“You always were rather peculiar,” said Ned O’Byrne.
“So were you. You used to have ideas of living in Ireland, fishing for salmon and filling yourself with Irish whiskey. You had a lot of odd ideas. Something about Africa, long ago. What’s happened to you, Ned? Money?”
“Probably. For the first time in my life I have enough of it to do what I wanted to, like living in Ireland. But instead of one million, I now want two million. And I don’t think I’d be very contented fishing for salmon. It wouldn’t be as exciting as matching wits against the stock market. The way I trade, George, I could lose it all in a couple of bad days. I may yet end up in Ireland, but I’m beginning to doubt it.”
“How does your wife feel about all this?”
“You’ve met Kathleen,” said O’Byrne. “Did she strike you as the sort of woman who wanted to live thirty-five miles from the nearest hairdresser?”
“You have a point. In other words, she wouldn’t care to join you in the salmon fishing.”
“She wouldn’t mind living in Dublin, especially if I became a papal count and all that. But she’s a city girl, and she’ll never be anything else.”
“You’re a city boy,” said George.
“Against my will. I would like to have a small house within walking distance of an Irish village and not too far from a well-stocked stream. When I wanted conversation I’d have the local doctor, the solicitor, and the parish priest in for a meal. But that wouldn’t be often. I’d be content with my books, hundreds of books that I’ve put off reading, and some to reread. At intervals I’d go to Dublin or Belfast for a piece of tail. I’d have a Baby Austin but no telephone, and a deaf old woman to cook for me and do the housework.”
“Why deaf?”
“Because I’d prefer to keep our conversation at a minimum. Once I got her well trained there’d be weeks at a time when we wouldn’t have to exchange two words. She, of course, would live out, but would bring me my tea in the morning.”
“There is no wife in this picture,” said George.
“No, there isn’t, is there. The only reason I have a wife in New York is for protection. Protection from all the women who are looking for a husband. To me, having a wife is like having a lawyer. If you have a lawyer, the other lawyers don’t look for your business. I may say they’re slightly more ethical about it than women. Slightly. No, there’s no wife in the picture I’ve drawn. Only whores. I’ve never had the kind of vitality that a husband ought to have. As far as I know, I’m perfectly normal. Heterosexual, that is. But I seem to be able to get along without a screw longer than most of my friends. When I want it, I want it just as much as anybody, but not as often. For that reason I’d have done better to stay a bachelor. I don’t wish to imply that Kathleen is insatiable, but she’s never believed that I haven’t had a lot of women on the side.”
“Haven’t you?”
“Not very many.”
“How many?” said George.
“Oh, that’d be impossible to say at my age. In the hundreds. But that’s because there have been so many women that I only slept with once. Variety. A madam will call me up and say she has a new girl she thinks I’ll like. So I obligingly present myself, and that’s it. The number of women wouldn’t matter except that every time I go to bed with one of those girls, I’m being unfaithful to my wife. Statistically, Kathleen is right. I’ve been unfaithful to her hundreds of times. But if I weren’t married to her, I’d be considered just a guy that gets laid once or twice a month. Not many normal men can get along on as little as that.”
“A very interesting point of view. I’ve never thought of it that way. I always considered you a bit of a whoremaster.”
“When in fact I’m comparatively ascetic. Would you be interested in having your ashes hauled this evening?”
“I might be. I couldn’t be sure until I saw the woman,” said George.
“They’re whores. That is, they do it for money. But they’re not cheap, and they don’t look cheap. We could have dinner with them right here and you wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with them.”
“I’d rather go some place else for dinner. I’ve already seen two Racquet Club fellows come in and out of here. One with his wife. And thanks to my brother, I’m semi-notorious.”
“Why semi?”
“Semi, because not many people recognize me, but they recognize the name. We’ll take the ladies some place else.”
An hour or so later the foursome was formed in another speakeasy in Fifty-fifth Street. The women were strikingly handsome. The blonde, who was for O’Byrne, had a fixed grin. Her name was Elaine, and her manner revealed that she was not one of the girls whom O’Byrne had seen only once before. The other girl—neither woman was yet thirty—was rather dramatically turned out in a shiny black silk suit with a white piqué dickey below a bare chest, sheer black silk stockings and black patent-leather pumps. She wore no hat, and her black hair was slicked down, parted in the middle, with buns over her ears.
“And what did you say your name was?” said George.
“Angela. And no cracks,” she said.
“Angela what?”
“Angela Schuyler.”
“But you can call her Schultzie,” said the blonde.
“If you do I’ll hit you right over the head with this,” said Angela, raising a patent-leather handbag. She turned to George. “What name do you go by?”
“George Lockwood.”
“I know that name from somewhere. Are you from the Coast?”
“No, I’m from Pennsylvania. Why? Do you know some Lockwoods on the Coast?”
“I know one named George Lockwood, the same as you. But a lot younger,” said Angela.
“It’s a fairly common name,” said George.
“Yeah, and maybe you just took it,” she said.
“No, it’s really my name,” said George.
They ordered dinner, and the girls displayed their knowledge of the most expensive foods without studying the menu. The blonde also contributed suggestions for the wines. “This Ginzo has as good a wine list as you’ll find anywhere,” she said. “He bought some rich guy’s cellar when he died.”
“How do you know so much about wine?” said George.
“How do I know so much about wine? I’m a Ginzo myself. Don’t let the blond hair fool you.”
“It doesn’t fool anybody,” said Angela. “And if it does, they soon find out.”
“Yeah, but it costs them plenty to find out, doesn’t it, Ned? He can speak from experience.”
“Do we have to talk about money?” said Angela. “George, you give me a hundred dollars now and we don’t have to talk about it any more.”
George opened his notecase and took out several new never-folded bills. “Will two fifties do?”
“Uh-huh. That makes it easier to count,” said Angela. “Now we can all relax.” She put the money in her purse and became gracious. All through the meal George caught her minute studies of him, of his clothes, of his hands, of his hair, of his teeth, and of his interest in her bare chest. She could not have been more thorough if she had been planning to buy him. “This Lockwood on the Coast, he reminded me a little of you. Or the other way around, I guess. What business are you in?”
“I’m in the investment business.”
“Investment. Do you ever invest in any oil wells?”
“Never have, but I’m told it can be very profitable,” said George.