He looked like a college boy, and he looked about the room until he saw her.
He looked at the back of Popeye’s head, then at her as she sat with the glass in her hand.
The two men at the other table had not moved.
She could see the faint, steady movement of the one’s ears as he chewed. The music started.
She held Popeye’s back toward Red.
He was still watching her, almost a head taller than anybody else.
“Come on,” she said in Popeye’s ear.
“If you’re going to dance, dance.”
She had another drink.
They danced again.
Red had disappeared.
When the music ceased she had another drink.
It did no good.
It merely lay hot and hard inside her.
“Come on,” she said, “dont quit.”
But he wouldn’t get up, and she stood over him, her muscles flinching and jerking with exhaustion and terror.
She began to jeer at him.
“Call yourself a man, a bold, bad man, and let a girl dance you off your feet.”
Then her face drained, became small and haggard and sincere; she spoke like a child, with sober despair.
“Popeye.”
He sat with his hands on the table, finicking with a cigarette, the second glass with its melting ice before him.
She put her hand on his shoulder.
“Daddy,” she said.
Moving to shield them from the room, her hand stole toward his arm pit, touching the butt of the flat pistol.
It lay rigid in the light, dead vise of his arm and side.
“Give it to me,” she whispered.
“Daddy.
Daddy.”
She leaned her thigh against his shoulder, caressing his arm with her flank.
“Give it to me, daddy,” she whispered.
Suddenly her hand began to steal down his body in a swift, covert movement; then it snapped away in a movement of revulsion.
“I forgot,” she whispered;
“I didn’t mean.…I didn’t.……” One of the men at the other table hissed once through his teeth.
“Sit down,” Popeye said.
She sat down.
She filled her glass, watching her hands perform the action.
Then she was watching the corner of the gray coat.
He’s got a broken button, she thought stupidly.
Popeye had not moved.
“Dance this?” Red said.
His head was bent but he was not looking at her.
He was turned a little, facing the two men at the other table.
Still Popeye did not move.
He shredded delicately the end of the cigarette, pinching the tobacco off.
Then he put it into his mouth.
“I’m not dancing,” Temple said through her cold lips.
“Not?” Red said.
He said, in a level tone, without moving: “How’s the boy?”
“Fine,” Popeye said.
Temple watched him scrape a match, saw the flame distorted through glass.