by Hank Janson
He did some more talking and then quite naturally put his hand on her shoulder. She flinched away from him, pushed his hand off her shoulder and flung it away from her as though it burned.
That did it. Dane drew himself up, his lips compressed, and he stalked away from her. I guess he wanted her to sense his contemptuous anger as he left her. But she didn’t. She was watching Burden with soft, yearning eyes, and with just a hint of concern in them. She needed to be concerned, the way that coloured girl was pressing up against him.
Charles and Dorothy were dancing now. A tall, slim man with a weak chin and misty blue eyes blundered into me. ‘I say, old fella,’ he said in a thick voice that just managed to control his pronunciation. ‘Have you tried this drink?’
He thrust a cocktail in my hand. The liquid was a sparkling golden yellow.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘S’wonderful,’ he told me. He had a glass himself. He drank half of it, swayed very, very lightly and closed one eye before he nodded his head approvingly.
‘S’wonderful,’ he repeated. ‘Just try it.’
I tasted it. It had all the Atomic Bomb contained and more. I rolled it around my tongue, let it trickle down into my belly. It dripped on top of the Atomic Bomb, and pleasurable warmth and exhilaration mingled inside me.
‘That really is something!’ I said, approvingly. ‘What is it?’
‘Just invented it,’ he said proudly. He raised his arm indicating the cocktail bar. ‘Fella said, “Mix a cocktail”, so I mixed it.’ He held up the glassful of yellow liquid as though it was a great prize. ‘Invented it – just like that!’ he added.
‘What are you going to call it?’ I chuckled.
He considered the question, ‘You like the other drink?’
‘The Atomic Bomb?’
He nodded. ‘The green drink. You like it?’
‘Pretty good,’ I said.
‘This one is better?’
‘Definitely,’ I assured him.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘The other one is Atomic Bomb. I call mine World’s End.’
‘How d’ya make it?’ I asked.
‘It’s very simple,’ he said. He finished his drink, pulled back his cuff and prepared to tick off the items on his fingers. ‘First you take some gin. Then you take some …’ He broke off, and a thoughtful look came on his face. He started again. ‘First you take some gin. Then you take some …’ He broke off again.
‘Vermouth?’ I suggested gently.
‘Maybe,’ he said broodingly. ‘It’s a funny thing, that. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever invented anything. First time I’ve done anything worthwhile, and what happens? I’ve forgotten how I made it.’
I nudged him in the ribs consolingly. ‘Well, there’s two fellas who will remember it all their lives, isn’t there?’
He grinned. ‘You’re a nice guy,’ he said. ‘I like you.’
‘I’d take you up on it if you wore skirts,’ I said.
‘Let me introduce myself,’ he said. He swayed again. This time quite obviously. He tested the air as though to lever himself into an upright position. ‘My name’s Fuller,’ he said. ‘Leslie Fuller.’
The name seemed familiar to me. ‘Have I seen you around?’
‘Sure to have done, old chap,’ he assured me. He slapped his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m a washout, you know.’ He stared at me solemnly. ‘Loads of dough and all that. My father’s dough, of course. He makes it. I spend it.’
The name was hitting me now. A Texas mine-owner, millionaire. A playboy son called Leslie. A good-for-nothing who’d never done an honest day’s work, who ran up gambling bills that could have dried up his father’s oil wells if he hadn’t had more than a dozen.
‘Gordon Fuller’s son?’ I asked.
‘That’s right,’ he said. He slapped himself on the chest. ‘I’m a washout,’ he announced. ‘No good to anybody. Waste money gambling. Spendthrift. You know the kinda fella I am. I’m no good to anyone.’
He was just the kinda guy who would be at one of Burden’s parties. But I liked him better than Burden. At any rate, Leslie Fuller did know his own drawbacks.
‘You ought to reform, fella,’ I grinned. ‘Ever tried growing oranges in Florida?’
He raised one finger to me. ‘I’m going to reform. Got the sweetest little girl. She’s going to reform me. I’m going to work hard. Be a different fella.’
