Sinful Woman Read Free Page A

hardness there was something of the cavalry officer; about his small hands and feet something of the ballet master; and about his bright black eyes something of the pimp. But his mouth was poetic, and it throbbed now, like the throat of a robin, as he kept repeating “Sylvia-Sylvia-Sylvia” in a soft, sibilant whisper.
    She looked at him for a time, then lit a cigarette and crossed to one of the leather chairs, sinking back in it and hooking a reflective knee over one arm. Then she said: “Believe it or not, Vicki, I’m a little glad to see you. And my hand has a little tingle spot on it, where it was kissed. Even when I know the whole routine frontwards and backwards, it still does things to me.”
    “But it is no ruttine! Is from ’ere. Is from ’eart.”
    “What do you want?”
    “To see you, Sylvia! No odder t’ing. To sing one song, to break one glass, to blow one kees, before comes a end!”
    “The worst of it is, it could be true.”
    “Of course is true! I say myself, Vicki, what you do? You sit ’ere! You let time go by. You act like damn full! Tomorrow you lose Sylvia, you no do one t’ing! I jump in car, Sylvia! I drive in one night! I swear you, I live ’Ollywood last night, no stop even buy gas! I see thees place, I coon wet! I coon wet, had to see you Sylvia. I jump out! I stop car ’ere thees place, I jump out, I phone huttel, I—”
    “You lying Lithuanian heel, what do you want?”
    “O. K., Sylvia, I tell you.”
    “And not so loud. And not so funny.”
    “Is all true! I most see you! ... But why I call up? Was afred! Was afred you live thees place before I find you! I say to myself, I most ’ave thees t’ing—”
    “Have what? ”
    “Thees ring!”
    She looked down at the ring that was still on her finger, a plain gold band with steel oval on which was cut a coronet. Without a word she slipped it off and handed it to him. When he had kissed her hand passionately again, she said: “I would have sent it to you. I don’t know why I haven’t already, except it’s one of those things you just don’t have a box to fit. But why the phone call, and the fuss, and—”
    “I get marrit again, Sylvia.”
    “You— what? ”
    “Yes. I get marrit today.”
    She got up, lifted the phone, asked that Tony be paged for her. When he came in she said: “Tony, a bottle of champagne.”
    “Yes, Miss Shoreham.”
    “No, Sylvia, I coon permit—”
    “Tony, champagne. And be sure it’s very expensive champagne. Champagne in every way fit for a bridegroom-elect—”
    “Miss Shoreham, don’t tell me—”
    “Not I, Tony. My husband.”
    “Ah yes, champagne.”
    With a deferential bow to Vicki, Tony left the room. Sylvia said: “Does she live here, Vicki? Is that why you took the shack?”
    For a long, worried moment he stared at her. She laughed. “You didn’t expect to get away with that midnight drive from Hollywood, did you?”
    “Who tell you about shock?”
    “You really want to know?”
    “Yes, plizze.”
    “The bartender.”
    “Jeck?”
    “Yes.”
    “When?”
    “Just now.”
    “Nobbudy else?”
    She laughed again. “No, Vicki, nobody else. So if delicious naughtiness has been enjoyed by all, I don’t know a thing and you’re perfectly safe.”
    Tony came in presently, with an icebucket, a bottle with gold foil on it, and two glasses. When the bottle had been well-twirled in the ice, he cut the wire, winked as the cork popped, and poured. At the toast to happy days he backed out, and Sylvia said: “Do you know what I thought, Vicki?”
    “Ah, Sylvia! I frigh’n you, yes?”
    “I thought it was Phoenix Pictures.”
    “You mean I—pull treek?”
    “Yes you, lovely you.”
    “Sylvia! Coon do soch t’ing you.”
    “But, I was ready for you. And that reminds me, Vicki, I’m afraid I have just the teentsy-weentsiest bit of bad news for you.”
    “Bad news for me?”
    “I’m afraid you won’t be a producer for Phoenix much longer, marrying actresses Dimmy Spiro