New York Nocturne Read Online Free PDF Page B

okay.” In my most cheerful voice, I asked, “What does she write, Miss Dale?”
    He had ordered white wine to go with his fish, and his glass was still half-full. He reached out, lifted it to his mouth, and drained it. He set down the glass, stared into it for a moment, then looked up and smiled. “She wrote a book. A novel. Seekers of the Flesh .”
    â€œIs it any good?”
    â€œI don’t think so.” The smile turned wry. “But then I’m biased, I suppose. I’m in it.”
    â€œReally? She put you in a book?”
    â€œYes. Disguised, but not terribly well.”
    â€œIs that legal? Couldn’t you sue her?”
    â€œShe makes me out to be fairly disreputable. If I sued her, I’d be admitting that I was fairly disreputable, wouldn’t I?”
    I realized that somehow, as soon as possible, I must obtain a copy of that book. “She seemed pretty upset—when she left, I mean.”
    â€œDaphne gets upset with a certain frequency. The world seldom lives up to her expectations.”
    â€œWhat was it you said to her?”
    He smiled faintly.
    I said, “Am I being too nosy?”
    He grinned. “Not too nosy, I suppose.”
    I frowned and looked away. “That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me.”
    John laughed. “And you don’t have to game me, Amanda.”
    I turned to him. He was still grinning.
    I startled myself by giggling, and then I looked away, blinking very quickly.
    He laughed again.
    (Some time later I realized that, despite the giggles and the blinks, this was actually the first adult conversation with a man I had ever been a part of.)
    â€œI told her,” said John, leaning toward me, “that she should lower her expectations. She clearly disagreed.” He nodded toward my plate. “You’re not eating. Are you finished?”
    I looked down. What remained of the meat lay pink and tattered in a congealing pool of streaky red.
    â€œI think I am,” I said.
    â€œShall we go to a nightclub?”
    â€œThe Cotton Club?”
    He glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s still too early. Let’s go to El Fay. They’ve got a dancer there who’s supposed to be good.”
    â€œOkay. Sure.”
    He nodded his head once toward the front door, where Daphne had disappeared. “I’m sorry about the scene with Daphne.”
    â€œIt wasn’t your fault.”
    â€œMaybe not. But I want you to have a good time.”
    â€œThis is great,” I told him. “Honestly. The best time ever.”
    He smiled. “Okay. Good. Let’s hit the road.”
    During the rest of that evening, two more people asked to speak with John. I mention this now because later it seemed possible that these conversations had a bearing on what happened.
    The first approached him at El Fay, an enormous glittering dance hall on West Forty-Fifth Street.
    We were sitting at a table opposite the bandstand at the very edge of the dance floor. The “Mistress of Ceremonies” was an opulent blonde woman named Texas Guinan, big and bold, slung with pearls, sparkly with sequins. She wore a colossal hat, very belle epoque, which she ripped off at random moments and waved in the air, as a cowgirl might. She was pleased as punch to be there, and so was the audience, despite her addressing them, collectively, as “suckers.”
    She introduced the next act, a fellow named George Raft. She waved her hat again. “ Give a big hand ,” she bellowed, “ to the dancing man! ”
    The audience applauded wildly. From a side door, a short, slender form darted out onto the shiny wooden floor, legs and arms pumping. But just as the orchestra struck up “The Charleston,” a heavyset man stepped up to our table, put his hand on John’s shoulder, leaned down toward him, and whispered in his ear.
    John nodded, then turned to the man. “Larry,” he