“Law books? I don’t believe it. Aurora d’Amore—and law books?”

“I go to law school. Don’t I, Michael?”

“She goes to law school.”

“Really?”

“From ten to two.”

“And afterwards?”

She looked at Michael. He wasn’t wearing the overcoat. She smiled.

“What do I do after school, Michael?” she said.

“She plays in Westerns,” Michael Bey said.

“Westerns?”

“Bang, bang, bang.”

Aurora laughed. She didn’t seem to mind at all. She was, I guessed, about twenty-two. Or three. Somewhere in there. She wore a fur coat. She was nearsighted. She put her glasses on when she wished to look like a law student. She had worn the glasses when she had entered the Pine Room but, evidently, she had decided not to look like a law student now. I hadn’t expected a girl. But of course I was delighted that Michael had brought one. And a pretty one. She wasn’t tall. She had immense dark eyes. The lids were whitened; the lips had been administered to with a pale lipstick. She wore her hair caught up in a rich, somewhat loose, coil that threatened if she laughed too hard (and she did, she always laughed too hard, she laughed, if I may amend Michael’s more graphic description of her laughter, vaginally) to come down in a disorderly mass. I wondered, then, how far it would reach: her hair. Down to where. Down to what. The skin was marvelous. And she was Michael’s girl.

“Oh, on the East Side,” she said.

I’d asked her where she lived.

“The new East Side?”

“Ha. The new. No. The old East Side. Don’t I, Michael? The old smelly East Side.”

She kept doing this: referring my questions to the boy. Who’d smile. Who’d slouch in his chair. Who’d push his drink about on the table as though to link the wet concentric circles the bottom of the glass made. Who appeared indifferent to her or to own her, if he owned her, with a calm slightly arrogant possession. At least, that was how I had interpreted the bang, bang, bang.

I thought about it again. Bang, bang, bang. Like that. And she hadn’t minded. She’d laughed. I was being told what she did with her afternoons when school was out and who, unmistakably, she did it with. Well, I thought: why not? If she’s his girl. I’d asked and they’d told me. She played in Westerns: there was a shoot-out, of a fascinating kind, every afternoon. She with her soft holster, he with his durable .45. I wasn’t to suppose they went to the corner drugstore for a phosphate.

The girl looked at me.

“Do you know you insulted Michael?” she said, severely.

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. When he visited you. He was very insulted.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you, Michael. I’ve got, as they say, problems.”

“Where do they say that?” the girl said, brightly. “In Hollywood?”

“Yes.”

“You have to be very careful with Michael.”

“Why?”

“Oh, he’s a fink.”