Free Rich Man, Poor Man by Irwin Shaw Page B

without’
    A Negro in a starched white jacket came to take their order. ‘Afternoon, Mr Boylan,’ the Negro said soberly. ‘What is your pleasure, sir?’
    ‘Ah, Bernard,’ Boylan said, ‘you ask the question that has stumped philosophers since the beginning of time.’
    Phoney, Gretchen thought She was a little shocked that she could think it about a man like Mr Boylan.
    The Negro smiled dutifully. He was as neat and spotless as if. he were ready to conduct an operation. Gretchen looked at
    him sideways. I know two friends of yonrs not far from here.
    she thought, who aren’t giving anybody any pleasure this afternoon.
    ‘My dear,’ Boylan turned to her, ‘what do you drink?’
    ‘Anything. Whatever you say.’ The traps were multiplying. How did she know what she drank? She never drank anything stronger than Coke. She dreaded the arrival of the menu. Almost certainly in French. She had taken Spanish and Latin in school. Latin!
    ‘By the way,’ Boylan said, ‘you are over eighteen.’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. She blushed. What a silly time to blush. Luckily it was dark in the bar.
    ‘I wouldn’t want to be dragged into court for leading minors into corruption,’ he said, smiling. He had nice, well-cared-for dentist’s teeth. It was hard to understand why a man who looked like that, with teeth like that and such elegant clothes, and all that money, would ever have to have lunch alone.
    ‘Bernard, let’s try something sweet. For the young lady. A nice Daiquiri, in your inimitable manner.’
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ Bernard said.
    Inimitable, she thought. Who uses words like that? Her sense of being the wrong age, wrongly dressed, wrongly made-up, made her hostile.
    Gretchen watched Bernard squeeze the limes and toss in the ice and shake the drink, with expert, manicured black-and-pink hands. Adam and Even in the Garden. If Mr Boylan had had an inkling … There wouldn’t be any of that condescending talk about corruption.
    The frothy drink was delicious and she drank it like lemonade. Boylan watched her, one eye raised, a little theatrically, as the drink disappeared.
    ‘Once again, please, Bernard,’ he said.
    The two couples went into the dining room and they had the bar to themselves, as Bernard prepared the second round. She felt more at ease now. The afternoon was opening up. She didn’t know why those were the words that occurred to her, but that’s the way it seemed - opening up. She was going to sit at many dark bars and many kindly older men in peculiar clothes were going to buy her delicious drinks.
    Bernard put the drink in front of her.
    ‘May I make a suggestion, pet?’ Boylan said. ‘I’d drink this one more slowly, if I were you. There is rum in them, after all.’
    ‘Of course,’ she said, with dignity. ‘I guess I was thirsty, standing out there in the hot sun.’
    Pet. Nobody had ever called her anything like that. She liked the word, especially the way he said it, in that cool, un-pushy voice. She took little ladylike sips of the cold drink. It was as good as the first one. Maybe even better. She was beginning to feel that she wasn’t going to blush any more that afternoon.
    Boylan called for the menu. They would order in the bar while they were finishing their drinks. The head waiter came in with two large, stiff cards, and said, bowing a little, ‘Glad to see you again, Mr Boylan.’
    Everybody was glad to see Mr Boylan, in his shiny shoes.
    ‘Should I order?’ Boylan asked her.
    Gretchen knew, from the movies, that gentlemen often ordered for ladies in restaurants, but it was one thing to see it on the screen and another thing to have it happen right in front of you. ‘Please do,’ she said. Right out of the book, she thought triumphantly. My, the drink was good.
    There was a brief but serious discussion about the menu and the wine between Mr Boylan and the head waiter. The head waiter disappeared, promising to call them when their table was ready. Mr Boylan took out a