always saying, ‘For two bits
I’ll quit this job,’ or ‘ For two bits I’ll make that
damned sauce myself.’ Not that he was ever a violent man – oh no. Just a little temperamental.
He says he was
descended from the Borgias.’
‘That wouldn’t
surprise me,’ said Charlie. He pointed towards the woman’s empty glass. ‘How about a nightcap? Was that frozen daiquiris you were
drinking?’
She smiled.
‘You know what they say about ladies who have a taste for frozen daiquiris?’
‘I can’t say
that I do. I hope it’s polite.’
‘Polite?’ the
woman laughed.
Charlie ignored
her mockery and held out his hand. ‘I’m Charlie McLean.’
‘Velma Farloe.’
the woman replied.
‘Nice to know you, Velma. Have you been here long?’
‘Here in this bar, or here in West Hartford?’
Charlie said,
‘I never did feel at home in New England – Connecticut in particular. I always
feel like I’m being looked at as some kind of outsider.’
‘Where do you
feel at home?’ asked Velma.
‘Illinois,
Indiana. I guess I’m a small-town mid-Westerner at heart. Mind you, I was born
in Elizabeth, New Jersey. My parents moved to Kokomo when I was ten, and then
to Merrillsville.’
He paused, and
then he said, ‘I don’t intend to sit here and tell you the story of my life.’
Velma dropped
her eyelids in the warm, coaxing way in which some women would have dropped a
perfumed scarf. ‘I don’t mind if you do.”
‘I’m a
salesman, that’s all. That’s the beginning and the end of it.’
‘Bits said you
were one of those restaurant inspectors.’
‘Bits confides
in you, huh?’
‘Come on,
Charlie,’ said Velma. ‘You know who I am. I’m the friendly lady who sits in the
corner of every restaurant lounge from here to eternity.’
The stocky
wine-waiter brought them two fresh drinks. When Charlie offered to pay, he
said,
‘On the house,’
in a gruff falsetto that was as adamant as it was startling.
‘Bits is trying to butter you up, that’s all,’ Velma told Charlie.
‘He thinks if he gives you two or three glasses of brandy you’re going to
recommend the Windsor and get him a pay hike.’
‘Some hope of
that,’ said Charlie. ‘This is one of the worst restaurants between Mount
Fissell and Wequetequock.’
‘Well,’ purred
Velma. ‘You sure know your geography.’
She shifted
herself closer. She touched Charlie’s left temple with her fingertips. He could
breathe her perfume, and also that other indescribable odour known as Woman On Heat. He sipped at his brandy feeling as prissy as a boy
scout. He needed a woman desperately, but for some reason he always held
himself back, as if it were the right and proper thing to do. Because of Marjorie?
No, he couldn’t
believe that. Because of everything that had happened in Milwaukee? No, he
couldn’t believe that either. It was far more deeply rooted. It was a glimpse
of his mother fastening her stockings. It was his father’s face intruding on
his unconscious like a big pale blimp, roaring, ‘Women should be respected,
Charlie. ‘Women are holy: Velma said, ‘You’re one of those quiet ones, aren’t
you?’
‘I told you.
I’m tired.’
‘How tired is
tired?’
Charlie raised
his eyes and looked at her. She was mocking him, in a way; but she was also
encouraging him, supporting him, in the way that only women like her knew how.
They could take in travellers from the unforgiving night, men who were tired
and disappointed and lonesome and very afraid of failure, and give them all the
comfort they needed. One night of sex, one night of burying all of their
anxieties in darkness and flesh and the pungent smell of intercourse, and they
were ready to face the world again, ready to report back to J.J. on how many
miles of UPVC piping they had sold, ready to drum up new business. They were as
much a part of American business as Lee lacocca or Aaron Spelling.
Charlie leaned
back in the leather chair and looked around the
I’ll quit this job,’ or ‘ For two bits I’ll make that
damned sauce myself.’ Not that he was ever a violent man – oh no. Just a little temperamental.
He says he was
descended from the Borgias.’
‘That wouldn’t
surprise me,’ said Charlie. He pointed towards the woman’s empty glass. ‘How about a nightcap? Was that frozen daiquiris you were
drinking?’
She smiled.
‘You know what they say about ladies who have a taste for frozen daiquiris?’
‘I can’t say
that I do. I hope it’s polite.’
‘Polite?’ the
woman laughed.
Charlie ignored
her mockery and held out his hand. ‘I’m Charlie McLean.’
‘Velma Farloe.’
the woman replied.
‘Nice to know you, Velma. Have you been here long?’
‘Here in this bar, or here in West Hartford?’
Charlie said,
‘I never did feel at home in New England – Connecticut in particular. I always
feel like I’m being looked at as some kind of outsider.’
‘Where do you
feel at home?’ asked Velma.
‘Illinois,
Indiana. I guess I’m a small-town mid-Westerner at heart. Mind you, I was born
in Elizabeth, New Jersey. My parents moved to Kokomo when I was ten, and then
to Merrillsville.’
He paused, and
then he said, ‘I don’t intend to sit here and tell you the story of my life.’
Velma dropped
her eyelids in the warm, coaxing way in which some women would have dropped a
perfumed scarf. ‘I don’t mind if you do.”
‘I’m a
salesman, that’s all. That’s the beginning and the end of it.’
‘Bits said you
were one of those restaurant inspectors.’
‘Bits confides
in you, huh?’
‘Come on,
Charlie,’ said Velma. ‘You know who I am. I’m the friendly lady who sits in the
corner of every restaurant lounge from here to eternity.’
The stocky
wine-waiter brought them two fresh drinks. When Charlie offered to pay, he
said,
‘On the house,’
in a gruff falsetto that was as adamant as it was startling.
‘Bits is trying to butter you up, that’s all,’ Velma told Charlie.
‘He thinks if he gives you two or three glasses of brandy you’re going to
recommend the Windsor and get him a pay hike.’
‘Some hope of
that,’ said Charlie. ‘This is one of the worst restaurants between Mount
Fissell and Wequetequock.’
‘Well,’ purred
Velma. ‘You sure know your geography.’
She shifted
herself closer. She touched Charlie’s left temple with her fingertips. He could
breathe her perfume, and also that other indescribable odour known as Woman On Heat. He sipped at his brandy feeling as prissy as a boy
scout. He needed a woman desperately, but for some reason he always held
himself back, as if it were the right and proper thing to do. Because of Marjorie?
No, he couldn’t
believe that. Because of everything that had happened in Milwaukee? No, he
couldn’t believe that either. It was far more deeply rooted. It was a glimpse
of his mother fastening her stockings. It was his father’s face intruding on
his unconscious like a big pale blimp, roaring, ‘Women should be respected,
Charlie. ‘Women are holy: Velma said, ‘You’re one of those quiet ones, aren’t
you?’
‘I told you.
I’m tired.’
‘How tired is
tired?’
Charlie raised
his eyes and looked at her. She was mocking him, in a way; but she was also
encouraging him, supporting him, in the way that only women like her knew how.
They could take in travellers from the unforgiving night, men who were tired
and disappointed and lonesome and very afraid of failure, and give them all the
comfort they needed. One night of sex, one night of burying all of their
anxieties in darkness and flesh and the pungent smell of intercourse, and they
were ready to face the world again, ready to report back to J.J. on how many
miles of UPVC piping they had sold, ready to drum up new business. They were as
much a part of American business as Lee lacocca or Aaron Spelling.
Charlie leaned
back in the leather chair and looked around the
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