Frannie’s red hair peeking out the front window at him. He could almost hear her curse through the wall.
She flung the door open.
“I was expecting a satin robe. Or maybe very soft cotton,” Hop said. He had been positive he’d wake her up. It was very late, he was sure. And in fact, he could tell by the long crease on the side of her face and the heavy look in her eyes that she had been sleeping. But she was wearing a wrinkled green shirtwaist dress and a pair of stockings. No shoes.
She looked down at her dress and ran one tired hand through her tangled hair. Then she looked back up at Hop.
“What the hell do I have to explain? You’re the one at my door at …” She looked down at her bare arm. “I don’t know where my
wristwatch is.”
“You wanna alert the neighbors or can you let a fella in?”
“You smell like my old man. How many does that make? Must be at
least four hours of steady bourbon.”
“Yeah? And you?”
“A girl’s gotta have some social life. But I’m straight now. Can you
say the same?” She opened the door wider and walked into her living room. Hop followed.
Sinking down into her sofa, he looked at her, trying to keep steady. Christ, how many had he had? What the hell was he doing here?
She brushed a hand over the wrinkles in her dress.
He was torn between his own private misery and his natural instinct to want to ask her about her night, about the kind of evening Frannie Adair had that sent her to bed before she could manage to unzip her dress.
‘You got your shoes off,” he noted, instinct winning out.
“I think they fell on the floor,” she said, rising. “I’m getting some water. Do you want anything, bright eyes?”
“Pinch of something? Might as well keep going,” he said, leaning back against the cushion for balance.
As she poured the drinks and he had a brief minute alone, he started to feel rotten again, lost his own footing, and remembered the scene at Jerry’s, and the scene before that at the King Cole.
And then she was handing him a short glass of brandy and she was drinking a tall tumbler of water and something happened. Something knocked loose inside him and suddenly he could hear his own voice talking, talking nonstop, about how he’d seen Jean Spangler the night she’d disappeared, about how Marv Sutton and Gene Merrel— yes, that Sutton and Merrel, silver-tongued crooners, fleet-footed dancers, the whole song and dance—had joined them at a little dive called the Eight Ball. And how they’d taken her off with them and how he didn’t know for sure what happened but that he knew everything had turned very bad somehow.
She listened. She listened very closely. She watched the words issue from his mouth in long, taffy strings. She let him hang himself, pull by pull. Then, finally, she said:
“What exactly are you saying? That Sutton and Merrel were involved in her disappearance?”
“Involved, involved. What does that mean? Far as I knew, they were just fixing to take turns, that’s all. I don’t know. I had left. I had left, Frannie Adair. I only found out the next day. And I never thought it was so bad. What I did. But now I think I may have missed something. I may not have realized what I did. Could I be the guy she said I was?”
“She? Spangler?”
“No. No.” “
“Who?”
“I’m not getting into all that,” he said, something in him whispering, Keep her name out. Keep names out. Iolene, whoever. You’ve already fucked it up enough, Hop, why can’t you stop talking? “Why am I here, anyway?” he mumbled. “I can’t believe I went over there. What a jackass. I should never drink. My head feels like a sponge full of quinine. I’m a lousy bum, Frannie Adair. Why did you let me in?”
“Listen, at lunch you said someone came to see you. Was she the girl you left the Eight Ball with?”
“No, no. Not her. Let me tell you something, baby,” he said, leaning forward. “Midge, she had the most beautiful hair. I
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