He grunted. “A good address. What our friend Professor Voss would call one more status symbol, one more social-label. For it I pay about fifty per cent more rent than my budget can afford.”
He ushered her inside and took her jacket. “Look,” he said, indicating his living room with a sweep of hand. “See that volume of Klee reproductions there next to my reading chair? That proves I'm not a weird. Indicates my culture status. Actually, my appreciation of modern art doesn't go any further than the Impressionists. But don't tell anybody. See those books up on my shelves. Same thing. You'll find everything there that ought to be on the shelves of any ambitious young career man.”
She looked at him from the side of her eyes. “You're really soured, Larry.”
“Come along,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
He took her down the tiny elevator to his den.
“How hypocritical can you get?” he asked her. “This is where I really live. But I seldom bring anyone here. Wouldn't want to get a reputation as a weird. Sit down, LaVerne, I'll make a drink. How about a Sidecar?”
She sank onto the couch, kicked her [pg 059] shoes off and slipped her feet under her. “I'd love one,” she said.
His back to her, he brought brandy and cointreau from his liquor cabinet, lemon and ice from the tiny refrigerator.
“What?” LaVerne said mockingly. “No auto-bar?”
“Upstairs with the rest of the status symbols,” Larry grunted.