So I nodded at a table beside the girl. She would be something to look at besides my thoughts.
Jay is an American. But what he did now was European. He smiled slightly in understanding; he raised his eyebrows minutely in coappreciation of the young lady's good looks; and he shrugged one shoulder—in patient recognition of the fact that a male is a male and the firmest marriage vows are warrants of mere intent.
I grinned back—and sat on the bench beside the young lady as soon as Jay pulled out the table. She looked at me—turning her head slowly—and afterward went on reading her book. Her eyes were gray, stained with some unguessable, dark residue of emotion. Her hair was pale blonde, not quite ashen—parted in the middle and clipped at the back like a schoolgirl's—with a wide gold barrette. She had small, smooth hands. She wore a square engagement ring and a wedding ring set with many diamonds. From time to time, too, she sipped a Martini. Her dress was a gray and white print—not fancy but fitted by somebody who knew the tricks. Bonwit's, maybe, or Bergdorf's. Her shoulders were fairly broad, for a girl's. But she had large, firm breasts—or the synthetic equivalent thereof. I noticed, too, that the perfume she used was not right for her appearance—though perhaps it suited the self-estimate of her soul. It was one of the musky varieties—animal, nocturnal, full of erotic business.
In a restaurant where you have enjoyed a thousand meals, you look desultorily at the menu because, as a rule, you know what you are going to order. I took the fried sole, a boiled, parsley potato, and apple sauce.
Then, for a while, I forgot the girl.
I must plan, I thought.
First, the money.
Fifty thousand dollars' worth of insurance. Several thousand dollars in war bonds. I had about ten thousand in the bank. Ricky had a few thousand. We owed a steep mortgage on the house we were building in Florida—in the country south of Miami, among live oaks and cabbage palms. It would be too big a home for Ricky and her mother and Karen, by themselves. Too big—and too expensive to keep up, without my income. They could sell it as soon as it was finished, and undoubtedly make a small profit. Or they could rent it each year for a much larger sum than the interest, amortization and upkeep—thus bringing to my estate an income of one or two annual thousands.
I would be paid twenty-four thousand dollars for the serial upstairs, when I had cut it.
Unfortunately, half of that would be turned over to the government, as income tax. Most of the balance was ear-marked for furniture which Ricky now might or might not buy. I thought about the tax....