Winning is Everything (20 page)

42 

Kip had been waiting at the small round table in the back of the Blue Owl for fifteen minutes before he spotted Adrienne Kent breeze in through the front doors, her long thick hair flying behind her like in one of those slow-motion shampoo commercials.

This was no simple sorority girl looking for a ring and a man with a mortgage, he told himself. This one’s got style, a manner all her own.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Adrienne, exhaling from her cigarette as she somehow managed to actually plop down gracefully next to Kip. “They kept us for an extra three pickup shots. Imagine, dancing the praises of a bus! I tell you, if I didn’t need the money for extra classes …”

“Here!” said Kip, sliding a tall glass filled with ice cubes and soda water toward Adrienne. “I knew our time was limited, so I went ahead and ordered your drink. Hope the bubbles aren’t flat by now.”

“Mmmm, that’s good.” She took a long drink and leaned back in her chair.

“Relax,” said Kip. “You look like you haven’t taken a deep breath of real air all day.”

“Who has time to breathe real air?” asked Adrienne, inhaling her Gauloise. “I’m in too much of a hurry.”

“For what?” asked Kip.

“To become a
better
dancer, of course,” said Adrienne without flinching.

“You’re really dedicated, aren’t you?” asked Kip.

“It keeps me happy,” said Adrienne. She took another sip of soda water and placed the glass down on the table. “Thanks for the drink, hon. I gotta run.”

“Run?” Kip looked at his watch. “You just sat down!”

“First thing to remember about a dancer,” said Adrienne. “They hardly ever sit down.”

“But won’t you stay and have a bite? A hamburger.”

“Eat?” said Adrienne. “Certainly not … I have to dance! Look, I really am sorry. Honest. At first I thought you were a pest, but you’re sweet and cute and I am mad for your shoulders. So do forgive me. Duty calls.”

“No problem,” said Kip. “I understand.”

“You see, ten minutes into a relationship, and you already know me.”

“I’m sure trying,” said Kip.

“What about you?” asked Adrienne. “Tell me all about you.” She looked at her watch and smiled. “You’ve got twenty seconds.”

“It shouldn’t take that long,” said Kip, smiling back at her. “I’m from a suburb of Philadelphia. My father is a lawyer. He raises English bulldogs and has temper tantrums. My mother was a runner-up in the nineteen-something Miss America contest and now has nervous breakdowns. I graduated from Lehigh last June, captain of the wrestling team, Phi Beta Kappa. How’s that?”

Adrienne looked at her watch. “You still have seven seconds.”

“Okay … I moved to New York to work at the World’s Fair and am now, for reasons that still escape me, except for the fact that I probably am as crazy as my old lady, trying to find work as an actor. That’s how I met you; now, how’s that for a twenty-second autobiography?”

“Not bad,” said Adrienne, looking at her watch. “I really do have to run. I want to shower before class, put on a fresh leotard.”

“Can I see you afterward?” asked Kip, reaching out to take her hand.

“Please,” said Adrienne, looking at their hands. “We just met.”

“True,” said Kip. “But I just told you the story of my life.
You’re
still a mystery.”

“Don’t you know anything about women?” asked Adrienne. “That’s one of the secrets of my charm.”

“How about later? We could have dinner …”

“You are persistent. I can’t later. I have a rehearsal for my next performance.”

“All right, then,” Kip offered. “How about tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night
is
my next performance,” said Adrienne.

“Oh, well …” Kip shrugged. “Can’t say I didn’t give it the ole college try.”

“Tell you what,” said Adrienne, returning Kip’s hand. “What if I leave a ticket for you at the box office tomorrow? You can come watch me dance, then pick me up backstage afterward, and we can go for a light supper.”

“Sounds great!” said Kip, toasting the air with his Scotch.

“Fine. The New York State Theater at Lincoln Center. It won’t be the best seat in the house, but then again, what do you know? You’ve never been to a ballet before.”

