Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [8]
The jazz part ended. As the arrangement returned to Mozart, so did the girl to her natural ease. Nothing could be pleasanter, thought Willie, than the negligent way she leaned against the piano with hands deep-thrust in her coat pockets, and trilled the fall of the song. He played the last after-echo of the melody with regret.
The proprietor said, “Darling, do you have any standard stuff with you?”
“I have Sweet Sue, Talk of the Town-that’s all with me, but I can do more-”
“Fine. Just wait, will you? Willie, come inside a minute.”
The proprietor’s office was a green-painted cubicle in the rear of the cellar. The walls were plastered with photographs of actors and singers. The light was a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. Mr. Dennis wasted no money on decorations not visible to customers.
“What do you think?” he said, applying a match to a cigar stump.
“Well, the blonde is no barn-burner.”
“Guess not. What about the redhead?”
“Ah-what’s her name?”
“May Wynn,” said the proprietor, squinting at Willie, possibly because of the burning cigar end an inch from his face.
Occasionally a name is spoken that sets up a clamor in one’s heart, as though it has been shouted in a big empty hall. Often as not the feeling proves a delusion. In any case, Willie was shaken by the pronouncing of the words, “May Wynn.” He said nothing.
“Why? What did you think of her?”
“What’s her figure like?” replied Willie.
The proprietor choked over his cigar, and flattened its meager remains in an ashtray. “What’s that got to do with the price of herring? I’m asking you about her singing.”
“Well, I like Mozart,” Willie said dubiously, “but-”
“She’s cheap,” said Mr. Dennis meditatively.
“Cheap?” Willie was offended.
“Salary, Princeton. Couldn’t be cheaper without bringing pickets around. I don’t know. Could be that Mozart thing would be a delightful novelty-distinction, class, charm. Could also be that it would clear out the place like a stink bomb-Let’s hear how she does something straight.”
May Wynn’s Sweet Sue was better than her previous jazz singing-possibly because it wasn’t inserted in a framework of Mozart. There was less of hands, teeth, and hips, and a paling of the Southern accent.
“Who’s your agent, dear-Bill Mansfield?” said Mr. Dennis.
“Marty Rubin,” said May Wynn, a little breathlessly.
“Can you start Monday?”
“Can I?” gasped the girl.
“Okay. Show her around, Princeton,” said Mr. Dennis, and vanished into his office. Willie Keith and May Wynn were alone among the fake palm fronds and coconuts.
“Congratulations,” said Willie, extending his hand. The girl shook it briefly in a warm, firm little grasp.
“Thanks. How the devil did I get it? I murdered the Mozart-”
Willie threw himself at his galoshes. “Where would you like to eat?”
“Eat! I’m going home for dinner, thank you. Aren’t you going to show me around?”
“What’s there to show? Your dressing room is that one with the green curtain opposite the ladies’ room. It’s a hole, no window, no washbasin. We do shows at ten, twelve, and two. You’re supposed to be around at eight-thirty. That’s all there is to that.” He stood. “Do you like pizzas?”
“Why do you want to take me to dinner? You don’t have to.”
“Because,” said Willie, “at the moment, there is nothing else I care to do with my life.”
May Wynn’s eyes widened in a look of wonder, mixed with the wariness of wild game. Willie took her firmly by an elbow. “Let’s go, huh?”
“I’ll have to make a phone call,” said the girl, allowing herself to be hauled toward the door.
Luigi’s was a bright small restaurant full of