Small Town

“And they get a decent crowd, but more often than not there’s a couple of made guys in the joint, and if they’re hearing what he’s saying, and if they’ve had as much to drink as he’s had, well, I don’t mind that much if Teddy gets shot, but I’m sitting right across the table from him, and whatever misses him could hit me.”

“Wha’d you do, yank him out of there?”

“You remember Phil Carnahan? A sweet guy, retired to Florida and lasted about six months down there.”

“Couldn’t take it?”

“Loved it, but he had one of those kinds of cancer that gets you out in a hurry. He called me to tell me he had this boat, I had to come down and go fishing with him, and then he called two weeks later to say he’d been to the doctor and got some bad news. And the next call I got was from his wife. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get off on this track. Where the hell was I?”

“He was sitting next to Teddy.”

“Oh, right. So he takes him by the shoulder, he shakes him, gets his attention, which isn’t the easiest thing in the world at this point, and he says, ‘Teddy, Teddy, you got to watch what you say. Don’t you know where you are?’ And Teddy looks at him, like Huh? And Phil says, ‘This is Stelli’s, Teddy. The fucking place is crawling with writers. They’ll steal your material!’ ”

She read Stelli’s face as she entered, and decided to improvise. “Hi, Stelli,” she said. “Did Maury Winters get here yet?”

And she saw the woman’s expression soften. She’d greeted her by name, she’d mentioned a prominent local figure who was an occasional if not frequent patron of the restaurant’s, so she must be okay. Stelli told her that the lawyer hadn’t made a reservation, which didn’t surprise Susan greatly because she happened to know he was in Amagansett for the weekend.

“We made a very tentative date,” she said. “I’ll be at the bar if he comes in. It’s Susan Pomerance.”

“Of course, dear.”

Yeah, like you recognized me, she thought, moving to the far end of the bar, where there were several seats open. That’s fine, dear, she thought. I’ll pretend I’m waiting for Maury and you pretend you know who I am, and we’ll both pretend your first take on me wasn’t that I was a hooker.

She ordered a Cosmopolitan and watched the bartender prepare it. He set it down and waited while she took the first sip, and she smiled her approval. He smiled back and moved off, and he was cute, a little young but that was all right. But you had to wait around all night if you wanted to fuck a bartender, and even then there was no guarantee. He could be gay, he could have a wife or girlfriend. Too bad, she thought, because he was cute.

To her left, a man and woman were deep in conversation. To her right, two men were telling Tallulah Bankhead stories. That was before her time, but it was before their time, too, and it was the sort of place where you could horn in on a conversation if you had something to contribute.

She said, “The line of hers I always liked was My daddy warned me about men and whiskey. He never said a word about women and cocaine.”

They liked that, and at once turned to include her in the conversation. The one closer to her signaled for another round, and asked her if she was ready for another Cosmo. She smiled and shook her head, she’d hardly touched hers. “Next round,” she said, and when their drinks came she raised her own glass.

The man farther from her said, “To men and whiskey? Or women and cocaine.”

She thought about it. “It’s probably déclassé to admit this,” she said, “but I never much cared for cocaine.”

They liked that, too, and the man next to her introduced himself and his friend. He was Lowell Cooke, he told her, and his friend was Jay McGann, the writer.

“But don’t pretend you’ve heard of me,” McGann said, “because nobody has.”

“But that’ll change very soon,” Cooke said, “as soon as your book comes out.”

“He has to believe that,” McGann said. “He’s my editor. And you are...?”

“Susan Pomerance,” she said. “I have an art gallery in Chelsea.”

“A woman of substance,” McGann said. “I have to confess, I’m partial to women of substance. They’re so...”

He turned to his friend for help.

“Substantial,” Cooke supplied.

“That’s it, they’re so substantial. You see? I need an editor.”

If she had to choose, which one would she pick? Neither was male-model gorgeous, though McGann had a rugged Marlboro Man quality to him that she liked. Cooke had a nice sensuality about him, though. When he moved his hands, she could feel them on her body.

Pie or ice cream? But why couldn’t she have pie à la mode?