“Miss Morgan, didn’t you attend school in Southern California?” Emma Lou at last realized where she had seen him before. So this was Truman Walter, the little “cock o’ the walk,” as they had called him on the campus. She answered him with difficulty, for there was a sob in her throat. “Yes, I did.” Before Truman could say more to her, Ray called to him:
“Say, Bozo, what time are we going to the party? It’s almost one o’clock now.”
“Is it?” Alva seemed surprised. “But Aaron and Alta aren’t here yet.”
“They’ve been married just long enough to be late to everything.”
“What do you say we go by and ring their bell?” Tony suggested, ignoring Paul’s Greenwich Village wit.
“’Sall right with me.” Truman lifted his glass to his lips. “Then on to the house-rent party . . . on to the bawdy bowels of Beale Street!”
They drained their glasses and prepared to leave.
“Ahhhh, sock it.” . . . “Ummmm” . . . Piano playing—slow, loud, and discordant, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of shuffling feet. Down a long, dark hallway to an inside room, lit by a solitary red
Go gle
