The question allowed her to pretend the reality of a mere assumption. “So it was personal. Beau! What have you been up to?”
“Nothing, I tell you. Nothing.”
Netta sat down on the arm of the huge, flower-print-covered divan the decorator had chosen for them. “You can tell me now or you can argue awhile. Either way, Beau, I’ll find out from you.”
His voice suddenly filled the room, taut, shrill, surprising him even more than Netta. “None of your goddamned business!”
“It’s really bad trouble, isn’t it?”
“Who said it was trouble?” His face had puckered like the face of a baby trying to decide whether to produce a tantrum or a spell of pitiable tears.
“How much is it going to cost us?”
“Netta—stop jumping to such crazy conclusions!”
She could tell, to a decibel, a hairbreadth, when he was lying and when he was not. She went on implacably, “If you’ve just hocked something—or borrowed on the cars….”
“What have we got to hock that isn’t already hocked, including the cars?” He stared at her with momentary self-righteousness.