The crowd at the bar was beginning to thin out, and I caught a glimpse of Gavotte, flushed and smiling. He raised his hand to me and made an O with thumb and forefinger. I gave him a soft salute, excused myself around a couple arguing in the doorway, and reached the street. The night was clear now. The stars were shining. I went across to the Chewy, found a rag in the side pocket, and polished up the windshield. After that, I got in and started the motor.
I drove off fast. At the intersection, I nearly ran into a car that had the right of way crossing, so I jammed on the brakes and stopped in a hurry, while the other guy swerved out and glared. After he’d passed, the road was clear. I swung around in a U turn, eased to the curb, and stopped. Ahead of me, half a block away, were the green neon lights of the bar.
I lit a cigarette and sat. A warm wind began to blow from somewhere. People walked along the sidewalk, but nobody paid any attention to me. A long time passed. After a while, a yellow convertible, a Cadillac with the cloth top up, swung in and parked in front of the Green Lantern. It was a nice piece of machinery, built for power, but even at this distance I could see the dents and places where the paint was scraped off. That model had only been out for about a month, so I figured the driver must have worked hard.
More time passed. Once or twice a lighted cigarette butt sailed out from the driver’s side of the yellow convertible. I thought about going to look in the bar, to make sure Sherry was still there.
Then she came out. She started away from me, and I pressed the starter button and let the motor catch and idle. I automatically gunned it a few times, not hard, while I watched through the windshield.
Sherry had stopped and turned toward the Cadillac. I saw an elbow sticking out over the door. Then the door opened, and a man got out. He was short and heavy-set, but he had his back to me, so that was all I could see of him. He and Sherry were talking. I sat there. Once I reached for the ignition key, but changed my mind. Then the man moved slightly, and I saw he was holding Sherry’s arm.
He wasn’t getting tough or anything, and probably nobody else would have noticed a thing. I couldn’t be sure, myself. But I thought Sherry was trying to get away. Not trying to pull her arm free, just waiting for the moment when he’d let go of her and she could start walking away.
I pushed in the clutch, shifted to low, and slid the Chewy slowly forward till it was about six feet behind the Cadillac. Then I turned off the motor and got out. I walked around between the cars and stepped up on the sidewalk.
“Hello, Sherry,” I said.
The man stopped talking and turned around, and at the same time Sherry moved toward me, so he wasn’t holding her arm any more. I couldn’t tell anything by her face. It had that masked, placid look. “So there you are, Nick,” she said, and looked back at the man. She lifted one hand. “Good night, Mac.”
Mac stood there. He was a funny character. Or maybe not funny, exactly. His clothes were good, damned good—a sports outfit—and must have been tailored to fit his short, stocky body. He wasn’t wearing a hat. His face would have been handsome if there’d been less of it. Every feature was a little too much. He wasn’t fat, the most you could say was that he was pudgy. With most faces, there’s some feature that stands out—with Sherry, it’s her eyes first, with those dark eyebrows over them, and then the mouth second. Some people have big noses or thick lips or long cheeks that make them look horsy. But with Mac every feature looked as though it had been put in carefully and then emphasized. He had yellow hair that looked silky and was combed straight back. The light, sleek shine of it drew your attention. But then so did his eyes.
They were smudged in, very far apart, and the lids were clayey and sooty at the same time. His eyes were pale. He looked just a little like Fritz, the blond kid in the “Katzenjammers.”
I looked him over carefully. He stuck out his lower lip like a child and scowled at me. All right. I let it go at that. I hadn’t been introduced. Sherry was back at the Chewy by now, so I went after her and opened the door to let her get in. When she did, I slammed it and went around to the other side, noticing, as I did, that Mac had got back into the convertible.
Just as I settled down behind the steering wheel, the Cadillac’s exhaust roared and the big car jumped backward. Mac must have snapped out his clutch with the accelerator pressed way down. I didn’t have time even to brace myself; I automatically threw out my arm in front of Sherry, pressing her back, and the next second we got a jolt that made my teeth rattle. It was just luck that I’d forgotten to tighten the brake or leave the gear in reverse. We backed up, the way a billiard ball does when another one hits it. I grabbed the steering wheel, which had hit me hard under the breastbone. Then I saw the Cadillac was starting forward, as fast as it had backed up. Blowing out exhaust smoke, it accelerated and kept going.
