Sean said, looking straight ahead of him despite the presence of Sugarman’s large head in the car window. “To get a white limousine?”
“It’s what they sent over.” Sugarman’s eyebrows raised together. “It don’t make no difference.”
“I guess it just happened to match her dress?” Sean said.
“You want her to change it?” Sugarman asked.
“I’m not changing anything ,” Crystal said through her teeth.
“Let’s go, let’s go.” Sean waved his hand impatiently.
Sharo’s was one of the finest clubs in New York. It usually featured a well-known pianist who played a combination of old standards and new tunes in a way that seemed to blend with the endless tinkling of glasses and chatter that filled the main room. It was decorated in the style of the Gay Nineties, complete with brass ornaments and waiters with long sideburns. The club had become the “in” place to be seen in and to see the rich and the famous.
Sean had not spoken to Crystal during the ride to the club. They had been expected, Loretta had taken care of that; a few minutes after they were seated, a waiter brought them drinks without taking an order. Crystal was surprised. Her drink came in a tall glass with a slice of pineapple attached to one side. It tasted like a milk shake.
“You’re not exactly the friendly type, are you?” Crystalsaid. “I don’t know why you even bothered to come.”
“I don’t think I need to be seen with some girl who hasn’t done a darn thing in this business or any other business,” Sean said. He sounded angry but his face never changed expression. Crystal liked that.
“So why are you here?”
“My agent thinks I need this kind of exposure. It’s time I got away from immature parts.”
“Oh.” Crystal looked away from Sean and tapped her fingers nervously on the table.
“You’re supposed to be looking at me ,” Sean whispered.
Crystal turned and Sean was looking right at her. He seemed taller when he was seated than he did standing. Crystal knew why he wanted to be photographed sitting. He had a long body but short legs.
“What would you like to talk about?” Crystal said. “I can’t just sit here and look at you!”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing now?” Sean said. “Sugarman tells me you’re being considered for some part in a movie?”
“Loretta’s mentioned something about movies, but nothing definite.”
“You’re better off,” Sean said. “When they say things are definite in the movie business, what they really mean is that there’s an outside chance.”
“You want to dance?” Crystal asked.
“Are you kidding?”
The piano player had left and a small group was playing a corny Baby Face song. It was a lovely place. Crystal was enjoying it, even though she wasn’t enjoying being with Sean.
“I like this place,” she said.
“Ever been to anyplace like it?”
“No.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Sean said. “It’s all part of the life. You have to learn to enjoy it without letting it get to you. I don’t see how you can go that far. Most Blacks don’t really make it big.”
“Thanks a lot!” Crystal turned away from Sean.
A curl of blue smoke went up from another table, found its way through a shaft of light from one of the small overhead spots, and up into the darkness of the ceiling. Crystal imagined herself singing in the club, leaning against the piano.
“Well, who do we have here?” A husky female voice interrupted Crystal’s thoughts. “Why, it looks like Mr. Sean Farrell—and a friend.”
Rosemarie Montag stood in front of their table with a drink in one hand and a long cigarette holder in the other.
“Well, New York’s favorite columnist.” Sean raised his glass to her. He looked, to Crystal, very mature.
“Do I smell an item for my column here in the murky shadows of Sharo’s?” Rosemarie asked, leaning toward the table.
“I couldn’t stand to be in that wicked column of yours,
“It’s what they sent over.” Sugarman’s eyebrows raised together. “It don’t make no difference.”
“I guess it just happened to match her dress?” Sean said.
“You want her to change it?” Sugarman asked.
“I’m not changing anything ,” Crystal said through her teeth.
“Let’s go, let’s go.” Sean waved his hand impatiently.
Sharo’s was one of the finest clubs in New York. It usually featured a well-known pianist who played a combination of old standards and new tunes in a way that seemed to blend with the endless tinkling of glasses and chatter that filled the main room. It was decorated in the style of the Gay Nineties, complete with brass ornaments and waiters with long sideburns. The club had become the “in” place to be seen in and to see the rich and the famous.
Sean had not spoken to Crystal during the ride to the club. They had been expected, Loretta had taken care of that; a few minutes after they were seated, a waiter brought them drinks without taking an order. Crystal was surprised. Her drink came in a tall glass with a slice of pineapple attached to one side. It tasted like a milk shake.
“You’re not exactly the friendly type, are you?” Crystalsaid. “I don’t know why you even bothered to come.”
“I don’t think I need to be seen with some girl who hasn’t done a darn thing in this business or any other business,” Sean said. He sounded angry but his face never changed expression. Crystal liked that.
“So why are you here?”
“My agent thinks I need this kind of exposure. It’s time I got away from immature parts.”
“Oh.” Crystal looked away from Sean and tapped her fingers nervously on the table.
“You’re supposed to be looking at me ,” Sean whispered.
Crystal turned and Sean was looking right at her. He seemed taller when he was seated than he did standing. Crystal knew why he wanted to be photographed sitting. He had a long body but short legs.
“What would you like to talk about?” Crystal said. “I can’t just sit here and look at you!”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing now?” Sean said. “Sugarman tells me you’re being considered for some part in a movie?”
“Loretta’s mentioned something about movies, but nothing definite.”
“You’re better off,” Sean said. “When they say things are definite in the movie business, what they really mean is that there’s an outside chance.”
“You want to dance?” Crystal asked.
“Are you kidding?”
The piano player had left and a small group was playing a corny Baby Face song. It was a lovely place. Crystal was enjoying it, even though she wasn’t enjoying being with Sean.
“I like this place,” she said.
“Ever been to anyplace like it?”
“No.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Sean said. “It’s all part of the life. You have to learn to enjoy it without letting it get to you. I don’t see how you can go that far. Most Blacks don’t really make it big.”
“Thanks a lot!” Crystal turned away from Sean.
A curl of blue smoke went up from another table, found its way through a shaft of light from one of the small overhead spots, and up into the darkness of the ceiling. Crystal imagined herself singing in the club, leaning against the piano.
“Well, who do we have here?” A husky female voice interrupted Crystal’s thoughts. “Why, it looks like Mr. Sean Farrell—and a friend.”
Rosemarie Montag stood in front of their table with a drink in one hand and a long cigarette holder in the other.
“Well, New York’s favorite columnist.” Sean raised his glass to her. He looked, to Crystal, very mature.
“Do I smell an item for my column here in the murky shadows of Sharo’s?” Rosemarie asked, leaning toward the table.
“I couldn’t stand to be in that wicked column of yours,
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