—Charmed, the redhead said to Emmett, extending her hand.
As Emmett reached to take it, he realized that her shift was so diaphanous, the dark circles around her nipples were visible through the fabric. Feeling the color rising to his cheeks, he averted his gaze.
—By the piano we have Charity. I don’t think I have to tell you how she got her name. And here on my right is Bernadette.
Emmett was relieved when Bernadette, who was dressed exactly like Helen, didn’t bother to extend her hand.
—That’s quite a belt buckle, she said with a smile.
—It’s nice to meet you, Emmett said to the women a little awkwardly.
Duchess turned to face him with a grin.
—This is so great, he said.
—Yeah, said Emmett, without much enthusiasm. Listen, Duchess, if I could have a word. Alone . . .
—Sure thing.
Duchess led Emmett away from the women, but rather than take him back into the hallway, where they would have privacy, he took him to a corner of the lounge about fifteen feet away.
Duchess studied Emmett’s face for a moment.
—You’re mad, he said. I can tell.
Emmett barely knew where to begin.
—Duchess, he found himself saying, I did not lend you my car.
—You’re right, replied Duchess, holding up both hands in surrender. You’re absolutely right. It would have been much more accurate for me to say I borrowed it. But like I told Billy back at St. Nick’s, we were only using it to run that errand upstate. We would have had it back in Morgen before you knew it.
—Whether you took it for a year or a day doesn’t change the fact that it’s my car—with my money in it.
Duchess looked at Emmett like he didn’t understand him for a second.
—Oh, you mean the envelope that was in the trunk. You don’t have to worry about that, Emmett.
—Then you have it?
—Sure. But not on me. This is the big city, after all. I left it at Woolly’s sister’s place, along with your kit bag, where they’d be safe and sound.
—Then let’s go get them. And on the way, you can tell me all about the cops.
—What cops?
—I saw Townhouse, and he says the cops came around this morning, asking about my car.
—I can’t imagine why they would be, said Duchess, looking genuinely stupefied. That is, unless . . .
—Unless what?
Duchess was nodding his head now.
—On the way here, when I wasn’t looking, Woolly parked in front of a fire hydrant. Next thing I knew, there was a patrolman asking him for the driver’s license he didn’t have. What with Woolly being Woolly, I convinced the cop not to write him a ticket. But he might have put a description of the car in the system.
—Great, said Emmett.
Duchess nodded soberly, but then suddenly snapped his fingers.
—You know what, Emmett? It doesn’t matter.
—And why is that?
—Yesterday, I made the trade of the century. Maybe not as good as Manhattan for a string of beads, but pretty damn close. In exchange for one scuffed-up Studebaker hardtop, I landed you a 1941 Cadillac convertible in mint condition. There couldn’t be more than a thousand miles on her, and the provenance is impeccable.
—I don’t need your Cadillac, Duchess, wherever it came from. Townhouse gave me back the Studebaker. It’s getting a new coat of paint and I’m picking it up on Monday.
—You know what, said Duchess, with a finger in the air. That’s even better. Now we’ll have the Studebaker and the Caddy. After we go to the Adirondacks, we can caravan to California.
—Oooh, said Charity from across the room. A caravan!
Before Emmett could dispel anybody’s ideas about a caravan to California, a door behind the piano opened and in lumbered the woman who had ridden the tricycle, though now in a giant terrycloth robe.
—Well, well, she said in a raspy voice. Who do we have here?
—It’s Emmett, said Duchess. The one I told you about.
She looked at Emmett with narrowed eyes.
—The one with the trust?
—No. The one I borrowed the car from.
—You’re right, she said with a touch of disappointment. He does look like Gary Cooper.
—I wouldn’t mind being cooped up with him, said Charity.
Everyone but Emmett laughed, and no one louder than the big woman.
As Emmett felt the color rising to his cheeks again, Duchess put a hand on his shoulder.
—Emmett Watson, let me introduce you to the sprightliest lifter of spirits in the city of New York: Ma Belle.