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over the bar toward her. “He wanted me to pick him up. He asked if Veronica Lake were a sheep dog.” They both laughed. “I wasn’t paying, I wasn’t going to take it for free either. I told him to go on home, he was wasting his time.”
    â€œWhat did he do?”
    Valentine shrugged. “I don’t know. I left him there. I took Veronica Lake back to your place. You still weren’t there, so I went on home. He was dressed just like the paper says, but…” He removed the photo from his pocket and placed it atop her glass. “…his eyes were softer than they are here. The way it looks now, maybe I should have taken him home.”
    â€œWhat was he like? Hoodlum, or what?”
    Valentine stood erect. “He tried to be tough, I guess. He didn’t make much of an impression. Innocuous. Look, I didn’t even remember him when that cop stuck his picture under my nose.”
    Valentine moved away. Clarisse picked up the photograph, and turned it in the light. She set it down with a small grimace. She took a swallow of her scotch and lit another cigarette. Valentine returned.
    â€œWell, are you going to call Searcy? Tell him what you know?”
    â€œNot this minute. He said he’d be back. I’d rather not—” Valentine’s attention was drawn to the foyer. Clarisse leaned over a little and looked in the mirror.
    â€œWell,” said Valentine, “maybe Trudy’ll have time for one full set before last call.”
    In the hallway Trudy, her back to the Mirror Room, unbelted and unzipped her black fur coat in a frenzy of elbows and shoulder blades. Her head bobbed rapidly as she spoke to Irene, who paid no attention at all, but stared around the piano player to the stairway.
    Trudy’s clinging silk dress set off her shapely supple figure. She was short, slender, and celebrated for her legs, which Valentine contended would have precipitated a coronary of jealousy in Betty Grable. Through cycles of world fashion, Trudy’s skirts remained hemmed three inches above her dimpled knees. She always wore green—dress, nylons, heels, and accessories. This unity of color in her dress was offset by the array of wigs she owned, in all various shades and styles. Her own hair was reported to be shining white, but even Irene hadn’t seen it in twenty years. Trudy had three grown sons; her wife had died eighteen months back. Her real name was Sidney Robert White and she had, as Valentine often said, “the shape of Dolores Del Rio and the face of Charles Laughton.” Trudy turned, and twisted her lumpish little face coyly.
    Shoulders back, arms tight at her side, she flew from the foyer to the bar. She dropped her green-dyed alligator clutch and her green gloves onto the bar beside Clarisse’s leather envelope, and held out her hand for the gin fizz that Valentine had already prepared.
    â€œI think I’m late,” she began, and sipping at the drink, held up a hand to prevent Valentine from speaking. She turned her head aside, closed her eyes and spoke quickly, in the undisguised voice of a man in late middle age. She took little bird-sips of the gin fizz between sentences. “First it was the car. Wouldn’t start. Wouldn’t even roll downhill. Telephone booth didn’t have a directory. Couldn’t call a garage. It already had three tickets on the door. Four cabs went by, wouldn’t pick me up. I was just about to jump out in front of number five when a drunk came by, stepped on my heel and broke it. Had to run limping up the Hill. Little boy—should have been in bed—threw a sandwich at me. Put on another heel, waited for the glue to dry, then had to spray-paint it. Ran all the way down the hill again. Caught the subway. Man accused me of murdering his first wife. Here I am, probably not more than two minutes late. How about another gin fizz?”
    â€œLife’s hard,” said Clarisse