Eagle Eye by Hortense Calisher Page A

was plain she still had her eye on the baguettes. Buxom in her woolly, she looked like a nice pink house.
    “Listen Dina,” he said hurriedly. “I’ve got a wad—made hay in a crapgame last night. Here, take some; don’t go out there.” He peeled off two hundred left from what Buddy had last sent him. “To the Bronx, I mean.”
    “Jesus.” She held it in front of her.
    “Put it away.” Across the floor, Buddy was waving at him, pushing gently through the crowd. Maureen, going toward the library now for some reason, must in a moment bump into him. And the two of them—into Dina and him. Lines of force. There must be about sixty people at his birthday party; with luck, he would hear the life-story of only two.
    “Why you giving it to me for? You got the hots for Maureen, huh?”
    “I’ve already got a girl.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    “Why latch onto her, that’s all. She’s her kind of nice girl, that’s all. And you know what her folks would be.”
    Dina raised her eyelashes. “Like mine. Just because you saw me pinch the dinky tray, huh.” The money was still in her hand. “Here.”
    “No, take it anyway.”
    “You want me to scram, huh. How?”
    “You could go to the bathroom. And not come back.”
    “And leave her in a lurch? That’s worse isn’t it—than going out there?”
    “Would it be?”
    She wouldn’t look at him.
    “I’ll send her home in cab.”
    “Oh. Like good girls get. And what’s in it for you?”
    What was? At the parties he was used to, rapping was the style—that’s what the parties were for. Though being in style made it harder. “I don’t know.”
    She smiled down at the money. “You just like Felipe. Impractical.”
    “Am I?” He started to be pleased.
    “Get it from those Asians. That’s what. Okay—Jesus, here comes somebody.” She flipped open the pouch at her waist, thought better of it. Smiled like a movie-still. “Dinner’s being served,” his father said. “In the dining car.”
    At parties Buddy still went blackface. Poor guy, a marked man. City College, circa 1945.
    “We’re enjoying your party, sir.” He prayed his father would think this was the way he was with girls. “This is Dina.”
    She held out a graceful, empty hand. She must have stashed it. Had Buddy seen—in time?
    “I’m—er, C-Carroll Monteith, sir.” Bunty said. “We’re just leaving.” He gave his father what he hoped was the high sign. Of a man who had just made an arrangement. Yale School of Architecture, 1976.
    “Pip-pip,” Buddy said, raising his brows. “Good-oh. Quick journey, Mr., er—Monteith. Visit, I mean. Will we see you again? Later this evening perhaps.” He turned on his heel, his shoulders angry.
    “He knows we crashed,” she said.
    “Let’s go,” he said, sunk. “I’ll go find Maureen. You go the other way.”
    “Bye.”
    He stopped short. It was always so final. “Bye.”
    But Maureen was nowhere to be found.
    He circled back to the terrace, in case Maureen had. Dina was still there. He saw she knew.
    She took his arm. “She left a pink stole in that room over there, when we came in. Let’s go check.”
    There wasn’t much there to paw among—gloves, jackets, one umbrella, a few scarves. It was still summer.
    “No, she scrammed. Guess I told her too much.” Dina swung around nonchalantly, scanning. “Guess this is the library. No books. But it always is.” She was shivering.
    “Want me to get you a wrap?”
    She laughed. “Where?”
    “I’ll find something.” Maeve left furniture behind like successive skins, but saved everything she had ever worn. Like skin.
    “That your racket? No thanks. When the leaves turn, maybe. Then maybe I’ll come back for mink.” She did a time-step. “Gee, a song … Don’t think we haven’t thought of it.”
    “Haven’t got a racket. Yet.”
    “Well, don’t start one here, the barman’s onto us. He said he’d seen me before. I think he’s a Pinkerton.”
    “What’s