He suddenly caught sight of somebody among the dancers. He dived into the scrum, grabbed the girl by the arm and pulled her out. She’d been dancing with Dane. She came out, laughing and protesting. Leslie said: ‘Want you to meet the sweetest little girl. Going to make a man of me.’
‘Leslie, you mustn’t keep talking like that,’ she reproached him. She had fair hair, a pretty blush to her cheeks and sparkling eyes. She added: ‘Besides, you were so rude to my partner.’
Leslie was immediately contrite. ‘My dear old fella,’ he said to Dane. ‘You understand, don’t you? I just had to –’
‘That’s okay,’ grinned Dane, ‘You go ahead.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Leslie. ‘That’s fine.’ He looked at the girl thoughtfully, looked at Dane, and then looked at me. ‘Now what was it?’ he asked himself thoughtfully, and then his face cleared. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You take a good measure of gin and then you take a …’ His voice broke off, and he shook his head sadly.
‘You were going to introduce us,’ I reminded him gently.
His face lighted up again. ‘Ah, yes, that’s right. The prettiest, sweetest little girl –’
‘Please, Leslie,’ she dimpled.
He took her by the arm and turned her to face me. ‘I want you to meet a good friend of mine, darling,’ he said. ‘I want you to meet …’ His voice broke off again, and he looked at me anxiously.
‘Janson is the name,’ I said. ‘Hank Janson.’
‘Pearl,’ she said. ‘Pearl Gibbons,’ and her cool fingers slipped into mine. I liked her eyes. They were cool, self-assured. In fact, her whole manner was cool and confident. You got the feeling she was just the kinda girl who could straighten out Leslie – if anyone could.
‘Have you met Dane?’ I asked.
She smiled at him. ‘Not officially,’ she admitted.
‘Dane Morris,’ I said. ‘Drama critic on the Chronicle.’
Dane acknowledged her half-heartedly. Every now and again he glanced to the far end of the room, where Burden and Stella were sitting and looking into each other’s eyes. Pearl’s eyes rested on Dane thoughtfully.
Leslie said, ‘Don’t you mind me. You carry on dancing. I’ve got other things to do. I’ve got to mix a cocktail.’
Pearl looked at Dane. ‘Would you like to?’ she asked shyly.
He smiled back half-heartedly. She slipped into his arms and they drifted away into the maze of other dancers.
Leslie frowned. ‘Gotta mix another cocktail,’ he said. He said it as though it was a serious duty.
‘You slip along then, fella,’ I said. ‘The bar’s right over there.’
I turned him around, pointed him at the bar like he was a rifle and gave him a gentle push. He steered an erratic course across the room. But he made it. I watched him fumbling among the bottles with that perplexed look on his face. Deep down in his mind he was probably resolved to achieve the distinction of producing two inventions in one evening. I wondered what he’d call the next. Maybe it’d be called the Beginning.
A soft hand tugged at my arm, so that I turned around and looked down into a pair of fathomless black eyes.
‘Hello,’ she said, in a kinda little-girl voice.
‘What’s cooking?’ I asked.
‘I am,’ she said. ‘Just about ready to be served. Wanna take a bite?’
I looked her over. She was dark, just the right height, had the kinda figure that makes an unmarried man lie awake at night, and moist, warm, inviting lips that could sear at a to
uch.
‘With you,’ I said, ‘I’m liable to forget my party manners and start in wolfing.’
She chuckled, gave a soft imitation of a wolf’s howl and moved in close.
‘Shall we dance first?’ she asked.
‘Only if it’s absolutely necessary,’ I grinned.
We drifted out among the other dancers. It was a slow foxtrot. The lights were on now – soft, soothing lights. I’d had three of those Atomic Bombs followed by a World’s End, which had detonated on top of the others. A new atmosphere was coming into the party. An atmosphere of warm, cosy dreaminess. Her cheek was resting on my shoulder and her hair tickled my nose. From shoulder to thigh her body moulded into mine, following faithfully every movement I made. There was a tantalising scent in my nostrils and I could feel the sensuous movement of her body beneath her dress.
Suddenly it seemed a very nice party. I was beginning to enjoy myself after all, despite the little pinpricks.
