nothing better than to hold Luisâ throat between their fingers while his eyes popped out of his goddamned skull and his tongue turned purple. Enough to fill the Grand on a Saturdayâa rainy Saturday, at that. So the cops had reached into their bag and come up with Johnny Lane.
They had undoubtedly picked up his trail from Old Man Lefkowitzâs. If he had another half hour here, he was good. And in a half hour, he had to figure it all out, and then start looking for the guy with the zip gun, because the only way the cops would ease off would be if he had the guy in tow.
Except, of course, that the gun was probably at the bottom of the Harlem River by this time.
And the guy was probably in Alaska or points west.
âYou ainât even watching the picture,â the girl said.
He turned abruptly, startled, ready to run. He thought at first that the girl was white, and he relaxed a little when he saw she was colored. She couldnât have been more than twenty. She wore a white sweater that was filled to capacity. He could see that even in the dark. She was pretty, he supposed, in a hard brassy way, with high cheekbones and full lips, blurred now by the darkness of the theatre. There was a vivid slash of lipstick across her mouth, and the whites of her eyes glowed in the reflection from the screen.
âNo, I ainât,â he said. He hadnât even noticed the girl sitting on his left, and he wondered now when sheâd come in. She reeked of cheap perfume, but there was something exciting about the perfume and her nearness, and he tried to remember why the perfume stimulated him, but at the same time he told himself he had other things to think about besides some pickup in the movies.
âThese three-D things are good,â she said, taking the glasses from his lap, her hand brushing against his thigh. âSuppose to put these Hollywood women right in your arms. Donât you go for Hollywood women right in your arms?â
âI ⦠Look, Iâm busy,â he said.
âToo busy to watch the picture?â
He felt an instant panic. Had she heard about him? Did she know he was the one the cops wanted? What the hell was she doing in Wop Harlem, anyway?
âYes,â he said slowly, âtoo busy.â
âToo busy for ⦠other things, too?â
He caught the pitch then, and he remembered the perfume, the same cheap heady stuff heâd sniffed that time on the Market. An idea began kicking around in the back of his mind.
âThings like what?â he asked.
The girl sucked in a deep breath, and the sweater expanded in the darkness, high and full, straining. âThings like a way to kill the night. Better than doing eye-muscle tricks in a movie.â
âHow?â he asked.
âA room on Lex. Not the Waldorf, but clean sheets. A bottle, if you can afford it. Or a pipe. You choose your poison. Not to mention a price thatâs right.â
âLike?â His mind was racing ahead now. A room on Lex, away from the eyes of the cops, away from Nigger Harlem, more time to think, more time to work it all out.
âLike five for a roll,â she said, âand seven-fifty for all night. Plus the bottle. You got seven-fifty?â
âIâve got seven-fifty,â he whispered.
âDonât let the price throw you, man. Itâs quality merchandise. Iâm generous.â
âYouâre on,â he said, making up his mind.
He saw her grin in the darkness. âI knew you was an intellectual,â she said. âCome on.â
They moved out of the row into the aisle, and she started for the rear of the theatre.
âThis way,â he said. âWeâll use the exit down front.â
âYou ashamed or something?â she asked, her hands on her hips.
He decided to give it to her straight. âI got slashed in a fight. My arm is bleeding. I donât want to attract attention.â
She stared at him for a few