Shelley put a hand on Walker’s arm. She had seen a free table. They got up and went over to it.
“How come you never say anything like that to me, Gordon? How about offering me a cocktail?”
He called a waitress and ordered Shelley a White Russian, which was what she claimed she wanted. Before the waitress could leave with the drink order Shelley called her back.
“Do you see that man at the bar,” she asked the girl, “the big one with the blond lady?” The waitress followed Shelley’s nod. “We’d like to buy him a drink.”
“Cut it out, Shelley,” Walker said.
“When you give him the drink,” Shelley said, “tell him we’re putting assholes to sleep tonight. And we got his number.”
“Shut up,” Walker said. “Forget it,” he told the waitress. The waitress was tall and dark, with a long melancholy face. One side of her mouth twitched in a weird affectless smile.
“You,” she said to Shelley, “you used to work here, right?”
Shelley wiggled her eyebrows, Groucho Marx-like.
“That’s right,” Walker said.
“So,” the girl asked, “you don’t want me to …?”
“Of course not,” Walker said.
“I myself hail from Tougaloo,” Shelley said to Walker. “May one inquire where you yourself hail from?”
“It’s so gruesome,” Walker said. “It’s like a wildlife short.”
“What animal is he, hey, Gord?”
“I don’t know why we come here anymore,” Walker said.
“I bring you here to listen to dialogue,” Shelley said. “ ’Cause I’m your agent’s gal Friday. It’s my job.”
“It’s so fucking depressing.”
“Slices of life, Gordo. That’s what we want from you. Verismo.”
“Do you see that guy? Does he really look like that? Is it something wrong with me?”
“No,” she said. She spoke slowly, judiciously. “It’s a wildlife short.”
“She doesn’t see him.”
“She doesn’t seem to, no.”
“It’s loneliness,” Walker said. He shook his head. “That’s how bad it gets.”
“Oh, yeah, Gordon? Tell me about it.”
“I hope,” he said, “you didn’t get me down here to pick on.”
“No, baby, no.” She patted his hand and smiled sadly. She shook her head vigorously and tossed her hair, and made mouths at him.
He watched her, wondering if she were not on speed. Of course, he thought, it was difficult to tell with Shelley. She was a clamorous presence, never at rest. Even quiet, her reverie cast a shadow and her silences had three kinds of irony. She was a workout.
“What are you doing with yourself, Shelley?”
“Well,” she said, “sometimes I have assignations in crummy ocean-front hotels. Sometimes I get high and go through the car wash.”
“Going to open your own shop soon?”
She was watching the man with the voice and his companion. She shrugged.
“I’m not sure I want to be an agent, Gordon.”
“Sure you do,” he said.
“Look,” Shelley said, raising her chin toward the man, “he’s gonna light a Virginia Slim. His balls will fall off.”
A squat man of sixty-odd passed by their table, carrying an acoustic guitar.
“Hiya, Tex,” he called to Shelley. “How you doin’, kid?”
“Hi,” Shelley replied brightly, parodying her own Texas accent. “Real good, hey.”
The older man had stopped to talk. Shelley turned her back on him and he walked away, climbed the Miramar’s tiny stage and began to set up his instrument.
“That fuck,” she told Walker. “He thinks he’s my buddy. When I worked here he practically called me a hooker to my face.”
“I can’t remember how long ago it was you worked here,” Walker said.
“Can’t you, Gordo? Bet that’s because you don’t wanna. Eight years ago. When I left Paramount.” She sipped from her drink and turned toward the picture window. The last light of the day had drained from the sky but no lights were lighted in the Miramar Lounge. “Yes, sir, boy. Eight years ago this very night, as they say.”
“Funny period that was.”
“Oh, golly,” Shelley said. “Did we have good times? We sure did. And was I fucked up? I sure was.”
“Remember gently.”
“Clear is how I remember. I had little cutie-pie tights. Remember my cutie-pie tights?”
“Do I ever,” Walker said.
“Yep,” she said. “Little cutie-pie tights and I wanted to be an actress and I wanted to be your girl. High old times, all right.”
The elderly man with the guitar began dancing about the little stage. He struck up his guitar and went into a vigorous rendering of “Mack the Knife” in the style of Frank Sinatra.
“That rat-hearted old fucker,” Shelley said. “I don’t know if I can take it.”
“How come he called you a hooker?”
“Well shit, I guess he thought I was one.” Her eyes were fixed on the singer. “So I called him on it. So he cussed me out and fired me. Now I’m his old friend.”
“And you a rabbi’s daughter.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Gordon. You remember, huh? It amuses you.”
“The rabbi’s raven-haired daughter. Makes a picture.”
She blew smoke at him. “My father was a social worker in a hospital. He was a clinical psychologist but he had been ordained. Or whatever it’s called.”
Walker nodded. “You told me that too, I guess.”
“I told you it all, Gordo. The story of my life. You’re forgetting me, see?”
He shook his head slowly. “No.” He was aware of her eyes on him.
“Hey, you don’t look too good, old buddy. You looked O.K. in Seattle.”
“I been on a drunk. This is what I look like now.”
“You’re nuts, Gordon. You live like you were twenty-five. I’m supposed to be a hard-drivin’ player and I’m not in it with you.”
“It’s a failure of inner resources. On my part, I mean.”
“You better be taking your vitamins.”
“Connie left me,” Walker said.
He watched her pall-black eyes fix on his. She was always looking for the inside story, Shelley. Maybe there was more to it, he thought. Maybe she cares.
She drew herself up and studied the smoke from her cigarette. Her mouth had a bitter curl to it; for a moment she was aged and somber.
“Well,” she said, “wouldn’t I have liked to hear that eight years ago.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to hear it eight years ago,” Walker said. “You get to hear it now.”
She smiled, a thin sad smile.
“Actually,” she said, “Al told me.”
“Ah. So you knew.”
“Yes,” she said. “I knew.”
“Hard-ass, aren’t you?”
“Come off it, Gordon. You can’t cry on my shoulder. It’s a fucking ritual. She’ll be back.”
He turned away from her. The candlelight and the red and green lanterns were reflected in the seaward picture window, together with the faces of the customers. In the glass, everything looked warm and glad, a snug harbor.
“I hope you’re right.”
She only nodded, holding her faint smile.
“Maybe I shouldn’t take it seriously,” Walker said. “But I think I do.”
A ripple of anger passed across Shelley’s face, shattering her comedy smile. Her brow furrowed.
“Do you, Gordon? Then why the hell are you …” Her voice was trembling. She stopped in the middle of a word.
“What, Shell?”
“Nothing. I’m not getting into it.” She was facing the bar and her gaze had fastened once more on the crooning seducer and his fair intended. Her eyes were troubled. “Look at him, Gordon. He eats shit, that guy. He’s a hyena. Let’s take him out.” She turned to Walker and seized his sleeve. “Come on, man. You can do it. You would have once. Punch the son of a bitch.”