II
Olga was only partly dressed when Joe burst in on her. She looked at him, startled.
“My Lord,” she said, “what makes you so pale, Joe?”
“Got any liquor?” demanded Joe.
Olga opened a drawer and handed him a flask. He tipped it up and took a long pull, then he stood with the flask in his hand staring at the wall.
“Joe,” Olga insisted, “what’s wrong with you?”
Joe came to himself, screwed the top on the flask, and handed it back to Olga.
“Boy, I got a shock,” said Joe.
Olga came over and put her arms around him.
“Tell Olga all about it.”
“Well,” said Joe, “I was finishing up my Pierrot dance, see, and you know when it’s dark and they got the spot on you you can’t see nothing. Well, I was circling the outside of the floor like I do before I take that last leap, when some dame at a corner table gives a yell, a hell of a yell. Sibby hears the yell and switches on all the lights and here I am, right in front of a dame that looks like she’s off her nut. She was standing up and she had her hands on the table and she was staring right at me. If I didn’t feel funny, boy! Well, there was a guy with her and he kept asking her what was the matter, but she wouldn’t say nothing. I thought she was gonna jump right on me, she looked so funny, yeah, that dame sure looked funny.”
Joe paused and meditated. Olga laughed.
“Listen,” she said, “you better lay off the liquor.”
“No, straight,” said Joe, “you know I kind of got the idea she recognized me or something, but, hell, I never seen her before. She’s an old dame, about forty, and she’s got peroxide hair. There was a guy with her, a nice looking guy, and he kept saying, ‘What’s the matter, Nell, what’s the matter, Nell, what’s the matter, Nell?’ But he couldn’t get nothing out of her.”
Olga laughed again.
“Well, this ain’t nothing to write home about,” she said. “I thought I was gonna get a thrill. We better change bootleggers, Joe.”
“Aw, lay off,” said Joe. “I’m telling you, you’d’ve got all the kick you’re looking for if you’d heard that dame yell.”
“Well, what happened?” demanded Olga, who was getting impatient.
Joe got the flask and took another pull at it before he answered her. The colour had come back into his face now and he felt much better.
“Soon as the boss found out there was something wrong he came in and asked this dame if he could do anything for her. And she says, ‘Yes, get me a taxi.’ The guy with her says, ‘What the devil, Nell.’ And she says, ‘I want to go home.’ So they went out. Boy, the way that dame looked at me, like I was, God, I don’t know what!”
“Say, listen,” said Olga, “you been hitting the pipe?”
“Aw, lay off,” said Joe; “that dame’s got something on her mind, see. She’s got something on her mind.”
Someone knocked. Olga called “come in” and a waiter opened the door and bowed.
“Mr. Willoughby wants to know if we can bring the table in now, Miss Stassoff.”
“Sure,” said Olga, “bring it in.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the waiter. Then he cupped his hands and called down the corridor: “Allez!”
Joe lay down on the lounge and lit a cigarette. Olga went over to her dressing-table, made up her face, and put on her Japanese kimono.
Two waiters came in carrying a table; a third followed with a cloth and silver. When the table was set, one of the waiters said:
“Mr. Willoughby wants to know if he can come back now.”
“Sure,” said Olga, “tell him to come right back.”
“Shall we start to serve?”
“Yeah,” said Olga, “right away.”
When the waiters had gone, Joe said:
“I’m getting fed up with this Willoughby guy. He’s a dumb egg.”
“Sure he’s dumb,” said Olga, “but I don’t hold that against him. What I like about the bird is that he don’t get his hand stuck in his pocket when the boy comes around with the bill.”
“He sure don’t, that’s a fact,” said Joe, laughing.
“Well, then don’t be so particular,” said Olga; “guys like him are few and far between.”
Willoughby tapped lightly on the door and then came in. He was freshly shaven and he looked chubby and boyish.
Joe got up and shook hands with him. Olga said:
“Was you out front?”
“Yes,” said Willoughby; “by the way, Joe, what was all the commotion?”
“See,” said Joe, turning to Olga. “She thought I was making it up, Mr. Willoughby.”
“No, he wasn’t making it up,” said Willoughby, serious. “I never heard such a scream in my life.”
“Don’t remind me,” said Joe; “boy, my hair stood straight up.”
A waiter came in carrying a wine bucket, followed by another waiter carrying the soup.
“Well,” said Willoughby, “shall we monjay, as they say in France?”
“Oui, Monsieur,” said Olga.
“Sure,” said Joe, “I’m ready for the feedbag in any language.”
They sat down. One of the waiters poured the wine. Willoughby held his glass up to the light.
“I hope you like this stuff,” he said, “it’s out of my own cellar.”
“I’d like to sleep in that cellar,” said Olga.
“Well,” said Willoughby, “you have a standing invitation.”
They ate in silence for a moment, then Joe said:
“Say, Mr. Willoughby, what you suppose was the matter with that dame?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Oh, forget it, Joe,” said Olga, “she was probably full of hop.”