“True. But remember, my dear Isadora Duncan. You have probably never been to a wrestling match; so we’re almost even.”

“Almost,” said Adrienne with a smile and a puff of her cigarette. “Gotta go. See you tomorrow night….”

She pivoted on well-trained toes and hurried from the pub, leaving Kip to wonder how he could be so infatuated with someone he’d barely met.

43 

An arctic chill descended upon the entire Northeast, plummeting temperatures down into the low teens. The freezing-cold weather didn’t seem to bother inured New Yorkers, however, who were out all over town on the last night in January. Restaurants were crowded, theaters full, taxis impossible to catch.

It took Ron fourteen minutes to walk over to Lincoln Center.

He arrived at Philharmonic Hall at 8:27 and found Liz waiting along the wall across from the crowded box office, a pair of concert tickets in her hand.

“I was beginning to get worried,” she said after they’d kissed hello.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered to Ron as they sat down in their seventh-row-center seats.

“Me too,” said Ron, busy looking around at the bejeweled and be-furred audience.

As the lights began to lower, Liz leaned over to Ron and whispered, “Remind me to tell you at intermission. I’ve set up that interview for you at Barton and Broomstead. You’ll be perfect.”

He took her hand and squeezed it tightly to show his gratitude. Then, as Leonard Bernstein raised his baton high into the air, Ron allowed his middle finger to teasingly circle the palm of her hand, a small promise of the passion to which she could look forward.

As they walked out to the lobby at intermission, Ron asked, “Now, what about that job?”

“Tomorrow morning, ten sharp!” said Liz in line at the water fountain. “You meet with my friend Herb Nelson. Barton and Broomstead. Good house. He’s in Production or something.”

“How can I thank you?” asked Ron, leaning forward to nibble on Liz’s ear.

She pushed him away gently and said, “By the way … I have some troubling news.”

“What’s up?” asked Ron.

“I’m afraid it’s my husband,” said Liz. “He’s not leaving for Houston, after all. You realize that means we won’t be able to see each other for a while.”

“How long a while?” Ron asked.

“Who knows?” Liz shrugged apologetically. “To be perfectly honest with you, sweetie, it may be quite some time. I’ve decided to make a final, eleventh-hour stab at saving my marraige. Isn’t that crazy? In any case, last thing I need in my life right now is a young and terribly sexy suitor. You do understand, don’t you?”

Ron was silent, and Liz, hoping to distract him from her news, said, “Look! Over there. It’s Cassandra Kramer!”

“Who?” asked Ron, squinting to see about whom Liz was talking.

“Casey Kramer,” said Liz. “I interviewed her father last week. Let’s go say hello.”

They walked across the lobby to where an almost pretty young lady was standing next to a tall nondescript fellow.

“Liz!” The young woman held out both her arms.

“How are you, Cassandra?” said Liz. “I’d like you to meet Ron Zinelli. Ron, this is Casey Kramer.”

“How do you do …”

“Daddy just loved your spot on him last week,” said Cassandra before Ron could finish saying hello.

“He must have,” said Liz. “He sent me the most lovely yellow roses.”

“I know,” said Casey. “I picked them out.”

“Well, than, thank
you,”
said Liz, putting her arm inside Ron’s, leading him away. “And please tell your father I said hello.”

“I shall,” said Casey as she took her escort’s arm and moved off in the opposite direction.

Ron stared after her. About his age, fairly tall, thin enough, dark, thick hair, no tits to write home about, but an okay face. She reeked of class, but aside from that, Ron didn’t think much of her.

“Who was that?” Ron asked Liz when they got back to their seats.

“Cassandra?” asked Liz. “She’s Edward Kramer’s daughter.”

“Who’s he?” asked Ron.

“Who’s he?”
Liz asked in disbelief. “Where’ve you been? Edward Kramer is the supermarket king of the East Coast. Haven’t you heard of his string of Kramer Villages?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Ron, putting it together. “There was one near the fair.”

