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Authors: James Jones
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manner of a Jamaican woman carrying a market basket on her head. She moved the same way. And icing all this cake together, another indescribable quality, a reserved sexuality oozed from her like her very own invisible honey. She was obviously the doted-upon darling of the three girls on the couch, to whom she now began to introduce Grant.
Grant was totally bowled over, but he managed to acknowledge the introductions. He had been out with several coldly professional beauties over the years, but this girl was far and away the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and this included a few very famous female movies stars. It would take him several days to separate the names of the three girls on the couch. But he had always been bad at names anyway.
Leslie Green was Lucky’s roommate in the apartment. A small, pert girl with a good figure in crotch-tight green slacks, raven hair piled up high on her head to make her look taller, and a long haunted Jewish face perhaps a tenth as beautiful as her pal’s, she was obviously the self-appointed general manager of Lucky’s emotional life and the Leader of the Delegation to Study Grant. Her snapping black eyes stated unequivocally that she was not about to let Lucky not be appreciated. Grant felt that her eyes softened a little after she looked him over.
Mrs. Athena Frank was a blocky blonde girl with a square face somewhat marred by acne and a rather gracelessly lush, sensual figure. The introductions turned up the fact that she was a lawyer and Grant wondered uneasily if she were the official legal member of the team, the committee. Her open and belligerent hostility showed already, anyway, which way she would vote on the subject of Ron Grant, playwright.
Mrs. Annie Carler was a slender, fairly tall Jewish girl of about Grant’s own age, with short tousled black hair and lushly dissipated circles under her eyes, much given to unconscious posturings of her long pretty neck and slender back into modern-dance, Martha Graham poses. With a sly puckish grin, she seemed to be enjoying the situation very much and appeared to be the most noncommittal of the three.
All three of them were clearly madly in love with Lucky, her wit and her beauty; and if there were any hidden jealousies in all this anywhere, Grant could not yet smell them out. If she had a big reputation going in Manhattan, and apparently she did, these three were going to promulgate it. And like any real queen, Lucky treated her subjects with dignity, and with a deep respect for their good taste in serving her. There was some small talk—in which Grant did not feel he came off particularly brilliantly—then she got her coat and they whisked out the door and down the four flights of narrow badly lit stairs out onto the nocturnal glories of Park in a winter snowfall. Rich people in dinner clothes and furs were getting into Cadillac limousines and taxis all around them.
“Well, do you think I passed inspection?”
Lucky gave him a sly crooked grin that made her blue eyes glint. “I think so.” She looked at him squarely. “You’re pretty famous.”
He waited but she didn’t say more. In the cab, glancing at her sideways, as she nestled that nosey, toothy, short-upper-lipped profile down into the collar of her coat, Grant realized with a start that he had never before in his life been so proud to be seen in public with a woman. And, especially after these past two years of hibernation and work in Indianapolis, with his mistress and his new play, it made his heart jump. In the past he had often looked with envy at the escorts of unknown, real beauties—of which there were few enough in this world, known or unknown—the kind which made heads turn and tables buzz. Now he was escorting one himself. Settling back, he told himself this might turn out to be one of the great nights of his life.
It didn’t. Though it started out well enough. He took her to the Petite Ange, haven of the sick comics after they graduated
Grant was totally bowled over, but he managed to acknowledge the introductions. He had been out with several coldly professional beauties over the years, but this girl was far and away the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and this included a few very famous female movies stars. It would take him several days to separate the names of the three girls on the couch. But he had always been bad at names anyway.
Leslie Green was Lucky’s roommate in the apartment. A small, pert girl with a good figure in crotch-tight green slacks, raven hair piled up high on her head to make her look taller, and a long haunted Jewish face perhaps a tenth as beautiful as her pal’s, she was obviously the self-appointed general manager of Lucky’s emotional life and the Leader of the Delegation to Study Grant. Her snapping black eyes stated unequivocally that she was not about to let Lucky not be appreciated. Grant felt that her eyes softened a little after she looked him over.
Mrs. Athena Frank was a blocky blonde girl with a square face somewhat marred by acne and a rather gracelessly lush, sensual figure. The introductions turned up the fact that she was a lawyer and Grant wondered uneasily if she were the official legal member of the team, the committee. Her open and belligerent hostility showed already, anyway, which way she would vote on the subject of Ron Grant, playwright.
Mrs. Annie Carler was a slender, fairly tall Jewish girl of about Grant’s own age, with short tousled black hair and lushly dissipated circles under her eyes, much given to unconscious posturings of her long pretty neck and slender back into modern-dance, Martha Graham poses. With a sly puckish grin, she seemed to be enjoying the situation very much and appeared to be the most noncommittal of the three.
All three of them were clearly madly in love with Lucky, her wit and her beauty; and if there were any hidden jealousies in all this anywhere, Grant could not yet smell them out. If she had a big reputation going in Manhattan, and apparently she did, these three were going to promulgate it. And like any real queen, Lucky treated her subjects with dignity, and with a deep respect for their good taste in serving her. There was some small talk—in which Grant did not feel he came off particularly brilliantly—then she got her coat and they whisked out the door and down the four flights of narrow badly lit stairs out onto the nocturnal glories of Park in a winter snowfall. Rich people in dinner clothes and furs were getting into Cadillac limousines and taxis all around them.
“Well, do you think I passed inspection?”
Lucky gave him a sly crooked grin that made her blue eyes glint. “I think so.” She looked at him squarely. “You’re pretty famous.”
He waited but she didn’t say more. In the cab, glancing at her sideways, as she nestled that nosey, toothy, short-upper-lipped profile down into the collar of her coat, Grant realized with a start that he had never before in his life been so proud to be seen in public with a woman. And, especially after these past two years of hibernation and work in Indianapolis, with his mistress and his new play, it made his heart jump. In the past he had often looked with envy at the escorts of unknown, real beauties—of which there were few enough in this world, known or unknown—the kind which made heads turn and tables buzz. Now he was escorting one himself. Settling back, he told himself this might turn out to be one of the great nights of his life.
It didn’t. Though it started out well enough. He took her to the Petite Ange, haven of the sick comics after they graduated
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