girl of Maryâs set had one who followed her like a shadow.
âHello, Miss Morse.â
The lack of enthusiasm in Georgeâs voice brought a look of disappointment to Maryâs face. She had hovered about him at his graduation party like a fly around horse manureâto his annoyance.
âItâs so nice to see you here,â she said brightly. âWeâre stopping for a few days before traveling to Newport. This afternoon, weâre going on a walk in the Catskills to visit the waterfall. Itâs most beautiful. I do hope you might join us. Mrs. Rampling, my motherâs great-aunt, will be with me.â
Mrs. Rampling gave George the iciest of smiles. There would be no monkey business on her watch.
âIâm sorry, Miss Morse, but Iâve made other plans,â George said. âMaybe later this week, if youâre still here, I could call on you.â
âOh yes! Weâre in roomââ
âHoly shit, I had a helluva time fightinâ my fuckinâ way up there to get the goddamn key. Oh, hello there,â said Flannigan, trotting up to them.
âMiss Morse, this is Mr. Flanniganâ¦a friend of mine,â George managed.
âDamn glad to meet ya,â Flannigan said, thrusting his broad red hand toward Mary. She shook it gingerly, as if it were dipped in blood. âAnd whoâs this other gorgeous dove?â
âMrs. Rampling,â snapped the chaperone, stepping back. Clearly she had no intention of touching Flannigan.
âHey, what do you say we all have a drink in the bar, huh? Iâm buying.â
âMiss Morse was on her way to take a walk in the mountains, Mr. Flannigan. Maybe another time,â George said.
âSure. Whatâs your room number? I can come by later to get you.â
âI already asked them, but unfortunately, theyâve made plans for later.â
âOh, thatâs a goddamn shame.â
âMiss Morse, maybe weâll run into each other again.â George bowed and dragged Flannigan away by the arm.
âGood-looking babe, George. Were you making time with her? I hope I didnât butt into anything.â
âNo, Tommy. In fact, you rescued me, and Iâm eternally grateful,â George said, laughing.
Mary was like all the girls in his world. Marriage was their only vocation; it was what they were brought up for. With his looks and family background, he was a prime candidateâor victimâfor their machinations.
Flannigan and George walked to their room on the sixth floor of the east tower, the best spot in the hotel. The room was large but not fancy. It had plain white walls, two beds, a chest of drawers, and a bright carpet. A green recamier stood in the corner; George flopped down onto it, rubbing his hands over his face. His mind was racing. Whenâand howâhad his life changed?
George knew the answer. He could picture the winter night heâd first stepped through the door of Pendletonâs, the most exclusive den of iniquity in the city. Some Harvard upperclassmen had taken him during Christmas holidays in â84. At Pendletonâs, gentlemen of the highest pedigree could gamble, drink, and seduce chorus girls, free from the disapproving eyes of Aunt Carolineâs New York society. Tucked away in a brownstone on East Forty-Fifth Street, the interior of the club was lavishly designed, with walnut-paneled walls, marble floors, and crystal chandeliers. In private gambling rooms, one could play faro, poker, baccarat, or roulette. Liquor and food flowed freely. It was as if George had opened a trapdoor and walked down a stair into a magical world of enchantment and pleasure.
Being a mathematician, George had an innate talent for gambling. He loved everything about itâanalyzing the probabilities, calculating odds, counting cards, the throw of the dice. But it was the incredible rush of excitement when he won that thrilled him most. Pure euphoria.
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