the passenger side door.
âItâs a tight fit in back, Iâm afraid.
âIâll take it, I said.
âThatâs mighty big of you, said Eve.
Beginning to sense that something was amiss, Tinker looked at Eve with a hint of concern. He put one hand on the car door and with the other gestured like a gentleman for her to get in. She didnât seem to notice. She was too busy looking at the car, sizing it up from hood to heel. Not like Fran had; more like a professional.
âIâll drive, she said, holding out her hand for the keys.
Tinker wasnât ready for that one.
âDo you know how to drive? he asked.
â Do I know how to drive? she said like a Southern belle. Why, I been drivin my daddyâs tractah since I was nyn yeahs old.
She tugged the keys out of his hand and walked around the hood. As Tinker climbed in the passenger seat looking a little unsure, Eve made herself comfortable.
âWhere to, Mac? she asked, putting the key in the ignition.
âFifty-second Street.
Eve turned on the engine and ripped into reverse. She backed away from the curb at twenty miles an hour and screeched to a halt.
âEve! Tinker said.
She looked at him and smiled sweetly, sympathetically. Then she put it in gear and roared across Seventeenth Street.
Within seconds it was clear that she was filled with the spirit of the Lord. When she swerved onto Sixth Avenue, Tinker almost grabbed the wheel. But as we zigzagged through traffic, she drove in one fluid motion, accelerating and decelerating in imperceptible increments like a shark cutting through water, timing each light to the second. So we both sat back, quiet and wide-eyedâlike others who put themselves in the hands of a higher power.
Â
Only as we turned onto Fifty-second Street did I realize that he was taking us to the 21 Club.
In a sense, Eve had cornered him into it. Nice, nicer, nicest âwhat was he supposed to say?
But just as Eve had wanted to impress Tinker by showing off the quasi-Russian demimonde that we semi-frequented, Tinker probably wanted to impress us by offering a glimpse of his New York. And from the look of things, he had a good shot at succeeding, whatever Eveâs mood. In front of the restaurant, the exhaust of idling limousines spiraled from tailpipes like genies from a bottle. A valet in a top hat and topcoat opened the door of the car and another one opened the door to the restaurant, revealing a lobby full of Manhattanites waiting hip to hip.
At first glance, 21 didnât seem particularly elegant. The dark walls were decorated with framed drawings that could have been ripped from an illustrated weekly. The tabletops were scuffed and the silverware clunky like at a chophouse or a university dining hall. But there was no mistaking the elegance of the clientele. The men wore tailored suits and accented their breast pockets with untouched handkerchiefs. The women wore silk dresses in royal colors and chokers of pearls.
When we came before the coat-check girl, ever so slightly Eve turned her shoulders toward Tinker. Without missing a trick, he swung the coat off her back like a matador swinging his cape.
Eve was the youngest person in the restaurant not bussing a tray, and she was ready to make the most of it. Her last-minute dress was a red silk number with a scooped neckline, and she had apparently traded up to her best support braâbecause the tops of her breasts could be seen from fifty feet in a fog. She had been careful not to spoil the impression with jewelry. In a small red lacquered box, she kept a pair of graduation-day diamonds. On her ears, the studs provided a nice little sparkle that complemented her dimples when she smiled. But she knew better than to wear them into a place like thisâwhere one had nothing to gain from formality and everything to lose by comparison.
The maitre dâ, an Austrian who had plenty of reason to be harried and wasnât, welcomed Tinker
âItâs a tight fit in back, Iâm afraid.
âIâll take it, I said.
âThatâs mighty big of you, said Eve.
Beginning to sense that something was amiss, Tinker looked at Eve with a hint of concern. He put one hand on the car door and with the other gestured like a gentleman for her to get in. She didnât seem to notice. She was too busy looking at the car, sizing it up from hood to heel. Not like Fran had; more like a professional.
âIâll drive, she said, holding out her hand for the keys.
Tinker wasnât ready for that one.
âDo you know how to drive? he asked.
â Do I know how to drive? she said like a Southern belle. Why, I been drivin my daddyâs tractah since I was nyn yeahs old.
She tugged the keys out of his hand and walked around the hood. As Tinker climbed in the passenger seat looking a little unsure, Eve made herself comfortable.
âWhere to, Mac? she asked, putting the key in the ignition.
âFifty-second Street.
Eve turned on the engine and ripped into reverse. She backed away from the curb at twenty miles an hour and screeched to a halt.
âEve! Tinker said.
She looked at him and smiled sweetly, sympathetically. Then she put it in gear and roared across Seventeenth Street.
Within seconds it was clear that she was filled with the spirit of the Lord. When she swerved onto Sixth Avenue, Tinker almost grabbed the wheel. But as we zigzagged through traffic, she drove in one fluid motion, accelerating and decelerating in imperceptible increments like a shark cutting through water, timing each light to the second. So we both sat back, quiet and wide-eyedâlike others who put themselves in the hands of a higher power.
Â
Only as we turned onto Fifty-second Street did I realize that he was taking us to the 21 Club.
In a sense, Eve had cornered him into it. Nice, nicer, nicest âwhat was he supposed to say?
But just as Eve had wanted to impress Tinker by showing off the quasi-Russian demimonde that we semi-frequented, Tinker probably wanted to impress us by offering a glimpse of his New York. And from the look of things, he had a good shot at succeeding, whatever Eveâs mood. In front of the restaurant, the exhaust of idling limousines spiraled from tailpipes like genies from a bottle. A valet in a top hat and topcoat opened the door of the car and another one opened the door to the restaurant, revealing a lobby full of Manhattanites waiting hip to hip.
At first glance, 21 didnât seem particularly elegant. The dark walls were decorated with framed drawings that could have been ripped from an illustrated weekly. The tabletops were scuffed and the silverware clunky like at a chophouse or a university dining hall. But there was no mistaking the elegance of the clientele. The men wore tailored suits and accented their breast pockets with untouched handkerchiefs. The women wore silk dresses in royal colors and chokers of pearls.
When we came before the coat-check girl, ever so slightly Eve turned her shoulders toward Tinker. Without missing a trick, he swung the coat off her back like a matador swinging his cape.
Eve was the youngest person in the restaurant not bussing a tray, and she was ready to make the most of it. Her last-minute dress was a red silk number with a scooped neckline, and she had apparently traded up to her best support braâbecause the tops of her breasts could be seen from fifty feet in a fog. She had been careful not to spoil the impression with jewelry. In a small red lacquered box, she kept a pair of graduation-day diamonds. On her ears, the studs provided a nice little sparkle that complemented her dimples when she smiled. But she knew better than to wear them into a place like thisâwhere one had nothing to gain from formality and everything to lose by comparison.
The maitre dâ, an Austrian who had plenty of reason to be harried and wasnât, welcomed Tinker
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