 | Tales of the jazz age |  |
III
At twelve o'clock a procession of cloaks issued single
file from the women's dressing-room and, each one pairing
with a coated beau like dancers meeting in a cotillion
figure, drifted through the door with sleepy happy
laughter—through the door into the dark where autos
backed and snorted and parties called to one another
and gathered around the water-cooler.
Jim, sitting in his corner, rose to look for Clark.
They had met at eleven; then Clark had gone in to
dance. So, seeking him, Jim wandered into the soft-drink
stand that had once been a bar. The room was
deserted except for a sleepy negro dozing behind the
counter and two boys lazily fingering a pair of dice at
one of the tables. Jim was about to leave when he saw
Clark coming in. At the same moment Clark looked up.
"Hi, Jim!" he commanded. "C'mon over and help us
with this bottle. I guess there's not much left, but
there's one all around."
Nancy, the man from Savannah, Marylyn Wade, and
Nancy caught Jim's eye and winked at him humorously.
They drifted over to a table and arranging themselves
around it waited for the waiter to bring ginger ale.
Jim, faintly ill at ease, turned his eyes on Nancy, who
had drifted into a nickel crap game with the two boys
at the next table.
"Bring them over here," suggested Clark.
Joe looked around.
"We don't want to draw a crowd. It's against club
rules."
"Nobody's around," insisted Clark, "except Mr. Taylor.
He's walking up and down like a wild-man trying
to find out who let all the gasolene out of his car."
There was a general laugh.
"I bet a million Nancy got something on her shoe
again. You can't park when she's around."
"O Nancy, Mr. Taylor's looking for you!"
Nancy's cheeks were glowing with excitement over
the game. "I haven't seen his silly little flivver in
two weeks."
Jim felt a sudden silence. He turned and saw an
individual of uncertain age standing in the doorway.
Clark's voice punctuated the embarrassment.
"Won't you join us, Mr. Taylor?"
"Thanks."
Mr. Taylor spread his unwelcome presence over a
chair. "Have to, I guess. I'm waiting till they dig
me up some gasolene. Somebody got funny with my
car."
His eyes narrowed and he looked quickly from one
to the other. Jim wondered what he had heard from
the doorway—tried to remember what had been said.
"I'm right to-night," Nancy sang out, "and my four
bits is in the ring."
"Faded!" snapped Taylor suddenly.
"Why, Mr. Taylor, I didn't know you shot craps!"
Nancy was overjoyed to find that he had seated himself
and instantly covered her bet. They had openly disliked
each other since the night she had definitely discouraged
a series of rather pointed advances.
"All right, babies, do it for your mamma. Just one
little seven." Nancy was cooing to the dice. She
rattled them with a brave underhand flourish, and
rolled them out on the table.
"Ah-h! I suspected it. And now again with the
dollar up."
Five passes to her credit found Taylor a bad
loser. She was making it personal, and after each success
Jim watched triumph flutter across her face. She
was doubling with each throw—such luck could scarcely
last.
"Better go easy," he cautioned her timidly.
"Ah, but watch this one," she whispered. It was
eight on the dice and she called her number.
"Little Ada, this time we're going South."
Ada from Decatur rolled over the table. Nancy
was flushed and half-hysterical, but her luck was holding.
She drove the pot up and up, refusing to drag.
Taylor was drumming with his fingers on the table, but
he was in to stay.
Then Nancy tried for a ten and lost the dice. Taylor
seized them avidly. He shot in silence, and in the
hush of excitement the clatter of one pass after another
on the table was the only sound.
Now Nancy had the dice again, but her luck had
broken. An hour passed. Back and forth it went.
Taylor had been at it again—and again and again.
They were even at last—Nancy lost her ultimate five
dollars.
"Will you take my check," she said quickly, "for
fifty, and we'll shoot it all?" Her voice was a little
unsteady and her hand shook as she reached to the
money.
Clark exchanged an uncertain but alarmed glance
with Joe Ewing. Taylor shot again. He had Nancy's
check.
"How 'bout another?" she said wildly. "Jes' any
bank'll do—money everywhere as a matter of fact."
Jim understood—the "good old corn" he had given
her—the "good old corn" she had taken since. He
wished he dared interfere—a girl of that age and position
would hardly have two bank accounts. When the
clock struck two he contained himself no longer.
"May I—can't you let me roll 'em for you?" he suggested,
his low, lazy voice a little strained.
Suddenly sleepy and listless, Nancy flung the dice
down before him.
"All right—old boy! As Lady Diana Manners says,
`Shoot 'em, Jelly-bean'—My luck's gone."
"Mr. Taylor," said Jim, carelessly, "we'll shoot for
one of those there checks against the cash."
Half an hour later Nancy swayed forward and clapped
him on the back.
"Stole my luck, you did." She was nodding her head
sagely.
Jim swept up the last check and putting it with the
others tore them into confetti and scattered them on
the floor. Someone started singing, and Nancy kicking
her chair backward rose to her feet.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced. "Ladies
—that's you Marylyn. I want to tell the world that
Mr. Jim Powell, who is a well-known Jelly-bean of this
city, is an exception to a great rule—`lucky in dice—
unlucky in love.' He's lucky in dice, and as matter
famous dark-haired beauty often featured in the
Herald as one th' most popular members of younger set
as other girls are often featured in this particular case.
Wish to announce—wish to announce, anyway, Gentlemen—"
She tipped suddenly. Clark caught her and
restored her balance.
"My error," she laughed, "she stoops to—stoops to—
anyways— We'll drink to Jelly-bean . . . Mr. Jim
Powell, King of the Jelly-beans."
And a few minutes later as Jim waited hat in hand
for Clark in the darkness of that same corner of the
porch where she had come searching for gasolene, she
appeared suddenly beside him.
"Jelly-bean," she said, "are you here, Jelly-bean?
I think—" and her slight unsteadiness seemed part
of an enchanted dream—"I think you deserve one of my
sweetest kisses for that, Jelly-bean."
For an instant her arms were around his neck—her
lips were pressed to his.
"I'm a wild part of the world, Jelly-bean, but you did
me a good turn."
Then she was gone, down the porch, over the cricket-loud
lawn. Jim saw Merritt come out the front door
and say something to her angrily—saw her laugh and,
turning away, walk with averted eyes to his car.
Marylyn and Joe followed, singing a drowsy song about
a Jazz baby.
Clark came out and joined Jim on the steps. "All
pretty lit, I guess," he yawned. "Merritt's in a mean
mood. He's certainly off Nancy."
Over east along the golf course a faint rug of gray
spread itself across the feet of the night. The party in
the car began to chant a chorus as the engine warmed up.
"Good-night everybody," called Clark.
"Good-night, Clark."
"Good-night."
There was a pause, and then a soft, happy voice
added,
"Good-night, Jelly-bean."
The car drove off to a burst of singing. A rooster on
a farm across the way took up a solitary mournful crow,
and behind them a last negro waiter turned out the
porch light. Jim and Clark strolled over toward the
Ford, their shoes crunching raucously on the gravel
drive.
"Oh boy!" sighed Clark softly, "how you can set
those dice!"
It was still too dark for him to see the flush on Jim's
thin cheeks—or to know that it was a flush of unfamiliar
shame.
| Tales of the jazz age | |