Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 by Carnal Hours (v5.0) Page A
Authors: Carnal Hours (v5.0)
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accent on the second syllable and revealing that his plump American friend shared first names with him, “I must insist you bring these charming girls along tonight. My guest list is shockingly scant.”
“I’ve got bad news,” the other Freddie said, mock sad. “They’re married.”
“So am I.” De Marigny shrugged. His smile was as wide as it was casual. “Bring your husbands along! Some of my best friends are husbands.”
“I’m afraid,” the brunette said, “both our husbands are away on missions.”
“RAF pilots,” the American Freddie said.
De Marigny shrugged again. “My wife’s in Maine studying dance. Maybe we old married people, separated from our loved ones, should console one another.”
The American Freddie said, “He’s got a Bahamian cook who’ll knock your socks off, ladies.”
I was willing to bet they’d be eating chicken.
The brunette and blonde looked at each other and smiled; damn near giggled. They nodded first to each other, then to de Marigny.
“Splendid,” the Count said.
Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought.
The quartet chatted—flirted, I thought, though the American was the most obvious—and soon I decided to fade away. I finished my Coke and went back to the Buick to wait for de Marigny to head back to Victoria Street for his party.
Which, before long, he did.
Nassau at night—at least on this overcast night—seemed otherworldly. Giant silk cotton trees cast weird shadows on limestone houses. Garden walls seemed like fortress battlements, and light slanted eerily through the slatted jalousie shutters, closed in anticipation of the storm that had promised itself all afternoon.
I followed the red eyes of the Lincoln’s taillights and when de Marigny pulled up onto the lawn beside the driveway, I went on by; again I did a U-turn and found a place on the opposite side of the street.
Before long guests began to arrive, notably a puffy-faced, slickly handsome character with a Clark Gable mustache who pulled his two-tone brown Chevy into the driveway and emerged with a sexy little blonde on his arm. She had Veronica Lake peekaboo bangs and a blue dress with white polka dots and a Betty Grable shape and if she was of legal age, I was Henry Aldrich.
I counted eleven guests, a mixed group as to gender but resolutely white and well-off in appearance—not counting the RAF wives (who’d arrived with the pudgy American) and the jailbait cutie, who were plenty white, but not affluent. Their ticket of admission was their own pulchritude.
My window was down and even half a block away I could hear the laughter and chatter coming from the garden patio, so I got out of the car and joined the party. Sort of. The sidewalk was empty and the nearest streetlight was across the way, so nobody noticed me angle around the side of the well-tended bushes to do some professional peeping.
They were having their dinner party outdoors; a long picnictype table was set, and several male Negro servants in white coats were in attendance, though nothing but wine had been served. Three hurricane-shaded candles and two six-candled candelabras were as yet unlit on the attractively set table. Everybody was having a gay old time, but I didn’t figure it would last long. The wind was coming up, and mosquitoes were nipping.
This morning, Marjorie Bristol could smell the rain in the air; right now, any idiot could smell it. I could smell it.
De Marigny had a kitchen match going. Sitting next to him was the blond RAF wife, as he half-stood leaning forward to try to light a candle, lifting a hurricane shade to do so. The wind whipped the flame away from the candle and across the back of the Count’s hand.
“ Merde! ” he said.
“What does that mean?” the jailbait blonde asked wide-eyed.
“Shit, my dear,” her suave puffy-faced escort rejoined.
Everyone laughed. Except me. I slapped a skeeter.
De Marigny singed himself a couple more times, but managed to get all the hurricane
“I’ve got bad news,” the other Freddie said, mock sad. “They’re married.”
“So am I.” De Marigny shrugged. His smile was as wide as it was casual. “Bring your husbands along! Some of my best friends are husbands.”
“I’m afraid,” the brunette said, “both our husbands are away on missions.”
“RAF pilots,” the American Freddie said.
De Marigny shrugged again. “My wife’s in Maine studying dance. Maybe we old married people, separated from our loved ones, should console one another.”
The American Freddie said, “He’s got a Bahamian cook who’ll knock your socks off, ladies.”
I was willing to bet they’d be eating chicken.
The brunette and blonde looked at each other and smiled; damn near giggled. They nodded first to each other, then to de Marigny.
“Splendid,” the Count said.
Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought.
The quartet chatted—flirted, I thought, though the American was the most obvious—and soon I decided to fade away. I finished my Coke and went back to the Buick to wait for de Marigny to head back to Victoria Street for his party.
Which, before long, he did.
Nassau at night—at least on this overcast night—seemed otherworldly. Giant silk cotton trees cast weird shadows on limestone houses. Garden walls seemed like fortress battlements, and light slanted eerily through the slatted jalousie shutters, closed in anticipation of the storm that had promised itself all afternoon.
I followed the red eyes of the Lincoln’s taillights and when de Marigny pulled up onto the lawn beside the driveway, I went on by; again I did a U-turn and found a place on the opposite side of the street.
Before long guests began to arrive, notably a puffy-faced, slickly handsome character with a Clark Gable mustache who pulled his two-tone brown Chevy into the driveway and emerged with a sexy little blonde on his arm. She had Veronica Lake peekaboo bangs and a blue dress with white polka dots and a Betty Grable shape and if she was of legal age, I was Henry Aldrich.
I counted eleven guests, a mixed group as to gender but resolutely white and well-off in appearance—not counting the RAF wives (who’d arrived with the pudgy American) and the jailbait cutie, who were plenty white, but not affluent. Their ticket of admission was their own pulchritude.
My window was down and even half a block away I could hear the laughter and chatter coming from the garden patio, so I got out of the car and joined the party. Sort of. The sidewalk was empty and the nearest streetlight was across the way, so nobody noticed me angle around the side of the well-tended bushes to do some professional peeping.
They were having their dinner party outdoors; a long picnictype table was set, and several male Negro servants in white coats were in attendance, though nothing but wine had been served. Three hurricane-shaded candles and two six-candled candelabras were as yet unlit on the attractively set table. Everybody was having a gay old time, but I didn’t figure it would last long. The wind was coming up, and mosquitoes were nipping.
This morning, Marjorie Bristol could smell the rain in the air; right now, any idiot could smell it. I could smell it.
De Marigny had a kitchen match going. Sitting next to him was the blond RAF wife, as he half-stood leaning forward to try to light a candle, lifting a hurricane shade to do so. The wind whipped the flame away from the candle and across the back of the Count’s hand.
“ Merde! ” he said.
“What does that mean?” the jailbait blonde asked wide-eyed.
“Shit, my dear,” her suave puffy-faced escort rejoined.
Everyone laughed. Except me. I slapped a skeeter.
De Marigny singed himself a couple more times, but managed to get all the hurricane
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