music and poetry readings alternated on the others) and Charlie Mingus would be going on around ten. But I was even earlier than the tourists—I strolled into the big low-ceilinged room just after five.
Though the Gateway wasn’t the intimate hole-in-the-wall of a genuine GV retreat (that’s Greenwich Village, for the squares among you), the atmosphere was just right—scuffed round wooden tables, walls with murals and sketches drawn right on, like the comic-strip doodles at the Strip Joint, but with less artistry, in my book. Right now the cavernous space held only a handful of patrons, mostly angry, edgy young poets of both sexes—you’d be angry and edgy, too, if you’d been drinking espresso all day.
Dr. Sylvia Winters was a cut above the other females in the Gateway, with their long black hair and no makeup and lip-drooped cigarettes. Still, she fit right in, in the black, bulky yet oddly form-fitting sweater with tight black pants. She had a short platinum-blonde hairdo with a sharp comma of curl framing her face on one side, and that beautiful mixture of Kim Novak and Grace Kelly that Bob Price promised was lightly touched with mascara, face powder and lipstick so dark red it was damn near black. Her eyes were a dark, penetrating blue, long-lashed under bold black arching eyebrows.
Standing next to where she sat by a framed sketch of a nude woman, I asked, “Dr. Winters?”
Though of course I knew ....
Her smile was lovely, emphasizing apple cheeks that were a wholesome surprise in that sophisticated mug of hers.
“Mr. Starr,” she purred, extending her hand, which I took and shook, a warm slender thing with long-nailed tapering fingers, “from now on, I’m going to call you ‘Jack’ and you’re going to call me ‘Sylvia.’”
“Fine.” I grinned and sat. “I may even get around to calling you ‘Syl,’ if you let me.”
Her smile turned amused and made her chin crinkle. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. What can I do for you, Jack?”
“Well, I already got ahead of myself, didn’t I? The first thing I should have done was thank you for meeting me.”
“I was intrigued. But as I told you on the phone, I’m very limited as to what I can say about my patients.”
“Patient privacy,” I said with a nod. “Sure, I get that.”
“I don’t want to mislead you.” She leaned in, as if about to share a secret. “I am a doctor, but not a medical one.”
“Ah. Psychologist, not psychiatrist.”
“Exactly.” She leaned back. “Would you like something to drink?”
She was having coffee, not espresso, and like Maggie she took it heavily laced with cream.
“Yeah, please,” I said, and she waved the waitress over.
I liked that. Sylvia Winters had a natural yet feminine strength, expressed in something as small but telling as being the one of us to call for service. Smart, beautiful, stacked, and if that sounds like I’m a rogue, let me remind you that I put “smart” first on that list.
The slender, not unattractive waitress in a black blouse and black skirt and black stockings (was she going for vampire or nun?) came over. When I asked for a Coca-Cola, she looked at me for a long time, the way a bartender in a western looks at a dude who orders sarsaparilla.
So I sneered at her and said, “In a dirty glass.”
That made her laugh. You make one of these sullen girls laugh, you must have something. And Sylvia was smiling, too.
“You live here in the Village,” I said.
“And work.”
“I’m sure you have no shortage of patients.”
One side of her mouth smiled; her lips were neither full nor thin, just well-defined, as if by an artist more adept than any showcasing their work on the walls of the Gateway.
“No shortage of patients,” she admitted. “But they sometimes have a shortage of funds.”
“How long have you been at it?”
“This is my third year, since graduating.”
That made sense. I made her as maybe twenty-five, twenty-six.
“I’m not
Though the Gateway wasn’t the intimate hole-in-the-wall of a genuine GV retreat (that’s Greenwich Village, for the squares among you), the atmosphere was just right—scuffed round wooden tables, walls with murals and sketches drawn right on, like the comic-strip doodles at the Strip Joint, but with less artistry, in my book. Right now the cavernous space held only a handful of patrons, mostly angry, edgy young poets of both sexes—you’d be angry and edgy, too, if you’d been drinking espresso all day.
Dr. Sylvia Winters was a cut above the other females in the Gateway, with their long black hair and no makeup and lip-drooped cigarettes. Still, she fit right in, in the black, bulky yet oddly form-fitting sweater with tight black pants. She had a short platinum-blonde hairdo with a sharp comma of curl framing her face on one side, and that beautiful mixture of Kim Novak and Grace Kelly that Bob Price promised was lightly touched with mascara, face powder and lipstick so dark red it was damn near black. Her eyes were a dark, penetrating blue, long-lashed under bold black arching eyebrows.
Standing next to where she sat by a framed sketch of a nude woman, I asked, “Dr. Winters?”
Though of course I knew ....
Her smile was lovely, emphasizing apple cheeks that were a wholesome surprise in that sophisticated mug of hers.
“Mr. Starr,” she purred, extending her hand, which I took and shook, a warm slender thing with long-nailed tapering fingers, “from now on, I’m going to call you ‘Jack’ and you’re going to call me ‘Sylvia.’”
“Fine.” I grinned and sat. “I may even get around to calling you ‘Syl,’ if you let me.”
Her smile turned amused and made her chin crinkle. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. What can I do for you, Jack?”
“Well, I already got ahead of myself, didn’t I? The first thing I should have done was thank you for meeting me.”
“I was intrigued. But as I told you on the phone, I’m very limited as to what I can say about my patients.”
“Patient privacy,” I said with a nod. “Sure, I get that.”
“I don’t want to mislead you.” She leaned in, as if about to share a secret. “I am a doctor, but not a medical one.”
“Ah. Psychologist, not psychiatrist.”
“Exactly.” She leaned back. “Would you like something to drink?”
She was having coffee, not espresso, and like Maggie she took it heavily laced with cream.
“Yeah, please,” I said, and she waved the waitress over.
I liked that. Sylvia Winters had a natural yet feminine strength, expressed in something as small but telling as being the one of us to call for service. Smart, beautiful, stacked, and if that sounds like I’m a rogue, let me remind you that I put “smart” first on that list.
The slender, not unattractive waitress in a black blouse and black skirt and black stockings (was she going for vampire or nun?) came over. When I asked for a Coca-Cola, she looked at me for a long time, the way a bartender in a western looks at a dude who orders sarsaparilla.
So I sneered at her and said, “In a dirty glass.”
That made her laugh. You make one of these sullen girls laugh, you must have something. And Sylvia was smiling, too.
“You live here in the Village,” I said.
“And work.”
“I’m sure you have no shortage of patients.”
One side of her mouth smiled; her lips were neither full nor thin, just well-defined, as if by an artist more adept than any showcasing their work on the walls of the Gateway.
“No shortage of patients,” she admitted. “But they sometimes have a shortage of funds.”
“How long have you been at it?”
“This is my third year, since graduating.”
That made sense. I made her as maybe twenty-five, twenty-six.
“I’m not
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