Read Online Red Gardenias by Jonathan Latimer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Latimer
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"These are Mr March and Doctor Woodrin."
Miss Wilson gaped at Peter March. "Say!" she exclaimed. "I thought you was dead."
"I'm not, though," Peter said.
"Well, that's funny. You were out here a couple of times a year or so ago, and then I heard you were dead."
"That was my brother. We looked very much alike."
"Oh, say!" She reached over and squeezed his hand. "I'm awful sorry, Mister March."
"That's all right."
Carmel and Ann came to the table. All over the room people stared at them; the women looking at their clothes, the men at their faces. From even a few feet away Carmel was much the more striking, with dead-white skin, tomato-red lips and jet-black hair.
But Ann, Crane thought, was best quite near. Her tan skin was flawless; her eyes had interesting green depths. Her hair was the color of sun-dried bamboo. She was pretty even when she was angry.
He tried to hold her chair for her, but Peter March got to it first. He introduced Dolly Wilson to the women.
Dr Woodrin, his eyes twinkling, said, "An old friend of Crane's."
Crane said, "She nursed me back to health after the battle of Gettysburg."
This set Miss Wilson to giggling. It was awfully funny because how could she have nursed him after the battle of Gettysburg? She was only nineteen and she must have been a little girl then. It was awfully funny.
Peter had already ordered champagne, and the waiter poured it into hollow-stemmed glasses. "Here's how," Crane said.
They drank. Ann pointedly ignored Crane, carried on a quiet conversation with Peter March. They seemed to like each other, Crane thought. Well, all right. The orchestra started a slow fox trot and he asked Miss Wilson if she would like to dance.
"And how!" she said.
She danced very well. For a time she was wary, watching for a false move of one kind or another on his part, but she soon came closer to him, closed her eyes, put a cheek against his.
"You're not bad," she said.
"I'm wonderful."
She had to giggle at this. Imagine his saying he was wonderful! He was awfully funny. She wondered which one was his wife. She hoped it wasn't the haughty-looking brunette. She was swell looking, all right, but she looked as though she'd be tough to live with. The blonde looked nice.
"Who runs this joint?" Crane asked.
"Frenchy Duval," she said. "But he doesn't own it. It's one of Slats' places."
He recalled the "Slats" of Delia's letter to Richard. "Slats who?"
"Slats Donovan."
"Who's he?"
"Oh, you've heard of him."
"No, I haven't."
"You must have. He runs the gambling in this district. You've heard of him."
"I've heard of Al Capone."
"Oh, you!"
The orchestra, according to a bass drum lit with red bulbs, was Sammy Parson's Swing Seven, but the members didn't work very hard at whatever they were playing. They had a good sense of time, though, and the music was good, if a little brassy.
"They don't jam until after the last show," Dolly explained.
Crane caught sight of a woman who had just come out from behind magenta drapes at the orchestra end of the room. She was wearing a black velvet evening gown which clung to her body as tightly as a wet bathing suit. She had fine curves but she wasn't fat. She had carrot-red hair.
Crane danced in her direction. "Who's that dame?"
"Which one? Oh! Delia Young."
Crane's stomach tingled. It was the Delia of the letters. And the redhead of the chase. And Slats was Slats. He wondered if she would recognize him, and danced closer. Her eyes passed over him casually, went to other couples on the floor.
"What's she do?" he asked.
"She sings. She's good. They say she makes two hundred dollars a week."
Crane showed great surprise for Dolly's benefit.
"I'd like to meet her." Dolly was alarmed. "No, you wouldn't."
"Why?"
"She's Slats' girl."
"Couldn't I buy her a drink?"
"Listen." Dolly moved back a few inches, looked in his face. "The last guy who bought her a drink—they found him dead of an oversupply of mineral."
"Mineral?"
"He had too much lead in
Miss Wilson gaped at Peter March. "Say!" she exclaimed. "I thought you was dead."
"I'm not, though," Peter said.
"Well, that's funny. You were out here a couple of times a year or so ago, and then I heard you were dead."
"That was my brother. We looked very much alike."
"Oh, say!" She reached over and squeezed his hand. "I'm awful sorry, Mister March."
"That's all right."
Carmel and Ann came to the table. All over the room people stared at them; the women looking at their clothes, the men at their faces. From even a few feet away Carmel was much the more striking, with dead-white skin, tomato-red lips and jet-black hair.
But Ann, Crane thought, was best quite near. Her tan skin was flawless; her eyes had interesting green depths. Her hair was the color of sun-dried bamboo. She was pretty even when she was angry.
He tried to hold her chair for her, but Peter March got to it first. He introduced Dolly Wilson to the women.
Dr Woodrin, his eyes twinkling, said, "An old friend of Crane's."
Crane said, "She nursed me back to health after the battle of Gettysburg."
This set Miss Wilson to giggling. It was awfully funny because how could she have nursed him after the battle of Gettysburg? She was only nineteen and she must have been a little girl then. It was awfully funny.
Peter had already ordered champagne, and the waiter poured it into hollow-stemmed glasses. "Here's how," Crane said.
They drank. Ann pointedly ignored Crane, carried on a quiet conversation with Peter March. They seemed to like each other, Crane thought. Well, all right. The orchestra started a slow fox trot and he asked Miss Wilson if she would like to dance.
"And how!" she said.
She danced very well. For a time she was wary, watching for a false move of one kind or another on his part, but she soon came closer to him, closed her eyes, put a cheek against his.
"You're not bad," she said.
"I'm wonderful."
She had to giggle at this. Imagine his saying he was wonderful! He was awfully funny. She wondered which one was his wife. She hoped it wasn't the haughty-looking brunette. She was swell looking, all right, but she looked as though she'd be tough to live with. The blonde looked nice.
"Who runs this joint?" Crane asked.
"Frenchy Duval," she said. "But he doesn't own it. It's one of Slats' places."
He recalled the "Slats" of Delia's letter to Richard. "Slats who?"
"Slats Donovan."
"Who's he?"
"Oh, you've heard of him."
"No, I haven't."
"You must have. He runs the gambling in this district. You've heard of him."
"I've heard of Al Capone."
"Oh, you!"
The orchestra, according to a bass drum lit with red bulbs, was Sammy Parson's Swing Seven, but the members didn't work very hard at whatever they were playing. They had a good sense of time, though, and the music was good, if a little brassy.
"They don't jam until after the last show," Dolly explained.
Crane caught sight of a woman who had just come out from behind magenta drapes at the orchestra end of the room. She was wearing a black velvet evening gown which clung to her body as tightly as a wet bathing suit. She had fine curves but she wasn't fat. She had carrot-red hair.
Crane danced in her direction. "Who's that dame?"
"Which one? Oh! Delia Young."
Crane's stomach tingled. It was the Delia of the letters. And the redhead of the chase. And Slats was Slats. He wondered if she would recognize him, and danced closer. Her eyes passed over him casually, went to other couples on the floor.
"What's she do?" he asked.
"She sings. She's good. They say she makes two hundred dollars a week."
Crane showed great surprise for Dolly's benefit.
"I'd like to meet her." Dolly was alarmed. "No, you wouldn't."
"Why?"
"She's Slats' girl."
"Couldn't I buy her a drink?"
"Listen." Dolly moved back a few inches, looked in his face. "The last guy who bought her a drink—they found him dead of an oversupply of mineral."
"Mineral?"
"He had too much lead in
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