‘D’you know something, honey?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Can you get a bit closer?’
‘Not right here in front of everybody.’
‘I wish you could,’ she said regretfully. Then, after a few moments, she added: ‘My, what a pressure-cooker you’ve turned out to be!’
3
She clutched me and I clutched her throughout the next three dances. Then we got separated.
I wandered across to the cocktail bar to fix myself another drink. I found Leslie Fuller, the playboy, seated against the wall behind the counter with his knees under his chin, fast asleep. He was nursing the cocktail-shaker to his breast like it was a baby.
I stepped over him, dived down behind the bar and came up with a bottle labelled Bourbon. That was good enough for me without mixing. I poured myself a generous five fingers, added a piece of ice and a split-second spurt from the siphon and found myself a chair.
The party was getting progressively hotter. Those kinda parties did. As the mineral spirits went down, so the animal spirits went up. Pearl, the sweet girl who was gonna save playboy Leslie Fuller from making a wreck of his life, was still dancing with Dane. She was looking up into his face like she’d never seen him before and couldn’t get over her good luck at having found him at last. He was talking right back at her, smiling, and for the first time that evening looking happy. But, just the same, he still kept slipping swift glances across the room towards Hugh Burden and Stella, and when he did so he scowled momentarily.
You’d have thought Burden and Stella were alone, the way they acted. They were sitting on a settee. Her skirt was rucked up over her thighs, which were crossed, imprisoning Hugh’s hand. Judging from the way he was nuzzling her neck, it didn’t look like he wanted to get away, anyhow!
The coloured maid looked like she might have had two or three more Atomic Bombs. The dancers were jiving now and she was kicking twice as high as anybody. Her hair had got loosened and streamed over her shoulders as she bobbed up and down. She was sure working hard at it. Her face gleamed with perspiration, her eyes rolled and her white teeth flashed in a broad grin. There were sweat patches beneath her armpits and another sweat patch where the belt of her crisp, white linen frock was drawn tight around her belly.
There was a quiet little man seated next to me. I said conversationally, ‘Looks like she’s warming up.’
He looked at her gloomily. ‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s right.’
There was something pathetic about the guy. He was short on hair, and what he had was grey. He was maybe 50 or 60. His cheeks were sunken, his shoulders drooped, and when he turned his eyes to me I saw they were haggard.
‘Something bothering you, chum?’ I asked sympathetically.
He started like I’d pointed a gun at him. ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m all right. There’s nothing the matter, really.’
I didn’t want to probe into private affairs, but he looked such a pathetic little guy I felt sorry for him. I wanted to cheer him up.
‘Haven’t I seen you before somewhere?’ I asked.
‘Maybe,’ he said absently. ‘I’m Mr Burden’s personal secretary.’
I nodded understandingly. ‘You have to sit through too many of these to get a kick out of it.’
‘Unfortunately so,’ he agreed. ‘Only today I particularly wanted –’ He broke off and looked around anxiously.
One of the coloured maids who was still working passed by collecting empty glasses. She had a couple of drinks on the tray. She offered one to the pathetic little guy.
He shook his head. Smiled his thanks.
‘Have one,’ I said. ‘It’ll cheer you up.’
‘Never touch it,’ he said. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
I showed the girl the three fingers of Bourbon I still had left. She flashed a smile and carried her tray to the next easy chair, which four dames were trying to sit in together with a loud-voiced guy wearing a loud-check suit.
The little guy next to me kept fluttering his hands nervously. He kept looking at Burden and he kept shooting quick glances at the clock.
‘Why don’t you scram?’ I asked.
‘I’ll have to,’ he confessed. ‘But Mr Burden will be very annoyed with me if he finds out.’
‘Tell him to go take a jump in the lake.’
He looked at me reproachfully. ‘You must remember, I am only an employee.’
‘Yeah,’ I said quietly. ‘I’d forgotten that.’ And then I got an idea. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘You wanna get away. You go. If he misses you, tell him I asked you to do something for me. My name’s Janson.’
‘What could I do for you?’ he asked seriously.
