Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/209



ABOUT FIVE BLOCKS FROM THE BAR, where Paul had taken Gaylord, was the apartment of Gene Limbeaux. It was in the heart of the old French Quarter; nestled there close to the cathedral and white-washed cafes.

He too had lived life's gallantries and its despairs, its varying tides, its random collisions and its shifting incidental terrains, but here, amid the blend of many races, French, Creole, Negro, and Irish, he had found his place to live and grow old.

Gene Limbeaux was half French and half Jewish. He was short and his moon-faced countenance was as plump as his stomach. His skin was fair and hairless. His womanly eyes were encrusted with deep crow's-feet and his lips were very thick. He didn't look his forty-five years even though his brown hair was quite grey around the temples. He wore a pair of nile green lounging pajamas and around his expanding waist was a long gold cord with tassels almost touching the carpet.

He was alone in the bathroom, curling his short eyelashes with a lash curler, when the phone rang. At the sound, he threw his hand against his flabby chest and shrieked, "Uh," as if frightened.

"Coming, Mary," he sang out loud.

Going to the phone he drew in his stomach. "God," he cried, "I'm getting fat." And with disgust, he felt the roll of flesh around his waist, picked up the receiver.

"Carmen speaking," he sputtered in a high voice. "Oh, Paul, it's you. How are you dahling? I was just making myself beautiful for you … Oh, you have. You're lucky … bring him along. May be just my type," he giggled. "Oh … You do, huh … Here I thought you loved me." He smirked a silly laugh. "You're a dear. I knew I could get a little compliment out of you if I tried hard enough. Where are you? … That's marvelous." He turned the large ring on his 199