West of Paradise by Gwen Davis Read Free Book Online Page A

had come to the funeral because he’d played cards with the dead man. That was a kind of bond, even though Mort suspected he’d cheated. Larry Drayco couldn’t help stealing: it was in his character, or lack of same, as Mort’s mother might have said. Once one of the men in the regular game, a producer, had come in raving about a new book he’d read in galleys and announced that he was going to buy the rights. Drayco excused himself to go to the toilet, called the agent who represented the author, and made a deal from the bathroom.
    So he couldn’t help being a shit, even when pretending to take one. Still, there had been something stylish about him, like a highwayman. And Mort always admired style.
    He’d come to the funeral because that’s what a nice guy did when he’d known a guy. Besides, she might be there. He longed, more than getting out of the rag business, to be in a place where he could look at her, and just watch her move, and not be under pressure to talk. He knew he had nothing to say to her really. She was a blueblood. His own blood was Jewish, and he was nervous about that, as he would have been even if there hadn’t been a Pat Buchanan. But to be in a room with a genuine duchess, this particular duchess, even if she was divorced from the title, all the while he hungered to be near her, was almost more than Mort could bear.
    â€œDuchess Wendy,” he said, bowing as she passed him.
    â€œMorty,” she said gently. “I told you. I’m not allowed to use the title anymore except on our clothes.”
    â€œIt’s not good enough for you anyway. It should be Princess. Queen, maybe. Goddess.” His face and neck shone bright red.
    â€œWhy, Morty. I’ve never heard you talk so.” Her hair was dark and softly waved, close to her skull, marcelled as it would have been in the era she better belonged in. “I thought you only spoke cuts and fabrics and prices.”
    â€œI’ve had a little champagne. Can I get you some?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    He hesitated for a moment. “I should give it to you in a glass slipper.”
    She looked away. “Glass slippers aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”
    *   *   *
    It had been noted that because of their fashion model washboard slimness, Carina, Norman Jessup’s fiancée, and Chen Lippton, Victor’s wife, looked strangely alike, in spite of facial dissimilarities. Chen was markedly Chinese, round-faced and black-eyed, while Carina, whose origins were South American, had a pointed chin, and almond-shaped, brilliantly sea-green eyes. But they both had thick, dark hair, blunt cut to the jaw, and incredibly slender bodies. And of course they both dressed in the highest of high-fashion clothes.
    The Lipptons, newly come to the scene as they were, set an example of elegance and fidelity, which Norman Jessup and Carina voiced every intention of following. So it pleased Norman that the women not only complemented each other physically, but genuinely seemed to like each other. He encouraged Carina to take Chen shopping and whatever else it was that women did when they were not joining their mates for dinner. And the four dined together at least once a week, two of the town’s great power couples, which they were now considered, since the women, in their way, had as much potency as the men, as one could see clearly from how often they appeared in W.
    The Jessup-Carina nuptials were planned for October, to be held at the Hotel Bel-Air. Carina had already asked Chen to be her matron of honor. Norman had as best man lawyer Fletcher McCallum, who had stood up for him under all the important circumstances of his life, including the odious lawsuit. So he couldn’t have Victor Lippton as his best man. But he would be among the groom’s men, knowledge of which had sent everybody in town clamoring for invitations, trying to politick their way in.