I thought for a moment. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I work on the Chronicle. Tell him I wrote some copy for you. You had to take it along to the office for me. Say they kept you there if necessary.’
‘That would help,’ he said. He repeated my name thoughtfully. ‘Are you quite sure it will be all right?’
‘You’ve an excuse, anyway,’ I said. ‘And he might not miss you.’
‘I’ll have to go, anyway,’ he said. He looked at the clock anxiously. ‘They said I’d have to come back. They can’t decide anything yet.’ His haggard eyes looked at me. He was a guy who had a lot on his mind, and it wasn’t just worry. There was something deeper than that.
‘You slip off, chum,’ I said. ‘I’ll cover up for you if you’re wanted.’
He muttered more thanks and shuffled out. He was such a nondescript little guy that nobody noticed him going and nobody would have noticed him if he’d come in.
The jive session finished. They’d been going hard at it for nearly half an hour. Some of the guys took off their jackets and the dames stood around, fanning themselves with paper serviettes and surreptitiously wiping the perspiration from their faces.
That gave somebody a bright idea. Just the kinda bright idea the party was warmed up to appreciate. It was a game. It was striptease, and everybody loved the idea. Everybody stood around in a circle to play it, and everybody had to play it. It was that kinda game. If anybody was left out, it lost its point.
It was played like this. Everybody took turns at throwing the dice. There were two dice. And the number they threw was against them instead of for them.
Every article of clothing had a value. A man’s jacket was four points, his waistcoat was three points, but his trousers were six points. A pair of underpants was worth nine points. There was a scale worked out for the dames, too. Luck decided if you lost your clothes, and then a forfeit would be imposed before you could get them back.
Burden sent one of the maids for a laundry basket, which was placed in the middle of the circle. Then the first guy in the circle took the dice-cup, shook the ivories and rolled a three and a four. That was seven points. He grinned, took off his coat, which was four points, and dropped it in the laundry basket. Then, glumly, he calculated how many more points he needed and with a rueful grin took off t
wo shoes and one sock to make up the seven points.
That got quite a laugh. The guy grinned sheepishly and tried to make out he thought it funny, too. But when the next in line began to shake the ivories – she was a dame – his interest perked up. His laugh was louder than the others when she rolled two fours and pouted her dismay.
There was lots of shouted advice as to what she should do. She gave the matter consideration, kicked off her shoes, which earned her two points, and, with a shy giggle, wriggled out of her blouse. She was wearing an underslip and brassiere, but just the same she earned a few whistles.
The idea was that everybody should throw the dice three times. At the end of that, the articles of clothing would be returned after the forfeits had been paid.
Played while stone cold sober it was the kinda game that would have emptied a party. But with everybody steamed up on Atomic Bombs, they were just ripe for that kinda game.
Everybody, that is, except Dorothy Burden and Charles Skinner. You could tell right away they hadn’t been drinking like the others. And you could tell right away this was a game they didn’t wanna play. But then, they were two people who had more reason than most for not wanting to destroy Hugh Burden’s idea of a good party.
The dice circled around. I was lucky. I threw a three and a one. I took off my jacket and squared the account. The dice-throwing went on around the circle and the disrobing continued. When it was Dorothy Burden’s turn I saw her flush, and just for a moment she glanced at Burden. His black eyes were fixed upon her, sneering contemptuously. She bit her lip, shook and threw. She was an unlucky dame. She turned up two sixes.
There were a number of ways she could pay off. A dress rated 12, a skirt six and a blouse six.
Dorothy Burden was wearing a skirt and blouse. She looked at Hugh. And just for a moment I thought she was gonna fling out of the room. Then she bit her lip and took off her shoes.
That earned her two points. Everybody was laughing and calculating how she was gonna make up the 12 points. But she had it figured out. She unclipped her suspenders, rolled down her stockings. That gave her another two points, making four. Her cheeks were flaming when she fumbled modestly beneath her skirt. She fumbled for a long while, with a great deal of uneasy wriggling. Finally she worked a suspender girdle down her legs to the accompaniment of loud cheers. That earned her another two points, making six in all.
