Free Evening in Byzantium by Irwin Shaw

don’t have any children, thank God, but I listen to my friends’ kids. The young can’t do any worse. Let me tell you something, Gail Smart-Face, they can. They can do a lot worse. Put your tape recorder on again. I’ll put that in the interview.”
    “Finish your lunch, Murph,” Sonia said. “The poor girl’s taken enough guff from you already.”
    “Seen and not heard,” Murphy grumbled. “That’s my motto. And now they’re giving them the vote. The foundations’re tottering.”
    Craig was relieved when the lunch was over. “Well,” he said, standing, “thanks for the grub. I’ve got to be getting back.”
    “Jesse,” Sonia said, “could you drive Miss McKinnon to Cannes with you? If she stays on and Murph talks to her anymore, the Immigration people will turn him back when he tries to get into the United States again.”
    Gail McKinnon looked at him soberly. He was reminded of his own daughters waiting for him to pick them up after a children’s party.
    “How did you get here this morning?” he asked ungraciously.
    “A friend of mine drove me over. If you mind, I’ll get a taxi.”
    “They charge outrageous prices,” Sonia said. “It’s sinful if you can get a ride with Jesse. Go in and get dressed, child,” she said firmly. “Jesse will wait.”
    Gail McKinnon looked questioningly up at Craig. “Of course,” he said.
    She stood. “I won’t be a minute,” she said, and went into the cabana to change.
    “Smart little girl,” Murphy said, pouring the last drops of the wine from the bottle into his glass. “I like her. I don’t trust her. But I like her.”
    “Don’t talk so loud, Murph,” Sonia whispered.
    “Let ’em know my sentiments,” Murphy said. “Let ’em know where I stand.” He drained the wine. “Let me read that script, Jess. The sooner the better. If it’s any good, I’ll get it set up for you with two telephone calls.”
    Two telephone calls, Craig thought. No matter what he says, after lunch and two bottles of wine he thinks it’s still 1960 when Bryan Murphy was still Bryan Murphy and Jesse Craig still Jesse Craig. He glanced worriedly toward the rear of the cabana where the girl was dressing behind a flimsy wooden wall. Murphy’s voice carried. “Maybe in a couple of days, Murph,” he said. “Don’t broadcast until then, please.”
    “Still as a grave, my boy,” Murphy said. “Grave as Warner’s.” He chuckled at the aptness of his simile. “I did have a good time today,” he said. “Old friends and new girls and lobster for lunch and the Blue Mediterranean. Do you think the rich live better than we do, Jess?”
    “Yes,” Craig said.
    Gail McKinnon came out, her bag swinging on its long strap from her shoulder. She had on white hip-hugger jeans and a short-sleeved navy blue polo shirt. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere, and Craig noted the small, round breasts jutting firmly out against the blue cotton cloth. She had put away the dark glasses for the moment. She looked nautical, sea-fresh, pure, and undangerous. She made her thanks to her hosts demurely and politely and bent to pick up the tape recorder, but Craig reached for it first and said, “I’ll carry that.”
    Murphy was stretching out for his siesta as they started climbing the path toward the pool and the parking lot. The plump woman Craig and Murphy had passed on the way to the bar was still lying on her stomach absorbing the sun, her legs still widespread and inviting. With a sigh, as though she were suffering, the woman turned over. She stared peevishly at Craig and the girl, her privacy destroyed. Her face was thick and heavily made up. Dark blue mascara had run in the sweat of the sun. She was no longer young, and the features were marked by self-love, lust, greed, a sly and corrupt worldliness. The face made a shocking contrast with the healthy peasant fullness of the body. Craig found her hideous and averted his eyes. He couldn’t have borne it if she had spoken aloud.
    He