“She said she was only going to take about twenty dollars a day to start with and work up to larger amounts. She tells the greatest stories about it. She’s dying to see you. Oh, Dee, we’ve found this fabulous place to go. A black nightclub down in the section where the wealthy black people live. Passen Blanc, they call them in New Orleans. We’ve been three times. We saw Stan Getz the other night and they say Coltrane’s coming. If he does, do you want to go?”

“A black nightclub? They let you in?”

“Sure. Judge Sheffield’s a hero to them. If May Garth’s with us they let us right in. They gave us a ringside table at the Getz concert. You should have seen May Garth. She was dancing with the drummer at intermission. He was about a foot shorter than she is. It was hilarious, Dee. God, I wish you’d been there with us.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I could go to a black nightclub. I don’t think Malcolm would do it. I want to, though. I wish I could.”

“Go with us. He doesn’t have to go, if he doesn’t want to. You don’t have your hand sewed to him, do you?”

“I don’t know. I might. I can’t stand for him to get mad at me.”

“Well, I wish you could go sometime. Davie’s been asking about you, by the way. He goes with us.” He paused, looked down, began to slip his napkin in and out of his fingers, folding it into a fan, then slipping it very very sensuously between his fingers. I took a package of cigarettes out of my purse and lit one. I began to smoke furiously. “I have to get back now,” I said. “I really have to get back to the store.”