“Nkyou.”
“Carol?”
“Mmm?”
“Why don’t we go upstairs?”
“Whufor?”
“You know.”
“Okaysurefine.”
“You’ll go?”
“Huhwhere?”
“Upstairs?”
“Nub. Stayhere.”
It was very dark in the corner. He lifted the hem of her gown, pulling it up over her knees.
“Carol,” he whispered hoarsely.
She was very warm beneath the gown. She stirred, and then suddenly sat bolt upright, her eyes staring wide.
“What?” she said.
He did not move his hand. He kissed her, and she returned his kiss sleepily, and only then did she become aware of what he was doing. Her own hand swooped down like a hawk, and he felt her fingernails gouge into his wrist.
“Stop!” she said.
“Carol—”
“Andy stop it this minute.”
“Carol, for Pete’s sake—”
“What’s the matter with you, Andy? My God, what’s the matter with you? All these people—”
“We can go upstairs.”
“No.”
“Carol—”
“I said no.”
“Everybody else—”
“I don’t care about everybody else. I can wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Until we’re married.”
“Married? Jesus, that won’t be for years.”
“Then it won’t be for years. I still can wait.”
“Jesus, Carol. Sometimes—”
“Sometimes what?”
“Nothing.”
“All right, then kiss me and shut up. And be a good boy.”
He kissed her, and she guided his hand to the bodice of her gown, and then to the naked flesh of her breast, as if she and he had made a tacit agreement that this was as far as it should go, and no farther.
From upstairs, Buff Collier yelled, “Hey, is anybody awake at this damn party?”
He didn’t have his brush with the cops until almost a month later. The boys were coming back from a late wedding job they’d played in the Bronx, and Artie drove his car down East New York Avenue at close to sixty miles an hour. The streets of Brooklyn were deserted at that early hour of the morning, and the boys talked very little, exhausted from a full night of music-making.
Andy was sleepy as hell. He had taken a benny during the job, but that had only charged him up for a little while, and he was wondering now if he shouldn’t swallow the remaining half of the drug-soaked paper. He had learned after a while that only half of the paper was necessary to hop him up. He also had a sneaking hunch that it was illegal to break open the inhaler and use the paper. He had casually ignored all this because he couldn’t possibly figure any way for anyone ever to find out what he was doing. Besides, everything seemed to be going along just dandy for him these days. He’d auditioned with a semi-big-time outfit led by a man named Jerry Black, and the Black band was leaving for a Midwestern tour at the beginning of April, and that gave him more than enough time to arrange for quitting school and getting everything in order. Carol had objected to his quitting school and taking the job, but he’d talked her out of that, and Artie had been real decent about all of it, wishing him luck and all that sort of garbage, but telling him he hoped Andy would still play with the band until it was time to leave. Andy, of course, was very happy to do that. He still had a month before leaving, and the jobs with Artie gave him spending money. And as for the Benzedrine, well, what harm did it do, provided no one ever found out about it?
So he sat in the back of the car on that March night alongside the bass drum with a cracked inhaler in his pocket and one half of the Benzedrine-soaked paper stuffed back into the inhaler, and he wondered whether he should take the other half, but he decided against it since he’d be home and asleep in a very few minutes, as soon as Artie got his goddamned gas.
Artie did not spot the green Hudson sedan that pulled out onto East New York Avenue where East Ninety-fifth Street crossed it. There were five men in that sedan. Artie had his mind on his early Sunday date with June Tambeau, and Artie wanted to gas up the car tonight so that he could sleep later tomorrow morning. Jonesy and Tack, the other occupants of the car, were oblivious to everything. They didn’t even blink when Artie made a screeching turn on Utica Avenue and braked to a wild stop inside the gas station.
The green Hudson sedan crashed the red light on the corner of Utica, made a sweeping left turn, and then pulled into the gas station directly in front of Artie’s car. The four doors of the sedan Hew open. Three men in sports jackets piled out of the back seat, and two men in business suits spilled out of the front seat.
The five men quickly stationed themselves around Artie’s car. Two stood directly in front of it. One went to the rear, another went to the right-hand side of the car, and the fifth man came to the door near the driver’s seat and yelled, “Get out!”
Andy’s first impression was that he was about to be held up. The five men surrounding the car were all six-footers, all mean-looking bastards. He wondered idly why they’d pull a holdup in a lighted gas station, but then he considered the fourteen dollars he had in his pocket, his payment for the night’s work, and he dismissed the logic or lack of logic and concerned himself only with the possible loss.
“Get out of that car!” the man yelled again, and Artie stared at him and then, idiotically, took the key from the ignition, as if that would have prevented the theft of the car.
“Wha... who... who...?” he stammered, and the man yelled, “Come on, move!”
Artie didn’t move. Beside him Tack Tacconi was visibly trembling, as if he were taking a wild snare drum solo. On the back seat Jonesy sat white faced on his side of the bass drum, and Andy sat on the other side, furiously considering a way of hiding the fourteen bucks.
“You hear me?” the man shouted.
“I... I...”
“Get the hell out of that car!”
Artie, through frozen fright or stubborn obstinacy, did not move. The man clasped a hairy paw on the door handle, pried it open, and then reached inside for Artie’s collar. Artie was not a heavy boy, but even if he were heavy, he’d have been no match for the giant who lifted him bodily from the car.
“Hey!” Artie shouted, and then he was being slammed up against one of the gasoline pumps, and the man said, “Let me see your license!”
“Who—”
“Police,” the man said tersely. “Let me see your license.”
For some strange reason, Artie didn’t believe the man was a cop. He was wearing a sports jacket, wasn’t he? He was driving a green car, wasn’t he? No, this was just a trick. This thug just wanted Artie to hand over his wallet, that was all.