She pointed the pistol at him. “Seriously, chum, shut up and let me do things my own way.”
Thus chastened, we settled in like schoolchildren, polite and quiet, for story time. All except for the little boy, who was busy undoing the sheets of toilet paper, spinning the roll till all he had left was the bare cardboard tube. He pointed it at the woman in the black dress and said “Bang!” She clutched her chest so quickly and convincingly that I thought for a moment she really had been shot, and then she pointed her gun at the toddler and as it recoiled, she said, “Bang!” His pudgy little hand went right to his heart, and I thought she had really shot him, but it was all a charade.
“You may call me Bunny,” she addressed the child but was surely speaking to all of us. He clapped and pretended to shoot her again.
“If he’s bothering you, Bunny,” the old man said, “I can take that away from him.”
She stood on her tiptoes and stashed the revolver atop the medicine cabinet. “You’ll do no such thing. What everyone needs to do is relax.”
I felt much better with the gun out of her grasp, and the old man, too, breathed a deep sigh and leaned back against the commode to hear her tale. With a snap of her fingers, she dimmed the lights, and the hum of the bathroom fan switched tempo to a Cuban jazz melody. From the registers on the floor, a cloud of cigarette smoke rose and settled near the ceiling. She reached inside the cabinet and retrieved a series of cocktails, passing the glasses one by one around the room so that we all had a drink. I put mine to my lips and felt the pleasant sting of scotch on the rocks. The old man sipped a martini and spun the glass by its fragile stem to watch the olive twirl.
Bunny commanded our attention with one deep breath.
He was so startled by what she whispered in his ear that his cigarette dropped from his lips and into his drink. When he turned his head to get a look at the woman who proposed such a thing, all he saw was cleavage, a pair of red lips, and the fleeting pass of her hand as it disappeared beneath the table and into his lap. He flinched when she touched him and banged the tabletop with his open hand, clattering the dishes and glasses and ashtrays. His three friends all gave him knowing looks, as if they could tell what the woman in the black dress was doing, even if he could not. Her fingers lingered just long enough and then she straightened and smiled at the party. “Here are the matches you dropped,” she said. “Thanks for the light.” She blew smoke in his face, and he was too surprised to say anything but accepted the matchbook, nodding once to the departing woman, and then pretended to turn his attention back to the rumba band and the chanteuse swaying to “El Manisero.”
Bunny waited by the telephone for the call that she knew was coming. It didn’t take long. She had written beneath her phone number to call after ten thirty. The big clock in the kitchen said 10:32. Maybe he didn’t want to appear overanxious, but she knew better.
“Is this Bunny?” the voice over the telephone said.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Phil Ketchum. From the Stork Club. You dropped your matches.”
“How nice of you to call to say you found them.”
“Dropped ’em right in my lap. I’d like to return them to you. How ’bout I drop by on the way home?”
She wrapped the cord around her finger a few times. This was her favorite part. The anticipation. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. I got to get up early in the morning—”
“Oh, I won’t stay long.”
“If you’re going to come clear downtown, you really should stay long.”
“Well, long enough.”
“Mr. Ketchum, behave yourself.” She stood and looked out at the apartment building on the other side of the street. With her free hand, she scratched her bottom, for the flannel pajamas were clinging to her skin. Jerry always kept the place too warm.
“I’d really like to get these matches back to you,” the disembodied voice said.
“Come by tomorrow morning,” she said. “After nine. My husband will be at work.” At that moment, she craned her neck to look down the hallway at their closed bedroom door. She could almost hear him snoring.
On the other end of the phone, the man paused to light a cigarette. “You best get to bed then,” he said. “I’ll be there bright and early, and you’ll need to be well rested.”
She giggled into the receiver. “Phil, you are such a hound.”