Now I knew why the convertible’s paint-job looked so bad.
“You all right, Sherry?” I said.
I heard her whistle softly. “I’m fine. You?”
“If I thought I could catch up with that Cadillac, I’d like to try it.”
“Are you hurt, Nick?”
“No. Wait a minute.” I got out and took a quick look at the radiator and the front axle; then I got in again. “I guess the car’s all right. Who is that…that guy?”
“His name’s McElroy. Ted McElroy. He’s from back east. Rich man’s son—you know, Nick.”
“What was he up to just now? Does he make it a habit?”
“Driving like that? He certainly does. Phoenix is getting rich on the fines he pays.”
“I don’t mean that. What was he trying to pull with you?”
“Oh. Oh—that was nothing, Nick.”
“You got in this car pretty quick.”
“Well, of course. But only to save myself an argument. This happens almost every night.” She reached for the door handle. “Thanks for waiting, Nick.”
“Don’t hurry away.”
“I’m tired.”
“All right. I’ll drive you home. I remembered a couple of things I wanted to tell you.”
“It’s no good, Nick,” she said, and pulled the door handle up. I reached over and got hold of her wrist. She tried to pull free.
“For God’s sake,” I said, “are you afraid of me, Sherry?”
I felt the resistance leave her arm. I let it go, and sat there, feeling helpless and miserable. I had no idea what to do next. I hadn’t had any plans anyway. Things had worked out okay up to this point—at least, I was talking to Sherry—but now what? I put my hands on the steering wheel and looked at my fingers.
Her hand moved toward mine and patted it twice, but she didn’t leave it there.
“I’m sorry, Nick.”
“So am I.”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing you don’t know already. I said I’m sorry. Oh…hell. I’ll drive you home now.” I hesitated. “To the door, I mean. Or I’ll drive you to the bus stop or whatever you want.”
When she didn’t answer, I depressed the clutch and slipped in the gear. The Chewy rolled forward. I waited for her to tell me where to turn, but she kept quiet, so I drove straight on along North Central.
After a while we passed Encanto Park and the auto courts started in. Then, suddenly, the desert began. I didn’t remember making any turns, but we were on a good road, not a highway but a paved, empty road that rolled on smoothly under the headlights.
I didn’t try to touch her. I was completely satisfied, and if this could have gone on forever without stopping, I’d have had no kick at all. There was just Sherry and myself, in the warm, closed home of the car, hurrying along through the night.
“We’d better go back, Nick,” she said.
I slowed down and woke up. I hadn’t been noticing the scenery. The paved road had, sometime or other, changed over to an unimproved dirt one, but the rain hadn’t been hard enough to do more than lay the dust. There weren’t any car lights visible, but we had been climbing a long slope, and, as I turned around, a big splash of light, far away, showed where Phoenix was. I stopped the car and turned off the motor. Then I reached for Sherry, and I was kissing her, and it was the way it had always been, just the two of us, and nothing else mattered a damn.
On the way back to Phoenix neither of us said very much. Once Sherry asked me if I wanted a cigarette, and when I said yes, she lit it for me. When we got into the city, she told me the way, and after a time we pulled up in front of a medium-sized apartment house.
“Don’t get out,” she said.
I looked up to where two adjoining windows were lighted on the third floor.
“Is that it?” I asked her.
She gave a funny, breathless little laugh. “I room with a girl. Rents are high here, so it was cheaper to double up. But…just go away now, Nick. Don’t come back tomorrow. Go on east. I was right, you know. It isn’t safe to have you around.”
“Sherry—” I said.
She lifted her face to me, and I kissed her hard. I heard her say, “Good-by, Nick. Really good-by,” and the car door clicked and her heels sounded on the pavement. Otherwise there wasn’t a sound until a truck made a distant rumbling blocks away.
I watched her run up the steps to the apartment house door and get something out of her purse—the key. She stopped, turned around, and waved to me. After that, she was gone, and I started the motor and drove west. I didn’t pay much attention to where I was going.
