Juilliard. As soon as he starts making money, I'll quit. Right now it's something I can do for him."
"Juilliard?" I said.
"Yes. You don't know what Juilliard is? It's just the best music school in the world."
"I know what Juilliard is," I said.
"And what I do when I'm hooking is just my job. It's not anything like what we do."
"You and the musician?"
She nodded hard. "That's right. What we do is love."
"What's the musician's name?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"I hate calling him the musician," I said. "What if I have to give the bride away?"
She paused. Her eyes flickered toward the counter. A woman wearing a lavender cape and a huge hat came in, paused on the platform, then swept down into the restaurant. It was like watching The Loretta Young Show.
"His name's Robert," she said.
"Not Bob?"
"No, he hates Bob. His name is Robert. Robert Rambeaux."
I finished off the first half of my sandwich. April had eaten one egg. The monochromatic man had another pot of tea at the counter. If he wasn't Robert Rambeaux, then I wasn't puckish and adorable.
"I'll try once," I said, "and then I'll get off your ass. What I know about the, ah, human condition tells me that a man doesn't love a woman if he turns her out to hook."
April's face started to close down.
"What I hear from Patricia Utley is that this place, Tiger Lilies, will use you up and sell you down scale. And old musical Robert Rambeaux will go out and recruit somebody else."
Tears had formed in April's eyes. "You fucking prick," she said. She stood up and turned away and walked up the stairs and out the door without even pausing for a pose.
So much for puckish and adorable.
I paid the check and finished my coffee and went out. Going out it's easier not to pose. I was halfway to the corner of 53rd and Park when the monochromatic man came out through the revolving door and walked along behind me. I walked up Park toward 59th Street. He cruised along behind me, sampling the spring air, admiring the young women in their spring clothes, checking out the elegance of the avenue. If he were any more casual, he'd have fallen down. He was about as subtle as Jesse Helms.
I turned west on 59th Street and walked two blocks to 59th and Fifth. The Plaza. Central Park. The Pierre just up the street. The Trump Tower just down the street. The great big city's a wondrous toy. Mr. Monochrome studied the artifacts in the window of A la Vieille Russie behind me. The light changed and I crossed and went into the park. Monochrome followed me.
There were people roller-skating in the park, and people with enormous tape players on their shoulders, and people with all their gear stuffed in a shopping bag. There were pretzel vendors and people walking Irish wolfhounds, and some joggers, and two guys sharing a pint of something from a paper bag on a bench. I went past them and found an empty bench and sat down. Monochrome walked past me and looked around and turned and walked back toward me. I gestured toward the empty space beside me. He ignored it and stood looking down at me. I smiled at him.
"Beige," I said.
He said, "How come you're bothering my lady?"
"Ah, it is you, Robert Rambeaux."
"What do you want, bothering her?"
"I was hoping she could get me tickets to your next recital," I said.
Rambeaux sighed and shook his head. "Everybody's a wiseass," he said.
"Now don't generalize, Bob," I said. "All that has been established here is that I am a wiseass."
"Robert," he said. The correction was automatic. "I asked you a question, whitebread, and I want an answer."
"White bread, Bobby? Racial taunts? You're about as black as Grace Kelly."
"I ought to kick your ass for you right here."
"Little question of that, Bobb-o," I said. "But you can't. And if you try, you're just going to get your outfit all wrinkled and sweaty."
Robert stepped about a step away and looked at me thoughtfully.
"You're a cocky motherfucker, aren't you," he said.
I shrugged. "It's just hard for me to get
"Juilliard?" I said.
"Yes. You don't know what Juilliard is? It's just the best music school in the world."
"I know what Juilliard is," I said.
"And what I do when I'm hooking is just my job. It's not anything like what we do."
"You and the musician?"
She nodded hard. "That's right. What we do is love."
"What's the musician's name?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"I hate calling him the musician," I said. "What if I have to give the bride away?"
She paused. Her eyes flickered toward the counter. A woman wearing a lavender cape and a huge hat came in, paused on the platform, then swept down into the restaurant. It was like watching The Loretta Young Show.
"His name's Robert," she said.
"Not Bob?"
"No, he hates Bob. His name is Robert. Robert Rambeaux."
I finished off the first half of my sandwich. April had eaten one egg. The monochromatic man had another pot of tea at the counter. If he wasn't Robert Rambeaux, then I wasn't puckish and adorable.
"I'll try once," I said, "and then I'll get off your ass. What I know about the, ah, human condition tells me that a man doesn't love a woman if he turns her out to hook."
April's face started to close down.
"What I hear from Patricia Utley is that this place, Tiger Lilies, will use you up and sell you down scale. And old musical Robert Rambeaux will go out and recruit somebody else."
Tears had formed in April's eyes. "You fucking prick," she said. She stood up and turned away and walked up the stairs and out the door without even pausing for a pose.
So much for puckish and adorable.
I paid the check and finished my coffee and went out. Going out it's easier not to pose. I was halfway to the corner of 53rd and Park when the monochromatic man came out through the revolving door and walked along behind me. I walked up Park toward 59th Street. He cruised along behind me, sampling the spring air, admiring the young women in their spring clothes, checking out the elegance of the avenue. If he were any more casual, he'd have fallen down. He was about as subtle as Jesse Helms.
I turned west on 59th Street and walked two blocks to 59th and Fifth. The Plaza. Central Park. The Pierre just up the street. The Trump Tower just down the street. The great big city's a wondrous toy. Mr. Monochrome studied the artifacts in the window of A la Vieille Russie behind me. The light changed and I crossed and went into the park. Monochrome followed me.
There were people roller-skating in the park, and people with enormous tape players on their shoulders, and people with all their gear stuffed in a shopping bag. There were pretzel vendors and people walking Irish wolfhounds, and some joggers, and two guys sharing a pint of something from a paper bag on a bench. I went past them and found an empty bench and sat down. Monochrome walked past me and looked around and turned and walked back toward me. I gestured toward the empty space beside me. He ignored it and stood looking down at me. I smiled at him.
"Beige," I said.
He said, "How come you're bothering my lady?"
"Ah, it is you, Robert Rambeaux."
"What do you want, bothering her?"
"I was hoping she could get me tickets to your next recital," I said.
Rambeaux sighed and shook his head. "Everybody's a wiseass," he said.
"Now don't generalize, Bob," I said. "All that has been established here is that I am a wiseass."
"Robert," he said. The correction was automatic. "I asked you a question, whitebread, and I want an answer."
"White bread, Bobby? Racial taunts? You're about as black as Grace Kelly."
"I ought to kick your ass for you right here."
"Little question of that, Bobb-o," I said. "But you can't. And if you try, you're just going to get your outfit all wrinkled and sweaty."
Robert stepped about a step away and looked at me thoughtfully.
"You're a cocky motherfucker, aren't you," he said.
I shrugged. "It's just hard for me to get
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