Johnson, meet Mr. Buddy—”
“Lomax,” said Buddy taking Essie’s hand which had—for him—no grip.
“Hey! Taxi!”
The cab stopped and they rode down to the Roma Gardens. Buddy went to the Men’s Room and when he came back, seated in her tiny booth Laura looked up, and there at the edge of the table stood a six-foot, a tower-tall, a brownskin, a large-featured, a big-handed, handsome lighthouse-grinning chocolate boy of a man.
“How old are you?” zoomed around the table. However, neither asked the question. But that is what Laura was asking in her mind of him, Buddy in his mind of her. In her mind Laura lied, “Thirty-two.” Of him in her mind Laura guessed, “Twenty-four.”
In his mind Buddy thought, “Forty—but
forty,”
which, accented, meant O. K.
“You’re forty with me,” he said aloud.
“Forty with me, too, baby,” said Laura. “Set down.”
Nice lights in the Roma Gardens. Cozy in the Roma Gardens. Out of the way, the Roma Gardens. Whee-ooo-oo-o! How many times in the Roma Gardens! Just as if it never happened to her anywhere before the Roma Gardens. Just as it had happened from there to the Shalimar to Eddie’s to the Champagne Bar on the Hill for Buddy.
“I got news for you, I’m married,” lied Buddy.
“Which makes me no difference,” said Laura.
But Buddy knew it did—older women liked younger men better if they were married—spice to make the pot more tasty, age to make cheese more binding, phosphorus the light more blinding—mellow.
No, not that rat trap where I live, thought Laura. It’s got to be some place fine, like the Theresa. Besides, Uly might be—
“What you drinking?”
“White Horse 69,” said Laura.
“You kinder mixed up there, aren’t you, kid?” Buddy grinned.
“Any kind of good Scotch,” Laura laughed.
“House of Lords,” the waiter smiled. “Chasers?”
“Ginger ale,” Laura said.
“Give her water,” Buddy laughed. “She don’t know.”
Laura didn’t laugh. She wanted to know. “Just straight might be safer,” she sighed.
“I always play it straight,” vowed Buddy.
Juke box not too loud. Bar not too full, no crowd, just right to be not lonesome-looking. Knees not too close, just possible to touch. Table not too wide for a whisper to drift across. If a woman were to whisper, it could drift across. Lights not too bright, yetnot too dim to see her eyes, his eyes. And table not too wide for what
what
to drift across?
The
what
that sparks the diamond in the serpent’s head?
That painter-boy, remembered Laura. Thank God, Buddy is not
refined!
Bang-bang-bang across the table the
what
that lights the diamond in the serpent’s head.
15
ENTER MARTY
“Y ou could sell Holy Water from the Jordan on Sundays and get a Cadillac,” said Buddy. “Let’s phone down for breakfast.”
Below on Seventh Avenue the uptown traffic hummed through the morning sunlight.
“Bishop Lawson’s sure got a great big church,” said Laura looking out the double windows before coming back to bed. “How much does Holy Water cost?”
“Just turn the tap,” said Buddy, “that’s all. And I can get you a hundred gross of empty bottles for a little or nothing, with labels: H OLY W ATER —a green river and some palms, you know—about the size of dime store Listerines.”
“But you mean the water ain’t really holy?”
“It’s holy if you bless it,” said Buddy. “You can rename the Hudson yourself.”
“Essie would have a conniption fit,” cried Laura. “Hey, chocolate boy with the coconut eyes, what do you want for breakfast?”
“A little Scotch, a stack of wheats, and a little more loving from you,” purred Buddy.
Elevators going up and down. Voices in the hall.
“They got a radio station in this hotel,” said Laura.
“WLIB,” said Buddy. “Ever been interviewed on it?”
“Never.”
“Want to be?”
“What should I say?”
“Pray one of your pretty prayers,” said Buddy, “like you used to do on the
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