poverty-stricken, understand,” she said. “I have a number of patients in entertainment and the arts. There are some talented and successful actors, artists and musicians who live in the Village. They like to soak up the atmosphere.”
“I dig it down here, too. Notice I used the word ‘dig.’ Just to impress you with how hep I am. Or is that hip?”
She chuckled. “I admit I like the bohemian way of life around here. Little movie theaters with foreign films, Italian restaurants every second or third step, bars filled with writers and artists, every night a party, but an intellectually stimulating one.”
“Has its attractions.”
She shrugged, sipped her coffee. Her nails were painted the same red-black as her mouth. “There are a lot of pretenders, sure, and kids who are spending a few years learning if they can or can’t make it in the arts.”
“Or till their parents get tired of subsidizing them.”
“Or till then. But who am I to judge? My living here is partly economic.”
My Coke came, set in front of me with a clunk. No glass. Warm.
I thanked the waitress, who had gotten over finding me amusing, and she moved to a table across the room.
I said to Sylvia, “She’s just jealous of you. So...economical to live in the Village, is it?”
“It’s cheap to live in the Village.” Again she leaned in to share a secret. “Would you believe? I have a big, beautiful, one-bedroom apartment on 11th Street and Seventh Avenue. One hundred a month.”
Dr. Frederick’s suite in the Waldorf Towers went for maybe ten times that, or more.
“Can’t beat that kinda overhead,” I said. “And you work out of there, too, right?”
“Yes. So. Jack. Have we sufficiently broken the ice? I’m already rather taken with you, and from your expression, I can see that you are already in love with me. By the time I’m through with my coffee, I expect a proposal of marriage.”
I took a swig of Coke and grinned at her. “I was going to pop the question, till I heard you didn’t have that lucrative a set-up. I mean, the psychiatrist or even psychologist I marry will have to have a really thriving practice. Keeping me in creature comforts is a commitment.”
Her smile was again one-sided, devilish. “You kid on the square, don’t you, Jack?”
I pretended to frown. “On the other hand, maybe I don’t want to marry a shrink. But just to be clear?”
“Yes?”
“I am willing to fool around with one.”
She almost did a spit take with her coffee, laughing. The waitress, sitting bored across the room from us, frowned, either really jealous or maybe just not wanting to be interrupted as she read the latest issue of Craze, which Bob Price would have loved.
“Now, for the record, I’m willing to buy you food,” I said. “I hear the grub here is pretty good. It’s a little early, but we’re beating the crowd. What say?”
“Okay, okay,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender, “consider the ice well and truly broken. As far as you buying me supper, we’ll see. What is it I can do for you?”
“Well,” I said, businesslike now, “as I mentioned on the phone, I want to discuss our mutual friend, Bob Price.”
I’d told her that the Starr Syndicate was contemplating getting into business with Bob by way of a Craze comic strip.
“You’re aware,” I said, getting into an area we had not discussed in our brief phone conversation, “that Bob has volunteered to testify tomorrow in that Senate hearing.”
“On juvenile delinquency and comic books, yes. He’s quite adamant about that.”
“I’m afraid he’s going to get himself in trouble.”
Her expression was placid, her eyes almost sleepy, but that was deceiving: the sharp intelligence in those eyes was examining me like a surgeon with a blade.
She said, “I understand he’s written, or anyway is writing, an opening statement that he’s quite proud of.”
“I have no doubt it will be a masterpiece. But once he’s given his
“I dig it down here, too. Notice I used the word ‘dig.’ Just to impress you with how hep I am. Or is that hip?”
She chuckled. “I admit I like the bohemian way of life around here. Little movie theaters with foreign films, Italian restaurants every second or third step, bars filled with writers and artists, every night a party, but an intellectually stimulating one.”
“Has its attractions.”
She shrugged, sipped her coffee. Her nails were painted the same red-black as her mouth. “There are a lot of pretenders, sure, and kids who are spending a few years learning if they can or can’t make it in the arts.”
“Or till their parents get tired of subsidizing them.”
“Or till then. But who am I to judge? My living here is partly economic.”
My Coke came, set in front of me with a clunk. No glass. Warm.
I thanked the waitress, who had gotten over finding me amusing, and she moved to a table across the room.
I said to Sylvia, “She’s just jealous of you. So...economical to live in the Village, is it?”
“It’s cheap to live in the Village.” Again she leaned in to share a secret. “Would you believe? I have a big, beautiful, one-bedroom apartment on 11th Street and Seventh Avenue. One hundred a month.”
Dr. Frederick’s suite in the Waldorf Towers went for maybe ten times that, or more.
“Can’t beat that kinda overhead,” I said. “And you work out of there, too, right?”
“Yes. So. Jack. Have we sufficiently broken the ice? I’m already rather taken with you, and from your expression, I can see that you are already in love with me. By the time I’m through with my coffee, I expect a proposal of marriage.”
I took a swig of Coke and grinned at her. “I was going to pop the question, till I heard you didn’t have that lucrative a set-up. I mean, the psychiatrist or even psychologist I marry will have to have a really thriving practice. Keeping me in creature comforts is a commitment.”
Her smile was again one-sided, devilish. “You kid on the square, don’t you, Jack?”
I pretended to frown. “On the other hand, maybe I don’t want to marry a shrink. But just to be clear?”
“Yes?”
“I am willing to fool around with one.”
She almost did a spit take with her coffee, laughing. The waitress, sitting bored across the room from us, frowned, either really jealous or maybe just not wanting to be interrupted as she read the latest issue of Craze, which Bob Price would have loved.
“Now, for the record, I’m willing to buy you food,” I said. “I hear the grub here is pretty good. It’s a little early, but we’re beating the crowd. What say?”
“Okay, okay,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender, “consider the ice well and truly broken. As far as you buying me supper, we’ll see. What is it I can do for you?”
“Well,” I said, businesslike now, “as I mentioned on the phone, I want to discuss our mutual friend, Bob Price.”
I’d told her that the Starr Syndicate was contemplating getting into business with Bob by way of a Craze comic strip.
“You’re aware,” I said, getting into an area we had not discussed in our brief phone conversation, “that Bob has volunteered to testify tomorrow in that Senate hearing.”
“On juvenile delinquency and comic books, yes. He’s quite adamant about that.”
“I’m afraid he’s going to get himself in trouble.”
Her expression was placid, her eyes almost sleepy, but that was deceiving: the sharp intelligence in those eyes was examining me like a surgeon with a blade.
She said, “I understand he’s written, or anyway is writing, an opening statement that he’s quite proud of.”
“I have no doubt it will be a masterpiece. But once he’s given his
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