Free The Good Life by Gordon Merrick Page A

said about eating. When the waiter finally came for their dinner order, Perry followed his host’s lead. He heard the waiter saying something about Mr. Kriendler’s suggestions, but he was too fascinated being here to pay much attention to the food.
    Billy kept nodding toward people and saying names he didn’t know. The few he’d heard of — Tallulah Bankhead, Noël Coward, Moss Hart — he matched with faces he wasn’t sure were theirs. People looked different in real life than in photographs. He didn’t care. They were here all around him. He was part of the real New York at last.
    The mention of Moss Hart made him wonder how Rodney was doing. He’d like to tell him and Matt what was happening to him.
    Billy told him that the wine he’d ordered was for him. “I hope you like it. I usually stick to brandy and soda in New York. I never know if what I order will turn out to be what I expect. I do without until I get back to France, except in private houses.”
    Perry thought the food was marvelous, but he’d have been happy with a hamburger. When they’d eaten and Billy had ordered another drink while Perry finished his bottle of wine, they discussed possible after-dinner destinations.
    â€œEl Morocco is hardly suitable for two men,” Billy said. “I don’t really like the Stork. Too collegiate. Why don’t we try the Blue Angel? They usually have good performers, and while men together aren’t quite the rule, they’re hardly the exception. New York is still very prudish about such things.”
    Billy paid by check, so Perry wasn’t sure of the exact amount, but he knew it was somewhere around twenty-five dollars. He was stunned by the money people could spend.
    Perry tried not to stare at people as they went out. They took another taxi and returned to the East Side.
    They went to a bar, where Billy shook hands with a tall, stooped melancholy-looking man with an accent. “Perry, this is the owner, Herbert Jacoby. Herbert, Perry Langham, a very special friend.”
    â€œI can still see, Billy,” the owner said dolefully. “Very special indeed.” He held Perry’s arm gently. “You haven’t been here before. I hope you will come many times again. If you are ever told that we are full, ask for me. There will always be a table for you.”
    He directed them to a door beyond the bar, and they went through a long, dimly lit room filled with little tables and chairs, with a small stage at the end. A waiter came for their order after the owner had squeezed them into a table with his hand between Perry’s shoulder blades. There was nothing prudish about Herbert.
    â€œWould champagne suit you?” Billy asked. “Herbert won’t let them give us anything too dreadful. Prohibition dies hard.”
    â€œI’m not much of a judge.” Perry was suddenly riding a euphoric high. He wasn’t sure he would survive champagne, but he was already known in two elegant places and had been promised special treatment. Herbert wouldn’t forget him. With a little encouragement, he might even offer him free drinks. He had made it. He was in. The hand on his back had told him that even if Billy failed him, he belonged.
    When they got home, Perry felt as if he had a hole in his memory. He wasn’t quite sure what had happened at the Blue Angel. He remembered Herbert’s announcing acts from the stage and that people had performed. He remembered enjoying them, but he didn’t know what they had done. Leaving was a blank, as was their getting home, but here they were, with the door closed safely behind them. He could walk straight without bumping into the wall, but he felt it advisable to go slow. He went with Billy into the downstairs living room.
    â€œI think we should take a nightcap upstairs,” Billy said. “Upstairs.”
    Perry noticed that the precision of Billy’s movements had