But after a while I saw I was out in the desert, and a gray light was starting to come from behind me. Pretty soon I passed a roadside shack on the left; it had an EAT sign on top of it and a gas pump in front. So I knew where I was going.
It was not quite dawn when I eased the Chewy up the driveway to the De Anza place. There weren’t any lights visible in the U-shaped house. Around to the side, the garage doors were open, and the Buick was parked inside. I put the Chewy beside it, leaving the keys in the ignition. Then I got out and stretched, listening to my joints and muscles crack. I was dead tired physically, but my mind felt as if it had been washed in champagne. The cold, fresh air, clear and bright, tingled against my skin.
It was still too early to do anything. I walked around the house to the open side of the U, but there weren’t any lights in the inner windows either. I hadn’t expected to see any. I thought I remembered one of those canvas reclining chairs folded up near where the Countess had been sitting, and from what I’d seen of the Mexicans, I doubted if they’d put it away. They hadn’t. I unfolded it carefully, making as little noise as possible, and set it up where the sun would hit me as soon as it climbed over the roof. There weren’t any blankets or robes around, and the air was cold.
Then I walked back to where I could look down the slope. All the darkness had gone by now. The mountains, very far away, were just a hazy layer that could have been low clouds, but Joshua and cactus and yucca were so clear they seemed to have been stamped out against the background. Phoenix was behind me; I couldn’t see it. But I followed the driveway with my eyes, till it dipped out of sight, and then 1 looked to the left where I could pick up a section of the black road that went to Phoenix.
My mind went along it till I found Sherry.
At last I returned to the reclining chair and arranged myself comfortably in it. I was so tired that even the cold couldn’t keep me awake. I dropped into an uneasy doze that soon changed into deep sleep. Once I thought vaguely about the king snake, and told myself drowsily that it wouldn’t be moving around in the cold, and it was harmless anyway. Then I went deeper into sleep and had some dreams I didn’t particularly like, though I couldn’t remember them afterward, and I thought the sun was beating down on me and drying up my mouth and nostrils, and I was drinking beer with Sherry in a car somewhere, or maybe an airplane, but the beer splashed all over my face and it began to burn like fire.
Then the burning stopped. I woke up and stared blindly at Mrs. De Anza. She was standing between me and the sun, which was blazing hot on my legs and body. I blinked at her.
“You’ll get sunstroke,” she said, and turned away so the sun hit me again. I struggled to a sitting position, but it was too awkward in that canvas chair, so I stood up, weaving a little, drunk with sleep.
“If Nick wants to sleep out here or on the roof, that’s his business,” Mrs. De Anza said. She wasn’t talking to me. Looking beyond her, I saw the Mexican woman, Benita, standing silently in the background. “For God’s sake, get me some coffee. Nick, don’t say a word to me till after breakfast. You either, Nita. Get things under control first.” She made an impatient gesture and hurried away.
Benita shrugged. I tried to smile, but my face felt stiff.
“I got in late,” I said. “I didn’t want to wake anybody up.”
She didn’t say anything, but the jerk of her head told me to follow her. So I did, through a door, along a short corridor, and into a bathroom. “Clean up,” she told me. “Then come over to the kitchen. Good-by.” She hadn’t said a word, but the way she managed her arms and hands was a language. She went out, closing the door, and I turned on the cold water and splashed it over my face.
That cleared the dreams out of my head. I looked at myself in the mirror. “Jesus,” I said under my breath.
I went out looking for my rucksack. It still lay where I’d dropped it. I carried it into the bathroom, took out a razor and a tube of brushless shaving cream, and hoped the blade would still cut whiskers. My beard grows fast, and it’s black. I looked like a Hollywood heavy.
I turned on the water in the stall shower. There was nothing I could do about trimming my hair, but at least I could change my socks. I had another pair. They had holes in them but were clean. As for my clothes, all I could do was beat out the dust and pick a few burrs from the trouser legs.
Fifteen minutes later, feeling more respectable, I headed for the kitchen.
Benita was frying bacon. She twisted her head around when I came in and stared at me.
“Thanks,” I said. “I needed to clean up.”
My voice sounded different, smoother and lower, I noticed, surprised. And I felt a little uncomfortable standing there by the door. Why in hell—?
