let's just get out of here. Let's—”

The white ball clattered down onto the wheel and came to a stop.

On zero.

Unfortunately for everyone, Libby saw it. Despite Jack's pleading, Libby—who had never denied herself anything in her entire life—screeched, “Cheat! Cheat!”

There was a sudden moment of silence all around the table, and then underneath Libby's shrill protestations, the croupier gasped out, “Zero. Pays thirty-six to one.”

“Cheat! Cheat!” Libby continued to chant, and there was a surging movement of the crowd toward the wheel. Jack and Libby and the ladder man were caught between the table and the pressing mob. The gun was pressed sideways against Libby's back, and when she felt that, she whirled around and began to beat her fists against the ladder man. Her tiny hands beat ineffectually against the lapels of his dinner jacket.

Jack, hoping to take advantage of this moment of distraction, made a grab for the gun. But the ladder man was too quick for him and pulled the weapon away. Libby could see that her fists weren't getting anywhere, so she opened them, and dragged her sharp painted nails down the bare cheeks of the man. Still crying out, “Cheat! Cheat!” she drew narrow gullies of blood like war paint below both eyes. The ladder man was thrown off balance by this surprising, painful attack. Confused and humiliated, the big man pointed the revolver at Libby Mather again, pressed the barrel into her stomach, and pulled the trigger.

T
HERE WAS, HOWEVER, no gunshot; only the heavy click of the weapon's hammer.

Without thinking, Jack Beaumont flung himself at the ladder man. Not just his hands or his arms or his shoulders—but his whole body. He flew at the perspiring, bleeding penguin whose gun was still against Libby Mather's belly. There was an instant in which Jack had an entirely new sensation: of flying horizontally through the air. But before he had the chance to reflect on the very great strangeness of this he made physical contact with the ladder man.

The ladder man was propelled sideways onto the roulette table. Chips scattered, and the ladder man's cheek was pierced by the spirelike point of the roulette wheel. He screamed in agony, and in another moment blood began to gush out of the small puncture wound and splash into the circular cavity of the roulette wheel—rather like a Burgundy wine poured into a punch bowl.

Jack was unharmed; the ladder man himself had acted as a cushion. Jack rolled off onto the table, and then stood shakily.

Pandemonium had broken out around him, with croupiers, the doorman, ladder men, and bouncers hurtling toward the scene, and with guests at that illegal establishment rushing away in the opposite direction as quickly as possible. With people screaming uncontrollably, Jack could see Libby nowhere.

He looked around frantically—locking eyes with Susan Bright for a brief moment before she was hurried away by Rodolfo—and then he found Libby again. Calm and unruffled, she had crawled beneath the roulette table in order to retrieve the gun the ladder man had dropped when Jack hit him. Jack reached beneath the table, and dragged her out. As he pushed her away toward the door of Mr. Vance's establishment, Libby deftly slipped the pistol into her purse.

Jack had already decided to abandon his coat. It was much more important to get out of there. He was glad that Mr. Vance's establishment had been so well-attended this evening; Jack and Libby were easily hidden in the panicky crush at the door. With their heads down, in the middle of the mob, it would have been nearly impossible for Rodolfo's friends to get at them.

“Aren't we going to say good-bye to Susan and her friend?” Libby demanded, grimacing—even under the circumstances—against the lapse of etiquette.

“You can send a little note in the morning,” said Jack, pushing her out the door, “telling her how much we enjoyed the evening's entertainment.”

In a couple of minutes, they were down on the street. There was a large group there, trying frantically to flag taxis, and everyone recognized Jack and Libby as the couple who had precipitated the brawl and cut the evening short. Jack and Libby were the recipients of a panorama of hostile stares. Jack blushed violently. Libby appeared not to notice, but loudly voiced the opinion that since they were so many, perhaps they ought to form a line for taxis.

Libby's suggestion was not acted upon, and she said petulantly to Jack, “There's no point in waiting around here. By the time all these people have got taxis you could be arrested for assault and battery.”

Jack blinked. “I saved your life.”

“No you didn't,” returned Libby, and held up her opened purse for his inspection.

Jack peered inside it. There lay the gun with the chamber open. It was empty.

“It wasn't loaded,” said Libby.

“Let's get out of here,” said Jack, taking her by the elbow and hurrying her along toward Park Avenue.

“We're going to
walk
home?” Libby wailed.

“It's exactly five blocks to your place,” said Jack.

“It's really quite a nuisance,” said Libby.

“Five short blocks?” asked Jack.

“No. I mean, now that you've attacked one of the men who runs the place, we won't ever be able to go back there.”

“If the wheel was crooked,” asked Jack, “why would you want to?”

“Oh, you're right!” laughed Libby, then cried out in pain as one of her spikes slipped and she twisted her ankle. “Slow down, Jack. Nobody's after us.”

