Well, whispered Byron, it looks bad for somebody.
Nothing but cheap boasting, Dick retorted. These shines that live off women are all cowards. He won't do a damn thing.
The Creeper had swirled into a dance with a handsome mulatto. His palms were flat across her shoulders, his slender fingers spread apart. There was an ancient impiety about the sensual grace of their united movement.
Take your eyes off the golden-brown, Dick warned, laughing.
You know my type!
It wouldn't take long to learn that.
Byron turned to his companion and looked at him earnestly. Dick, I want to ask you something, he said. Now . . . now . . . that you've gone white, do you really want . . . pinks for boody?
Dick averted his eyes. That's the worst of it, he groaned. I just don't. Give me blues every time.
Baldwin and McKain rejoined them.
Talking to a fellow who's making drawings, the novelist explained. God, but this place is great! I could live up here. Is all Harlem like this?
The question awakened a swarm of perverse, dancing images in Byron's brain. They crowded about each other, all the incongruities, the savage inconsistencies, the peculiar discrepancies, of this cruel, segregated life.
Yes, he replied, I suppose it is.