I knew why. I didn’t feel quite as independent. I wanted something now—and this time I knew what I wanted. The job Mrs. De Anza offered yesterday. It had become important, because of Sherry.
Once I realized that, I took a deep breath and explained to myself carefully that there were other jobs. I gave myself a brief, harsh pep talk. Benita interrupted me by pointing toward the inner door.
“No comprendo,” I told her.
Her face didn’t change. She kept on pointing.
“Oh,” I said, and, not being up to a heart-to-heart one-way conversation. I went out of the kitchen and followed the sound of clinking china to the living room. The perfume smell was still here. I didn’t mind it so much this morning. I noticed a lot more—a big, expensive radio-phonograph-television set, a grand piano with the lid lifted, shelves of books and record albums lining the walls, sunlight in bright patches on the heavy rugs and the Monterey furniture. Mrs. De Anza was sitting at a small table, drinking coffee. There was another place set opposite her, but no sign of the Count.
“Well, sit down,” she said impatiently.
“For me? Thanks.” I pulled the chair back and eased myself into it. Even after the shower, I felt stiff and creaky.
She made a weary motion toward the coffee pot, indicating that I might as well help myself. I did. It was strong and black and scalding hot.
“Cream or sugar? Ask Nita if you want ’em.”
“I take it Pittsburgh.”
“What?”
“Black.”
“All right,” she said. “Go ahead and drink it and don’t expect anything except breakfast. Nothing happens here in the morning. Nobody’s awake. You look so cheerful you make me sick.”
I drank coffee. “I ought to apologize,” I said. “I didn’t get back till…well, pretty late.”
“Who cares?” she asked.
“I got lost,” I said, Then I got so sleepy I pulled over and took five. Except it turned out to be five hours. I guess I was bushed.”
“You’re so smart,” she said. “Why didn’t you try the doors? We don’t lock ’em. You could have found a softer place to sleep than that canvas back-breaker.”
You don’t lock the doors at night?”
She shut her eyes wearily, tired of me, and said, “I want some more coffee.”
I poured it. She didn’t thank me.
With her eyes still closed, she yawned widely, settled down in her chair, and said, “You want that job?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s good. Ever been in jail?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me then, a little startled.
“Well, you’ve never killed anybody, have you?”
“Yes.”
For the first time I had thrown her. She sat there, moving her mouth, frowning, not quite sure what to say next. I waited a second before I went on.
“During the war.”
“Oh.”
“The jail term was something else again. That was only ten days, for vagrancy.”
“Anybody can get locked up,” she said, giving me a flat stare. “I’ve been behind bars myself.”
“Real ones?”
She saw I didn’t believe her. I suppose she was trying to shock me a little, the way I’d surprised her, because she said:
“An insane asylum, Nick. In France, before the war.”
I didn’t know whether to believe her or not, so I just nodded. The Countess looked slightly disappointed. She tightened her mouth, looked past me, and shouted, “Come on, come on, Nita. I’m hungry.”
Benita didn’t hurry. She trudged across the room with her burden, a big, loaded tray, set it down on the table, and began to unload it. Mrs. De Anza started right in. She drained a big glass of orange juice and began tearing a brioche apart like a starving castaway.
I decided I’d better begin eating too, if I hoped to get any. So for a while neither of us said anything. It was a race to see who finished first. She won, but I was neater.
Afterward, my stomach felt full. I leaned back in the chair, sucking in a lungful of smoke, and looked around. The grand piano in the corner was probably out of tune, in this desert air—then I changed my mind, realizing that the house was air-conditioned. The De Anzas must have dough, I thought.
“Amuse yourself,” Mrs. De Anza said, starting to get up. “I’m going to cut my throat or something. Lovely morning, lovely morning.” Then she lifted her eyebrows and watched me stand up and circle the table. I pulled back her chair.
“Such good manners,” she said, getting up. “They’re wasted here. Or are they?”
She stood with her back to me, apparently thinking.
Then she came to life and walked away. Without looking around, she went under the archway and out of my sight. The last thing I saw was a loose strand of red hair waving carelessly behind her.
The cigarette I was holding burned my finger. I came to life with a jump.
“Who cares?” I said under my breath.