Jack slackened his pace, but glanced nervously over his shoulder and kept close to the façades of the buildings along Park Avenue.

Libby Mather owned a penthouse duplex on the east side of Park Avenue, between Sixtieth and Sixty-first streets. She had inherited it from her father, and she redecorated it every eighteen months, always around a particular theme. Most recently the theme had been Arabia, so the floors were covered with Oriental carpets, the walls and ceiling were hung with patterned fabric, the lighting was dismal and yellow, and there was nothing to sit on except big spangle-covered red pillows. It was so decidedly uncomfortable that Libby spent as little time there as possible.

“Would you get rid of this please,” Libby said to the elevator man as they were getting out. With a little grimace of distaste, she pulled the unloaded gun out of her purse—handling it gingerly by the barrel—and dropped it into the elevator man's outstretched hand.

“Yes, Miss Mather,” said the elevator man politely, and the doors slid smoothly shut behind them.

The elevator opened directly into the apartment, and Jack, who badly wanted a drink, groped his way forward into the entrance hall. “The problem with this place,” said Jack, “is that even with the lights on, you still need a flashlight to get around. I need a drink.”

“Well, you know where the booze is,” Libby said.

With so much hanging drapery and fabric it was hard to know with any precision where to find walls and doors, but Jack made his way into the kitchen—one of the few rooms that hadn't been altered beyond recognition by the decorators. The lighting was very white and bright. He rummaged through the liquor bottles in one of the cabinets until he found the rye he was looking for.

Libby came up behind him and snaked her arms around his chest as he was pouring a big slug of the whiskey into a highball glass, neat.

“You're so sweet,” she said.

“Because I tried to save your life?”

“Yes—and because you probably killed that ugly man. Just for me.”

“You're welcome,” said Jack. “But I wish I had known that gun wasn't loaded.” He swallowed off a fair amount of the liquor at one gulp, then turned around within the confines of Libby's embrace, and she pressed her cheek against his chest. “I'm not used to a lot of action,” Jack said. “At least not since I took up investment counseling.”

“Hold me close, Jack, please—I was so scared…”

Jack looked down at Libby with surprise. He felt her breasts pressing hard against him. It was a nice feeling. Libby had the type of breasts that men vulgarly—and privately—referred to as “bullet tits.”

“You weren't frightened,” he said, pushing her off a little—before he became embarrassed. “Not one bit. I was the one who was scared. Didn't you feel that gun?”

“Of course,” said Libby. “But I knew it wasn't loaded.”

“How did you know?”

“I figured that a gambling house wouldn't shoot their clientele. Bad for business.”

“So when he pulled that trigger he was just trying to frighten you?”

“Of course. I was so scared, Jack,” she added with brazen inconsistency. “Please hold me tight. We can…”

She was pulling in close again, and Jack tried to take another long swallow of his rye. Libby however came in too fast, hitting the bottom of the glass with her head. The edge of the glass knocked sharply against Jack's teeth, causing his whole head to vibrate, and sloshing the liquor down the front of Libby's dress.

“Oh darn!” exclaimed Libby and, without a single moment of hesitation, she drew down the dress at both shoulders, exposing her brassiere in the harsh kitchen light.

“Libby!” Jack exclaimed.

“This
was
a good dress,” Libby complained, as she wriggled out of it entirely. “A very good dress.” She tossed it into the sink. Jack stared at her in her underwear. Maybe the incident at Mr. Vance's establishment had unsettled her brain. Libby appeared to take no notice of the fact that she was standing temptingly half-clothed in front of him. Something was going on, he felt certain, but what it was exactly he had no inkling. “I had no idea you were so clumsy, Jack. Do these little accidents always happen around you?” She peered at him closely. “There's a gravy stain on your jacket.”

Jack mixed a pitcher of highballs and carried it into the living room. He piled up a couple of the spangled red pillows and made himself as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances. Libby had disappeared into her bedroom, and now emerged wearing a blue Chinese robe. Jack could tell that beneath the robe she was no longer wearing those underclothes which had seemed to him—in the harsh light of the kitchen—to be as formidable as the armor plating on an armadillo.

“I'm calling the decorators tomorrow, and I'm having the whole place redone. Marie Antoinette, I think. She may have had her head cut off, but at least while she was alive she got to sit on chairs.”

“I remember when this apartment had chairs,” said Jack, looking around. “And it once had views, too.”

“Oh, they're still there,” said Libby, seating herself voluptuously on a pile of pillows only inches away from Jack. Libby's perfume was a good deal stronger than the light in the room. Not just lilacs, but a whole damned arboretum of sweet-smelling blooms. “The views are behind this fabric somewhere. All this will come down—I hope. You can have views with Marie Antoinette, I think. Not everything has to be covered up with thick curtains, does it?”