Read Online Jack 1939 by Francine Mathews - Free Book Online Page B

today he felt too weak to bother. She was good at flirting—she was an artiste of the calculated come-on; and she thrust her round, ripe mouth right into Jack’s face. She clearly expected a kiss.
    He lit her cigarette.
    “Why’d you leave Radcliffe in the middle of term?” he asked.
    “Mother thought I needed to get away. Before the Germans make it impossible to meet
anybody
in England anymore. She’s hoping your parents will introduce us to the right people in London. That’s why she’s been chasing you so hard.”
    “Ah.” Jack was amused by June’s frankness; he’d come to expect social climbing from the women he met. “I’ll make sure Dad invites you to some parties.”
    “There’s one tonight,” June said brightly as she exhaled, “in the Tourist lounge. A girl I know’s traveling cheap down there. You can pay a steward to let us through.”
    The Minarts specialized in paying stewards. Jack resigned himself to escorting June; if he refused, her mother would go back to New York and tear the Kennedys to shreds. It was a hobby in certain circles, only surpassed by trashing Roosevelt.
    “Cocktails, or later?”
    “Oh, they drink most of the day—but Mother’s all over me like a wet slip until dinner.”
    A wet slip.
Really.
“Shall we say nine, then?”
    “That’d be swell, Jack.” She ground the cigarette under her heel. “Only don’t call for me at my cabin—or Mother will never let us go. She’ll do something silly, like offer you sherry. Mother’s always silly where men are concerned.”
    “Let’s meet at the head of the Tourist gangway at nine, Miss Minart.”
    “Oh, call me June, won’t you? It’s so much
friendlier
.” She leaned toward him, her rat of a dog spilling onto the blankets. Jack sneezed.
    * * *
    TOURIST WAS A NICER NAME for what used to be called Third Class. Third Class, on the other hand, was what used to be called Steerage—a word so bitterly associated with impoverished immigration that no shipping line used it anymore.
    The Tourist lounge was dense with smoke. Faces loomed through it like ghastly clowns in a funhouse. Jack was leading June through the murk. She teetered on high heels and he dodged a few bodies as they swayed to a Tommy Dorsey tune. He could feel sweat start up under his dinner jacket, and queasiness from the motion of the ship, more noticeable below the waterline. What had he eaten today? Jack tried not to think of it—or of the swaying bodies and the smell of June’s perfume, which was heavy with jasmine. He hated jasmine. It smelled like death. One of the poker players at the end of the lounge had a cigar. The fumes of tobacco and cheap whiskey mingled with the smell of death. His stomach turned over.
    “Hey, kid,” he muttered, coming to a halt in the middle of the lounge. “D’ya see your friend? ’Cause if not, I’d like to get some air.”
    “Lorna! Lorna
Doone
!” June squealed, and dropped his hand.
    She rushed in her full flounced skirt toward a girl Jack could barely make out, and there was a lot of hugging and more squealing. The ship rolled and he was thrust suddenly against a stranger—a guy slightly shorter than himself, but ten times more solid, with a chest like a brick wall. He met the man’s cold blue eyes, registered blond hair, a scar bisecting the upper lip—and felt a hand close like a vise on his right arm. And then suddenly he was slugged, an iron hammer in the gut.
    He doubled over, arms clutching his stomach. The vise loosened and he fell to his knees.
    “Jack.”
    He could not stand up. The ship rolled and heaved. He was going to vomit. Right there in the middle of Tourist Class.
    “Jack.”
    He opened his eyes. He was staring at a pair of knife-edged trousers. And he knew that voice.
    “Dobler,” he croaked. “How’s tricks?”
    The diplomat was lifting Jack now and urging him to move. “
Please.
Call me Willi. You are unwell?”
    “I could use some air.”
    A dense crowd of churning bodies, the