“Right,” said Liz.

“She must be worth a fortune,” said Ron, suddenly quite impressed.

“Only zillions,” Liz was fast to agree. “Casey Kramer is the queen of the Catholic princesses.”

Ron spun his head around the auditorium and spotted Miss Kramer and her date several rows behind, getting into their seats. Ron was amazed to see she was much better-looking now than when he’d first met her four minutes earlier.

“That fellow,” asked Ron, “the one with her … he her boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?” Liz laughed at the notion. “Certainly not. He’s Billy Prescott—a walker.”

“A what?”

“A walker,” Liz repeated. “One of those safe men around town, mostly homosexuals, who escort their lady friends everywhere when their husbands are unavailable.”

“You mean Miss Millions is married?” asked Ron.

“Casey? No!” said Liz. “Her boyfriends come and go like the seasons. Right now she and Ben Wantrus, the television director, are living together. It’s been almost a year, so by now it’s probably either red hot or rather stale.”

“Where is this Ben Wantrus fellow?” Ron asked.

“Hollywood, I guess,” said Liz, leafing through her program. “I think Casey mentioned he’s finishing cutting a movie.” Liz closed her program and looked up at Ron. “What’s all the interest?”

“Nothing,” said Ron, still looking back at Casey. “It’s just that the only thing I like more than poor people is rich people.”

Liz slapped Ron’s hand playfully. “Sssh!” She brought a finger to her lips. “The lights are about to go down. Pay attention!”

Ron obediently tried not to fall asleep.

44 

Across the mall, in the New York State Theater, way up toward the rear of the second balcony, eyes fixed to the stage, sat Kip. He was watching
Raymonda Variations
, a one-act Balanchine ballet filled with deep drama and dark passions.

When it was over, he applauded politely while the rest of the audience cheered wildly. He spent the intermission reading program notes. He found Adrienne’s name listed among the many dancers who would be performing
The Cage.

She played the part of an insect.

The Cage
was one of those abstract Jerome Robbins ballets, with atonal Stravinsky music and weird, suggestive costumes, but once Kip was able to single out Adrienne, he started to appreciate the dance a whole lot more. She looked quite different onstage. Her hair was in wild disarray, making her appear older, and she had amazing technique and strength; even Kip could see that.

He was taken with the strength required to do some of the intricate dance steps, amazed over the sense of precision and control Adrienne seemed to have. More than anything, he was surprised at how very much he was enjoying it.

Still depressed about his draft notice, Gary was at least looking forward to having dinner with Nora. He was almost out the door to meet her when she abruptly called to cancel. Her husband had called to say he was on his way home and simply had to talk to her right away. It was urgent. She told Gary she’d talk to him the following afternoon, right after his physical.

Gary decided to take a walk. He threw on his heaviest sweater, donned his parka, and set out. Even though his earlier plans for the evening had been canceled, he was not about to sit home and mope the night before his Army physical.

He went over to Third Avenue and headed uptown. Block after block, he walked at a brisk pace, wondering if he could possibly contract pneumonia by morning. By the time he reached the Seventies, he decided he just had to do something this last bitter cold night as a civilian. He would also have to get inside soon or turn up at Whitehall Street the following morning as Nanook of the North.

The thought of a Chinese dinner crossed his mind, but in truth he wasn’t particularly hungry. Anyway, he’d had his stomach set on a great meal with Nora, and was not about to settle for anybody else’s dried egg roll. At East Eighty-second Street Gary stopped outside a dimly lit bar and looked inside. The shades on the small windows were drawn, so he could get no sense of what it might be like within. Still, the name on the window was familiar. He’d heard about it once or twice in the locker room at the Y.

What the hell, figured Gary. I’ve got to warm up somewhere. Opening the door, he stepped into Harry’s Back East.

It was, Gary knew, a gay bar.