BY THE TIME ACKIE and I got round to Hughson’s place the party was well under way.
There were eight couples crammed into his small room and the air was thick with smoke. Everyone was drinking as hard as they could put it down and everyone was smoking.
There was a general shout when Ackie edged his way in. Most people got a laugh when they saw him. He got rid of his hat and coat and grabbed a bottle of Scotch.
Hughson came over to me and shook hands. “This is a bum party, Nick,” he said apologetically. “But I’m glad you’ve come.”
He led me round the room, introducing me. Most of the Globe guys were there and five stream-lined dames. They all looked so good I had to remark about it. Hughson explained they were from The Moon and the Fiddle, a musical that was running at the Plaza.
He got me settled down with a redhead and a glass of Scotch-and-soda in my hand, and then he went off to do the host with Ackie. Not that Ackie wasn’t looking after himself.
The redhead was pretty tight and giggled a lot. She told me her name was Dawn Murray. When I asked what her real name was she giggled a lot more but wouldn’t tell me.
These parties always go the same way. Everyone gets plastered and talks about nothing and laughs when there’s nothing to laugh about. I guess it’s just an excuse to get tight.
Dawn started talking about books. This surprised me because I thought she wouldn’t bother about reading. She’d just finished Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath.
“Now I bet that guy knows what he’s writing about,” she said. “I bet he lived in those camps. That’s the most marvellous book I’ve ever read.”