“Thank you, but I have appointed Matt booze-bearer for the evening,” Susan said, and, raising her glass, added, “And I already have one.”
Am I getting lucky?
T. Winslow Hayes and the other left shortly thereafter.
Their hostess appeared.
“I feel duty-bound to warn you about him, Susan,” Daffy said.
“Daffy has never forgiven me for refusing to marry her,” Matt said. “Don’t pay any attention to her.”
“You shit!” Daffy said.
Susan Reynolds chuckled.
“He doesn’t look very threatening to me,” Susan said.
“There are some very nice boys here I could introduce you to,” Daffy said.
“Thank you, but no thank you.”
I am getting lucky.
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Daffy said, and left them.
“Oddly enough, I think Daffy likes you,” Susan said.
“In her own perverted way, perhaps,” Matt said.
“Are you a lawyer, like your father?” Susan asked.
“No.”
“You look like a lawyer.”
“How does a lawyer look?”
“Like you.”
“Sorry.”
“What do you do?”
“Would you believe policeman?”
“No.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die. Boy Scout’s honor.”
“How interesting. Really?”
“Detective Matthew Payne at your service, ma’am.”
He saw that she now believed him—and in her eyes that he was no longer going to be lucky.
Let’s cut to the chase.
“Do you like jazz, Susan?”
“What kind of jazz?”
“Dixieland.”
She nodded.
“There’s a club, in Center City, where there’s a real live, imported-directly-from-Bourbon-Street-in-New-Orleans-Louisiana Dixieland band,” Matt made his pitch. “Could I interest you in leaving these sordid surroundings and all these charming people to go there? They serve gen-u-ine southern barbecue ribs and oysters and beer.”
Susan Reynolds met his eyes.
“Sorry,” she said. “Try somebody else.”
“Daffy scared you off?”
“Look, I’m sure you’re a very nice fellow, but I’m just not interested. Okay?”
“Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free,” Matt said. “May I get you another drink before I leave?”
She held up her glass.
“I have one. Thank you just the same.”
“Have a nice night, Susan.”
“You, too,” Susan Reynolds said.
Although she had hoped to be able to get away from the party without being seen, Susan Reynolds ran into her hostess as she was going down the stairway to the first floor.
“You’re not leaving so soon?” Daffy asked, pro forma.
“Thank you for having me, Daffy,” Susan said. “I had a lovely time.”
“I don’t recall saying I didn’t find anybody interesting,” Susan said, “just that I was leaving here alone. A policeman offered to take me someplace where the jazz is supposed to be good.”
She winked at Daffy, who smiled with pleasure.
“Have a good time,” Daffy said.
“I will try,” Susan said, and kissed Daffy on the cheek.
“He’s really not as bad as I said,” Daffy said.
“Now you tell me?” Susan said. “After I get my hopes up?”
Daffy laughed appreciatively.
Susan walked to the end of Stockton Place and handed the claim check to her car to the man in charge of the valet parking. It was delivered much sooner than she expected, but with what she had come to regard as the ritual expression of admiration.
“Nice wheels,” the valet parking driver said.
Susan had come into a trust fund established for her by her paternal grandfather when she had turned twenty-five. The Porsche 911 had been her present to herself on that occasion.
“Nice engine, too,” Susan said, and slipped him two dollar bills.
He looked like a nice kid, and he smiled warmly at her.
“Thanks a lot,” he said.
Susan got behind the wheel, smiled up at the kid, and drove away.
She drove to City Hall, then turned left onto North Broad Street. There was probably a better way to get out of town—there was a superhighway close to the Delaware River—but she was reluctant to try something new, and wind up in New Jersey.
Near Temple University, she spotted the first sign identifying the road as Pennsylvania Route 611, and that made her feel more comfortable. Now she was sure she knew where she was.
She thought of the cop.
The truth of the matter is, I really would rather be sitting in some smoke-filled dive listening to Dixieland with him than coming up here.
As a matter of fact, there are probably two hundred things I would rather be doing than coming up here.
But at least I will get to see Jennifer and the baby.
Not, of course, the father of the baby. If I never saw that son of a bitch again, it would be too soon.
The Chinese had it wrong. Boy babies should be drowned at birth, not girl babies. Just keep enough of them for purposes of impregnation, and get rid of the surplus before they grow up and start