pray she gets over him, that's all."
"Look, suppose we did go to the Caribbean? Maybe she'd come along.
She's learning nothing at N.Y.U., and as for the ballet lessons, she's never been serious-"
"Forget it, Norman. She wouldn't come. She's trying to marry the bastard, that's why she brought him to dinner, and so far he's not having any. He's got the oldest and best out." Henny struck a little fist on the armrest of the cab. "Letting her be is our best chance. He's pretty rich. I think she's going to get fed up and puke. I just hope he doesn't hurt her too much."
The cab stopped. Henny put a hand on the back of Norman's neck and rubbed, an old intimate gesture. "Here we are. Listen, kid, I want some fun tonight, do you hear? Not another word about the Sending. Not tonight. Henceforth, joy and wassail."
"It's a deal," Norman moaned, passing a dollar bill to the cab driver. "Joy and wassail."
There was an opening-night mob in the restaurant, all buzz, jewels, white bosoms, black ties, and alert clever faces, but the headwaiter bowed the Papermans to one of the better tables in the middle of the room. Norman expected this. He entertained clients and columnists here; here too he exchanged jokes and gossip with Broadway friends; his monthly bill came to a couple of hundred dollars. The purpose of all this activity was to get the names of his clients printed in the papers.
"I wonder how the Olivier opening went?" Henny said as they walked to the table.
Norman's cronies at various tables were making small cabalistic signs to him: a faint hitch of a shoulder, a roll of the eyes, a flat hand rocked back and forth on the table. "I think they're in trouble," he said. "But you know something? I don't care. I don't care, Henny, if this show is a hit or a flop. I really don't. I don't give one good god damn. Any more than I do about some show that opened last night in Copenhagen."
"Something's happening to you," she said.
After ordering drinks he took up tomorrow's News, which he had bought from a street vendor, opened it to the theatre columns, and with glum pleasure saw the names of four of his clients in print. He had always been a good workman, even if his work was contemptible. He turned to the front page. The headline was about a brunette beaten to death in her apartment. In the story on page three, the "brunette" as usual was fifty-four, just another aging lady done in by bungling thieves. He sat erect, startled. "Hey, Henny! Did you know about this?"
He showed her the story. She exclaimed, "Gosh yes, I remember! There was a crowd across the street this afternoon. Ambulance, and cops, and all that. I thought somebody had had an accident. Ye gods, murder!"
"Across the street from us, Henny. A hundred yards away."
"I know. I wonder what part of New York is safe any more."
"The cemeteries are safe," said Norman, "for the customers."
At the front of the restaurant there was a commotion, for Sir Laurence Olivier was entering with a large party. Sometimes on a first night the diners applauded the star of the new show but tonight, perhaps because Olivier awed them, there was no handclapping. Olivier's party filed to the large vacant table at the front.
"Wait a minute!" said Paperman hoarsely. "Henny! Henny, do you see what I see?"
Henny was staring, her face all wrinkled up tight. "Ye gods. I think I do."
"But-how come? Is it possible? What's happening to this town? To this world?"
The unlikely sight that the Papermans were beholding was a huge apelike figure in a bulging dinner jacket and a frilled dress shirt, with a bald cone-shaped head, taking a chair beside Sir Laurence Olivier, throwing an arm over his shoulder, saying something in his ear, and guffawing loud enough to be heard all over the restaurant. "Haw haw haw!"
Lester Atlas was in the Olivier party, without a doubt in
"Look, suppose we did go to the Caribbean? Maybe she'd come along.
She's learning nothing at N.Y.U., and as for the ballet lessons, she's never been serious-"
"Forget it, Norman. She wouldn't come. She's trying to marry the bastard, that's why she brought him to dinner, and so far he's not having any. He's got the oldest and best out." Henny struck a little fist on the armrest of the cab. "Letting her be is our best chance. He's pretty rich. I think she's going to get fed up and puke. I just hope he doesn't hurt her too much."
The cab stopped. Henny put a hand on the back of Norman's neck and rubbed, an old intimate gesture. "Here we are. Listen, kid, I want some fun tonight, do you hear? Not another word about the Sending. Not tonight. Henceforth, joy and wassail."
"It's a deal," Norman moaned, passing a dollar bill to the cab driver. "Joy and wassail."
There was an opening-night mob in the restaurant, all buzz, jewels, white bosoms, black ties, and alert clever faces, but the headwaiter bowed the Papermans to one of the better tables in the middle of the room. Norman expected this. He entertained clients and columnists here; here too he exchanged jokes and gossip with Broadway friends; his monthly bill came to a couple of hundred dollars. The purpose of all this activity was to get the names of his clients printed in the papers.
"I wonder how the Olivier opening went?" Henny said as they walked to the table.
Norman's cronies at various tables were making small cabalistic signs to him: a faint hitch of a shoulder, a roll of the eyes, a flat hand rocked back and forth on the table. "I think they're in trouble," he said. "But you know something? I don't care. I don't care, Henny, if this show is a hit or a flop. I really don't. I don't give one good god damn. Any more than I do about some show that opened last night in Copenhagen."
"Something's happening to you," she said.
After ordering drinks he took up tomorrow's News, which he had bought from a street vendor, opened it to the theatre columns, and with glum pleasure saw the names of four of his clients in print. He had always been a good workman, even if his work was contemptible. He turned to the front page. The headline was about a brunette beaten to death in her apartment. In the story on page three, the "brunette" as usual was fifty-four, just another aging lady done in by bungling thieves. He sat erect, startled. "Hey, Henny! Did you know about this?"
He showed her the story. She exclaimed, "Gosh yes, I remember! There was a crowd across the street this afternoon. Ambulance, and cops, and all that. I thought somebody had had an accident. Ye gods, murder!"
"Across the street from us, Henny. A hundred yards away."
"I know. I wonder what part of New York is safe any more."
"The cemeteries are safe," said Norman, "for the customers."
At the front of the restaurant there was a commotion, for Sir Laurence Olivier was entering with a large party. Sometimes on a first night the diners applauded the star of the new show but tonight, perhaps because Olivier awed them, there was no handclapping. Olivier's party filed to the large vacant table at the front.
"Wait a minute!" said Paperman hoarsely. "Henny! Henny, do you see what I see?"
Henny was staring, her face all wrinkled up tight. "Ye gods. I think I do."
"But-how come? Is it possible? What's happening to this town? To this world?"
The unlikely sight that the Papermans were beholding was a huge apelike figure in a bulging dinner jacket and a frilled dress shirt, with a bald cone-shaped head, taking a chair beside Sir Laurence Olivier, throwing an arm over his shoulder, saying something in his ear, and guffawing loud enough to be heard all over the restaurant. "Haw haw haw!"
Lester Atlas was in the Olivier party, without a doubt in
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