What she needed was escape from problems. That was her purpose in seeking Les, he was always good for diversion.
When she saw his blonde laziness on the Pullman seat she stepped in. She caroled, “Hello, duck. I came.” Her eyes slanted at the man by the window, the one who was pinning her with his eyes. He was the longest, gangliest man; he had a lean, ugly face, rumpled brown hair, glazed eyes, but he was definitely aware.
Les said with his customary boredom, “Kitten, pet. I was just wondering how long.”
The man at the window growled, “Don’t you believe a word of it. He hasn’t given you a thought.”
“Shut up, Hank.” Leslie didn’t disturb the evenness of his well-modulated voice. “Kitten, beloved. This is Hank Cavanaugh. He’s drunk.”
“Kitten is a gruesome name,” Les said to Hank. “Viv Spender gave it to her.”
Kitten smiled, “You’re always so wonderful, Les.”
She swayed from the hips as she came over to the men. She pushed in beside Les, where she could face the other. Maybe the trouble was she had been too faithful to Viv. In Cynarian fashion. If she were in love, she wouldn’t have the bad dreams she had been having. Hank Cavanaugh offered something tonic.
Hank said, “If Les is in your way, he’ll move. Though he’ll point out selfishly that this is his compartment.” He lidded his eyes at Les. “Who’s the pretty thing?”
Les patted her thigh. “This is Kitten Agnew, Hank, and I’ve no intention of moving. Where’s Viv? Skulking in his tent?”
She trickled laughter. “You’re divine. He probably is.” But she didn’t like the switch. Skulking was a word with shadows.
“What are you afraid of?” Hank demanded.
“Nothing.” She lashed her eyes at him.
“Listen kid. I’ve covered enough trouble to know.”
Les moved in gently. “Now that you’re about to play the charming consumptive, you have first-night jitters.”
She edged her eyes to Les. “It looks like I’m keeping my health.”
It was no surprise to him. He’d heard rumors; he wanted it first hand. He rolled it around his brain. “You have a contract.”
She smiled. “I have a contract. Good till hell freezes over.”
Hank said, “You’re afraid of a cold snap in hell.”
“I told you. I’m not afraid.” She flung it at him. She wouldn’t be intimidated again.
“I’m getting sober,” Hank complained. “Why don’t we have a straight one, Les? The dame wants one.”
Les said, “What’s your rush? Cobbett will have the mixings in a minute.”
“Who is Cobbett, darling?”
Hank said, “Cobbett is the gentleman who attends this car. Probably the only gentleman in the car. God knows, Les isn’t one.”
She smiled. “Doubtless you’re right. Viv Spender isn’t one.” She looked up at Les. “Speaking of gentlemen, I invaded the wrong compartment. I went in F.” She shuddered delicately.
“Interesting.”
“Hardly. The most revolting little oaf tried to weep on my shoulder. He’s just been fired from New Essany. An author—Sidney Priggle or Pringle.”
Hank said, “Sidney Pringle wrote a pretty good book.”
She opened her eyes in simulated admiration of Hank’s knowledge. “Actually? He did? I mean he really did?” But she was wary of him now.
Hank said, “Yeah.” He closed his eyes again as if she didn’t exist. His mouth was drawn in grim lines, too many late nights or too much trouble. He didn’t belong here in Les’s compartment; he was a hardbitten man, not a lazy posturer as was the great Augustin. Les was a house pet, a sleek, lazy cat; this man was lean and hungry, something out of deep woods, something cruel and lost. That was pretty good. Viv had taught her to think in pictures that way. Viv had taught her plenty of lessons; she was going to teach him one now.
She let Les play with her finger while she watched the closed eyes of Hank Cavanaugh. She asked, “Are you both going through to New York?”
“Positively,” Les smiled.
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