tail on the sailor when he lands.”
“If he hasn’t jumped ship.”
“He’s aboard,” Russo said.
“Just so I won’t feel schizoid,” she said, “have you talked with Andrew Carey in the Marine Inspector’s Office? I mean, he wanted to be sure I’d go to the police with anything he told me.”
“I will now that you’ve made the connection for me.”
He might be putting her on, Julie thought, but she didn’t care. Another concern entirely had taken hold: now she was wildly anxious at the prospect of confronting the men who had assaulted her.
SHE RETURNED to the shop and picked up her messages from the answering service. Among them was a call from Ginny Gibbons: her party for the Irish playwright, Seamus McNally, was the next night, nine o’clock, very informal.
SIXTEEN
O NE OF THE LAST PLACES she wanted to go that night was to a party at Ginny Gibbons’s. But the very last place she wanted to be was home, counting hours, waiting word of The Candy Kid coming in to port. How familiar the sounds of the party were when she stepped out of the elevator—the voices, the tinkle of glasses, the sense more than the sound of music—and how familiar the feeling of dread, for this was Jeff’s territory, where she had always traveled lightly in his wake. She hung her coat on the rack outside the apartment door and asked herself again why she had come. To meet an Irishman who, by some unlikely, remote chance, might offer another lead to “Father.” It sure as hell would be nice to have one now. She pressed the buzzer.
Ginny opened the door, a glass in hand, a cigarette in her mouth. She removed the cigarette and turned her cheek up to Julie to be kissed. People glanced her way and kept on talking. “So many men,” Julie murmured. It was always so at Ginny’s.
“And none of them mine,” Ginny said, bearing her across the room. Virginia Gibbons was slight and very little over five feet tall. She was something of a giant nonetheless. She wrote simply and to the issue, and, unless provoked to the point of insult, exercised a less lethal bite than most New York theater critics. She scattered the guests from around Seamus McNally and introduced Julie to him. “She’s a colymnist, as you call them, on the New York Daily, and her husband is Geoffrey Hayes. Most of us read him for elevation.”
McNally, a large, tousled, youthful-looking man, lunged out of the chair. He slopped beer on himself and had to set the glass down to wipe his hand on his jacket before he offered it to Julie. The hand, still wet, was hard and strong. “Your chairs are too bloody close to the ground,” he said to Ginny, and then to Julie, giving her hand an extra squeeze before he released it, “I’ve heard a bit about you. I’ve even had a peek at your column.” While there was no praise in what he said, there was a kind of special attention paid in the way he said it. “I’ll admit I’ve not read your husband,” he added. “I’m a little too thick to understand him.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Ginny cautioned Julie and went off among her other guests.
“I can’t read him either,” Julie said.
“Ah, but you try.” He spoke with a lilt that almost made it a question. “Can I get you one of these?” He indicated the dark beer. “Or would you like something more transparent?”
“Later,” she said, and motioned to the guests from whom Ginny had parted him; they were on their feet, waiting for him to rejoin them. “Please, I’ve interrupted.”
He ignored her offer to release him. “Will your husband be coming round after?”
“He’s in Paris,” Julie said.
“Then you must trust him.”
“Utterly.”
He took on a look of mock solemnity. “I’ll want to think over the meaning of that. Utterly. I didn’t know Americans used such words. Does it mean what it says—or more than it says?”
Julie grinned and let that be her answer.
“Mind, I’m not making a pass. I’m only exploring the ground
“If he hasn’t jumped ship.”
“He’s aboard,” Russo said.
“Just so I won’t feel schizoid,” she said, “have you talked with Andrew Carey in the Marine Inspector’s Office? I mean, he wanted to be sure I’d go to the police with anything he told me.”
“I will now that you’ve made the connection for me.”
He might be putting her on, Julie thought, but she didn’t care. Another concern entirely had taken hold: now she was wildly anxious at the prospect of confronting the men who had assaulted her.
SHE RETURNED to the shop and picked up her messages from the answering service. Among them was a call from Ginny Gibbons: her party for the Irish playwright, Seamus McNally, was the next night, nine o’clock, very informal.
SIXTEEN
O NE OF THE LAST PLACES she wanted to go that night was to a party at Ginny Gibbons’s. But the very last place she wanted to be was home, counting hours, waiting word of The Candy Kid coming in to port. How familiar the sounds of the party were when she stepped out of the elevator—the voices, the tinkle of glasses, the sense more than the sound of music—and how familiar the feeling of dread, for this was Jeff’s territory, where she had always traveled lightly in his wake. She hung her coat on the rack outside the apartment door and asked herself again why she had come. To meet an Irishman who, by some unlikely, remote chance, might offer another lead to “Father.” It sure as hell would be nice to have one now. She pressed the buzzer.
Ginny opened the door, a glass in hand, a cigarette in her mouth. She removed the cigarette and turned her cheek up to Julie to be kissed. People glanced her way and kept on talking. “So many men,” Julie murmured. It was always so at Ginny’s.
“And none of them mine,” Ginny said, bearing her across the room. Virginia Gibbons was slight and very little over five feet tall. She was something of a giant nonetheless. She wrote simply and to the issue, and, unless provoked to the point of insult, exercised a less lethal bite than most New York theater critics. She scattered the guests from around Seamus McNally and introduced Julie to him. “She’s a colymnist, as you call them, on the New York Daily, and her husband is Geoffrey Hayes. Most of us read him for elevation.”
McNally, a large, tousled, youthful-looking man, lunged out of the chair. He slopped beer on himself and had to set the glass down to wipe his hand on his jacket before he offered it to Julie. The hand, still wet, was hard and strong. “Your chairs are too bloody close to the ground,” he said to Ginny, and then to Julie, giving her hand an extra squeeze before he released it, “I’ve heard a bit about you. I’ve even had a peek at your column.” While there was no praise in what he said, there was a kind of special attention paid in the way he said it. “I’ll admit I’ve not read your husband,” he added. “I’m a little too thick to understand him.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Ginny cautioned Julie and went off among her other guests.
“I can’t read him either,” Julie said.
“Ah, but you try.” He spoke with a lilt that almost made it a question. “Can I get you one of these?” He indicated the dark beer. “Or would you like something more transparent?”
“Later,” she said, and motioned to the guests from whom Ginny had parted him; they were on their feet, waiting for him to rejoin them. “Please, I’ve interrupted.”
He ignored her offer to release him. “Will your husband be coming round after?”
“He’s in Paris,” Julie said.
“Then you must trust him.”
“Utterly.”
He took on a look of mock solemnity. “I’ll want to think over the meaning of that. Utterly. I didn’t know Americans used such words. Does it mean what it says—or more than it says?”
Julie grinned and let that be her answer.
“Mind, I’m not making a pass. I’m only exploring the ground
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