167

At the Oceana Apartments, a bad memory.

A club in wartime, champagne flowing. He is there. Babe is there. Babe is with Lucille. And he—he reckons, he is not sure—is with Alyce Ardell, but if so, then their time together is coming to an end.

He is moving through the crowd, almost unrecognizable: a middle-aged man in a tuxedo that no longer fits as it should, a face less familiar without a derby to hide the thinning gray hair.

An arm appears before him, blocking his way.

—Hey.

He sees him now: an actor, one of those who believe that portraying gangsters on screen by day, and consorting with them in clubs by night, imbues the imitator with the aura of the original. The faces of the actor’s companions are flushed with alcohol and hostility, flashing like warning beacons in the gloom. They have glasses in their hands, but these glasses are not filled with champagne. Whatever is happening here, it is no celebration.

Hey, the voice says again.

—Yes?

—Are you still queer for Babe Hardy?

They laugh. He pushes past the outstretched arm.

—Hey, don’t take it so hard.

Another voice replies, the words obscured, and they laugh again.

He reaches the table. Babe has watched the confrontation but has not heard its substance over the shouting and the music.

What did they say to you? Babe asks.

—Nothing.

Nothing worth repeating.