Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 6, June, 1953

Начало книги

It’s a far cry from a beach chair to an operating table, but I made it — in one day. It’s a far cry from sunshine, the peaceful blue of a swimming pool, a lovely girl poised on a diving board — to two bullets in my body, the white glare of surgery, and the antiseptic walls of a hospital room. But I made it. Same day. It’s a far cry from lush pulchritude to plush hoodlumism... or is it?

It isn’t.

The party the night before had been the best kind of party that happens in New York. It had been the after-opening-night affair of a brand new musical given by the producer (and assorted angels) in a high-ceilinged sixteen room duplex on Central Park West. The musical was a smash, and it was a nice, happy party.

Happy, that is, for everybody but me.

Because me: it was a girl again.

She was brown, deeply tanned. She was blonde, with glistening lips. She was tall, shapely tall. Her eyes were blue and shining, her mouth red and shining, her hair gold and shining. Her gown was black nakedness, glistening satin, simple without whirls, and firm to her figure. It started at the rise of her breasts and descended, tightly, to the calf. She wore black high-heeled pumps and black nylons. If you can get away with black nylons, you’re something. She was something. When she walked, she swayed, her head up and her shoulders back as though she were pushing against a high wind. If you watched her going away, you saw the thrust-back shimmering shoulders, a pinched-in waist, and then a number of curves. I watched her, coming and going. She wore no spot of jewelry except one, a brilliant engagement ring, at least three carats.

Читать дальше →