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| Maxfield Parrish's King Cole at the King Cole Bar in the St. Regis |
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you spend the night
with me – that’s what I pay for my shoes.”
He tightened his tie around her windpipe, but even that
violence in his was gentle. Marla was lost. He whispered in her ear.
“If you mention money one more time, I will set you on
fire.”
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| Photograph - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward |
She started to cry, but it was the noiseless whimper of a
little girl. She could have phoned the nighttime nurse who looked after Lollie
and Mortimer, or even Twittered [Jerome Charyn’s conscious, on-purpose choice
of expression]
her two girls. They could survive without mother, at least for
one night. She’d never bothered to bring pajamas to the St. Regis. Marla’s room
had the same glow as the King Cole Bar. She could see the outline of Raoul. His
eyes seemed to burn in the dark – she loved that dancing, electric dark of the
King Cole. She hummed to herself as Raoul wiped her tears with a finger that
had the miraculous touch of velvet fur. Lord,
as Lollie would say, I have
myself a man.
What did she care if Daddy’s detectives came for her tomorrow?
Daddy didn’t have detectives. He had to negotiate each step to the toilet.
Let him tumble. She wouldn’t run home to him. Marla was
spending the night with Raoul.
