The Spiked Heel

“Mmmm. My legs are better, Griff, but she’s pretty. Even Mac thought so.”

“He giving you any trouble?”

“Perfect gentle-man. No trouble at all.”

“You ought to stop drinking, Marge.”

“Why? I’m having fun. You know something? I’ve never been looped in all my life, you know that? Twenty-four years old, and never potted. Shame. Today’s my day of glory. Model. Marge Gannon, model. Prob’ly nothing ever come of it, but I’ve at least had today, Griff, do you understand? Today’s all I need. You’re a good dancer.”

“Thanks. Look, if you should need any help…”

“I won’t. He’s all right. Overestimated him, that’s all.”

From the corner of his eye, Griff saw McQuade take Cara into his arms and lead her onto the floor.

“Ull right,” Hengman said, “I ’preciate your kindness, Ad, end I like these tings you are saying abott me behint my beck. I always did say you were ah right guy, Ad, b’lieve me. But there’s one ting I want t’know, end dat is who culled me stupit? Hah? Who?”

“Who call you stupid, Borish?” Posnansky roared. “I’ll knock’m flat’n his ash. Jush show me to’m, Borish, ’n I shwearra God I’ll knock’m so cole he’sh think he… who, Borish? Who?”

“Dot, my frand, is what I would like t’know,” Hengman said, wagging his head.

“You know how many different words there are for breasts?” the blonde asked Aaron.

“How many?”

“Plenty, I’ll bet. What is that, Canadian Club?”

“Yes.”

“Hand me a glass, will you? That’s an indication of how far this damned bust fetish has gone in this country. Why, I bet I can think of a dozen words all by myself. Now, what’s so special about breasts when you ask yourself the question? Fatty tissue, that’s all.”

“Titty fassue,” Aaron corrected.

“See, there’s one expression already. And how about bubbles?”

“Or bubbies?”

“Or balloons?”

“Or coconuts?”

“Well,” Manelli said, “you got to understand French at the end of this one, which is the only reason I asked. Anyway, this soldier’s in one of those pissoirs, you know, they got in Paris, and taps his pockets and finds out he hasn’t got a match, so he turns to the Frenchman standing alongside him there, and he says, ‘Say, Bo,’ and the Frenchman doesn’t answer.”

“I heard this one,” the tall brunette said, slipping out of her shoes.

“Better put those on,” Canotti said. “Any of our buyers see that…”

“You hear this one, Mike?” Manelli asked.

“No,” Canotti said, watching the brunette struggle into the shoes.

“Okay. Okay. So the soldier keeps looking for a match, and he turns again and says, ‘Say, Bo,’ and again the Frenchman doesn’t answer, he just keeps right on staring…”

“Or mammaries?”

“Or headlights?”

“Or grapefruits?”

“Or bazooms?”

“Or balloons?”

“We said that one.”

“All right, how about knockers?”

Griff was gone, but she couldn’t seem to remember when he’d left, or whether she’d danced with him once or twice or three times, or whether it was really only once and had seemed like a long time on a merry-go-round of “Stardust,” he was a good dancer, a nice boy, Griff, a very nice boy, I’m plastered.

“Here’s another,” McQuade said.

She shook her head. “N’more,” she murmured.

“Come on. One more won’t hurt you, Marge. This is your hour of triumph. Unfurl the banners, Marge. Let yourself go.”

Relax and let yourself, relax, the band is banners, banners, red field and white disk and black silhouette, and banners, banners…

“No. N’more. Had ’nough.”

He put the glass to her lips. She felt the rim there, and then the glass was tilting, and she felt the liquid in her mouth, a strangely tasteless liquid, flowing, flowing, down her throat, into her stomach, lower, burning lower, bruise marks on her thigh, thigh, she was dizzy, very dizzy, air is for balloons, banners, overestimate the enemy, mac, Mac…

“Mac,” she said weakly.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I really shound have ’nymore.”

“This is only your third, Marge,” he said softly, so softly, nice soft soothing voice, handsome man, Mac, only three? is that all? only three, such a sissy, only three drinks, whoosh I’m loaded, low-ded, all right, all right…

“All right, Mack. Y’dn have to hole it. I’cn hannle it. Where… where ’sh… oh… thanks.”

She tilted the glass. She stretched out her legs and threw her head back. She was very tired, very sleepy, just lie down and sleep some place, but hide the bruises, ugly bruises on thigh, strong fingers like vise, hide the bruises, but, oh, so tired, so very tired, but hide them, spoil legs, do you like my legs?

“Do you like my legs, Mac?” Silly question, shouldn’s ask silly damn question deserves a silly damn…

“They’re lovely,” he said, his voice a hushed whisper.

“Oh, how hoarse,” she said. Horse? No, Man. Man Mac.

“Let’s get some air, Marge. You need some air, that’s what. Come with me, Marge, and we’ll get you some air.”

“Air is for bloons.”

“Come, Marge. Come with me. Come, Marge. That’s the girl. Upsa-daisy, there you are, that’s the girl, good girl, good girl, Marge your legs are lovely, Marge, wonderful lovely legs, lovely…”

“’vely. Air is for bloons. Air is for blooms, Mac.”

“Balloons.”

“We said that twice already.”