"Shocked at skin? Jake dear, you forget that my generation thinks nothing of nudity."

"Hrrmph! One more remark like that and I'll call you ‘Johann' the rest of the evening."

"I'll be good. Mostly. Darling, our waitress suddenly reminded me of the Chesterfield Club. Kansas City in the

palmiest days of the Pendergast machine. Nineteen-thirty-four."

"In nineteen-thirty-four I was barely out of diapers, Eunice. It was something like this?"

"Not as much fake swank and lower prices even allowing for inflation. But otherwise much the same. It specialized in complete nudity even at high noon at the ‘Businessman's Lunch.' Just up the street from the Federal Reserve Bank. Jake, she's headed back. Find out for me."

"How? I don't even have a hat to tip."

"Simply ask her, dear, ask her if she's available. Slip her ten dollars as you do; she won't be insulted."

The waitress came back, smiled, and said, "Have you looked over our drug list? All illegal drugs at the controlled international prices plus twenty-five percent. Guaranteed pure, we obtain them from government sources."

"Not for me, thank you, dear. Eunice? Want a trip?"

"Me? I don't even take aspirin. But I want a steady supply of champagne. And I could use a sandwich, or something. Chiquita, is there a kitchen?"

"There is always a gourmet chef on duty, Ma'am; it says so at the bottom of your wine card. Anything from snacks to Maine lobster. Would you like to see a menu?"

"No, thank you. Maybe a big platter of little sandwiches for all of us, Jake. And don't forget that other matter."

Joan Eunice saw Jake get out a ten-dollar bill. It disappeared and Joan decided that the girl must have folded it with one hand and palmed it. Jake spoke to her in a voice lower than the music.

She smiled and answered clearly. "No, sir, I'm not even allowed to dance with customers—and I'm not in that branch of the business; I'm married. But I can arrange it." The waitress glanced toward the ‘beautiful people' and looked back. "For you sir? Or for both of you?"

"No," Jake answered. "It was just curiosity."

"My curiosity," Joan put in. "I'm sorry, dear; ‘I shouldn't have made him ask you."

"Ma'am, a high roller can be as inquisitive as be wishes. Baby needs shoes." She smiled. "Twins. Boys. Two years old. I was licensed for two and now I'm arguing with the Board as to whether twins use up my license. Since twins are okay under a one-baby license. I'd like to have a little girl, too."

"Jake, be a high roller again; I want to ask" —Joan leaned forward, read the girl's name written or tattooed above her left breast—"Marie another question."

"He's paid for more than one question, really, Ma'am." But a second note disappeared as quickly as the first.

"Marie, do you live inside the turf? With kids?"

"Oh, goodness, no! My husband would never permit that. An armed bus picks me up after supper and delivers me home around breakfast time. Most of us use it. Except—" She indicated the exception by inclining her head toward the corner. "My husband is on night shift at Timken—we match up pretty well."

"Who takes care of your twins at night? Nursery?"

"Oh, no, Mama lives with us. No huhu. Actually, Ma'am, this is a good job. I've been a waitress where I had to wear uniforms—and the work was hard and the tips were small. Here the work is easy and the tips are usually high. Oh, sometimes a customer gets drunk and gropy, but I don't bruise all that easily—and drunks are often the highest tippers. Never any trouble; the guards watch everything." She smiled at Joan. "You could get a job here in two seconds, Ma'am. All it takes is a friendly manner and a good figure—and you've got both."

"Thank you, Marie."

"I'd better go, the maitre d' is bringing a party to another of my tables. ‘Scuse, please—sandwiches will be right in." The girl left. Joan said, "Jake, would you say that she has found her niche?"

"Seems so. As long as she keeps her figure and saves her money. She doesn't pile up Social Security points here; this doesn't count as a job under the rules, it's off the map."

"She doesn't pay income tax?"

"Oh, certainly! The fact that her income doesn't exist, legally, means nothing to revenooers. Though she may hold out a good portion—I would. My dear, do you want to try this music?"

"Jake, I thought you didn't dance?"

"I don't dance this modern stuff. But I can try, if you want to. I wonder if that combo can play Rock? This new stuff has so little beat I don't see why they call it dance music."

Joan chuckled. "Fm so much older that I despised Rock instead of lilting it. Swing was my' era, Jake, and on back clear to the Bunny Hug—though I didn't learn to dance until the fox-trot crowded out the rest."

"I can fox-trot, I'm not all that young. But I doubt if that bunch of disappointed harpists can play one. Eunice, can you tango?"

"Try me, just try me! Learned it when Irene Castle was alive—and with this new body I'm eight times as good as I was then. Been teaching it to Winnie. Do you have a firm lead?"

"Firm enough for you, wench. I'm going to flag the maitre d'—it's possible that they can play one. It's the only tempo that has stayed evergreen through all the passing fads."

"Of course, Jake. Because the tango, danced correctly, is so sexy that you ought to get married afterwards. See if they can play one."

But they were interrupted by busboys arriving with four swivel chairs and Joan decided that it would be polite to sit in hers a while, since she had made a fuss over chairs. Then sandwiches arrived and more champagne and she found she wanted both—bubbly to make her tiddly and sandwiches to soak it up so that she wouldn't get tiddly too fast. Roberto and Winifred, returned to the table; Winnie said, "Oh, food! Good-bye, waistline! Bob, will you love me when I'm fat?"

"Who knows? Let's operate and find out," he answered, reaching for a sandwich with one hand and champagne with the other.

"Winsome, pour that Coke into the wine bucket and have champagne."

"Joanie, you know I mustn't. My Nemesis."

"But this time there's food to go with it... and not the other hazards."

Winifred blushed. "I'll get drunk. I'll get silly."

"Roberto, will you promise this poor child that, if she passes out, you'll get her home safely?" (What's safe about home, twin? You ought to hang out a red light.) (Nonsense, Eunice! Our man won't marry us—so what do you want me to do? I don't give myself to men I don't respect—and I've got years to make up for. I'm nearly ninety-five years old—and knocked up—and healthy—and can't hurt anyone physically and won't hurt anyone socially... a man's pride or anything else. Why shouldn't I be ‘No-Pants' Smith'?)' (‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.' Boss, your Bible-Belt background is chafing you again. Certainly sex is no sin—but you don't really believe it.) (I do so! Always have. I've been almost enough of a busybody to keep you happy. Why do you needle me?) (Beloved Boss. You've shown amazing talent for juggling eggs and I've enjoyed every second of it and I hope you have, too.) (You know I have. So much I'm scared of losing my judgment. My caution, rather, Eunice, I never dreamed how much more it is, to be a woman. It's our whole body.)

The cabaret was crowded now; the lights changed and the floor show began—two comics. Joan listened, tried to look amused, and tried to amuse herself by trying to remember how long ago she had heard each "new" gag. She could see only one improvement in the routines: The "dirty" story of her (his) youth had disappeared. Being based on shock of breaking taboo, the dirty story had bled to death when there were no more taboos. There was sex humor—the comics used plenty of it; sex remained forever the most comical thing on a weary globe. But it was harder to work out real comedy than it once had been simply to shock. But she applauded the comics as they left. There was a black-out and the dance floor changed instantly into a farmyard scene—she found herself more intrigued by trying to guess the mechanics of that "magic" than she had been by the comics.