WHEN the phone rang, the gray-haired man asked the girl, with quite some little
deference, if she would rather for any reason he didn't answer it. The girl heard him as
if from a distance, and turned her face toward him, one eye--on the side of the light--
closed tight, her open eye very, however disingenuously, large, and so blue as to appear
almost violet. The grayhaired man asked her to hurry up, and she raised up on her
right forearm just quickly enough so that the movement didn't quite look perfunctory.
She cleared her hair back from her forehead with her left hand and said, "God. I don't
know. I mean what do you think?" The gray-haired man said he didn't see that it made
a helluva lot of difference one way or the other, and slipped his left hand under the girl's
supporting arm, above the elbow, working his fingers up, making room for them
between the warm surfaces of her upper arm and chest wall. He reached for the phone
with his right hand. To reach it without groping, he had to raise himself somewhat
higher, which caused the back of his head to graze a comer of the lampshade. In that
instant, the light was particularly, if rather vividly, flattering to his gray, mostly white,
hair. Though in disarrangement at that moment, it had obviously been freshly cut-or,
rather, freshly maintained. The neckline and temples had been trimmed conventionally
close, but the sides and top had been left rather more than just longish, and were, in
fact, a trifle "distinguished-looking." "Hello?" he said resonantly into the phone. The girl
stayed propped up on her forearm and watched him. Her eyes, more just open than
alert or speculative, reflected chiefly their own size and color.
A man's voice--stone dead, yet somehow rudely, almost obscenely quickened for the
occasion--came through at the other end: "Lee? I wake you?"
The gray-haired man glanced briefly left, at the girl. "Who's that?" he asked. "Arthur?"
"Yeah--I wake you?"
"No, no. I'm in bed, reading. Anything wrong?"
"You sure I didn't wake you? Honest to God?"
"No, no--absolutely," the gray-haired man said. "As a matter of fact, I've been
averaging about four lousy hours--"
"The reason I called, Lee, did you happen to notice when Joanie was leaving? Did you
happen to notice if she left with the Ellenbogens, by any chance?"
The gray-haired man looked left again, but high this time, away from the girl, who
was now watching him rather like a young, blue-eyed Irish policeman. "No, I didn't,
Arthur," he said, his eyes on the far, dim end of the room, where the wall met the
ceiling. "Didn't she leave with you?"
"No. Christ, no. You didn't see her leave at all, then?"
"Well, no, as a matter of fact, I didn't, Arthur," the gray-haired man said. "Actually, as
a matter of fact, I didn't see a bloody thing all evening. The minute I got in the door, I
got myself involved in one long Jesus of a session with that French poop, Viennese
poop--whatever the hell he was. Every bloody one of these foreign guys keep an eye
open for a little free legal advice. Why? What's up? Joanie lost?"
"Oh, Christ. Who knows? I don't know. You know her when she gets all tanked up
and rarin' to go. I don't know. She may have just--"
"You call the Ellenbogens?" the gray-haired man asked.
"Yeah. They're not home yet. I don't know. Christ, I'm not even sure she left with
them. I know one thing. I know one goddam thing. I'm through beating my brains out. I
mean it. I really mean it this time. I'm through. Five years. Christ."
"All right, try to take it a little easy, now, Arthur," the gray-haired man said. "In the
first place, if I know the Ellenbogens, they probably all hopped in a cab and went down
to the Village for a couple of hours. All three of 'em'll probably barge--"
"I have a feeling she went to work on some bastard in the kitchen. I just have a
feeling. She always starts necking some bastard in the kitchen when she gets tanked
up. I'm through. I swear to God I mean it this time. Five goddam-"
"Where are you now, Arthur?" the gray-haired man asked. "Home?"
"Yeah. Home. Home sweet home. Christ."
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