"Port Chicago."
Four buildings and a pier. "Chicago."
"Port Chicago. There's a difference."
"I can see there is." Gabe's eyes rolled upward, seeking inspiration from the sky. "Pittsburg was bigger than this!"
"Wait till you see Richmond."
"What's San Francisco? Two stovepipes and a tent?"
CHAPTER FOUR
She found herself liking this self-proclaimed city slicker. It was hard to tell why. He didn't have any money. He didn't like California. He thought everybody who didn't have an accent like his was a hick. She had met plenty of snob dudes with their Boston drawls and their noses in the air, but this one wasn't like that-he was even worse.
She looked at him fondly. He was drooping over the rail in terminal agony and somehow he made her feel protective. Maybe it was because he talked so tough and blustered so much. Her father had been just like that. Underneath he'd been a lamb.
This one was more likely goat than lamb, but there was something appealing in the brave helplessness with which he regarded the world from behind his soulful eyes. He looked underfed and rumpled. His face was an uneven triangle, he tended to talk out of the side of his mouth, he had a voice like lumps of coal rattling down a sheet-metal chute, he wasn't what anybody in the world could possibly call handsome, he was feisty and opinionated-you might even say he was disagreeable; but then you could say all that about a Siamese cat and she loved Siamese cats.
She said, "That's Richmond."
He lifted his head, which had been hanging over the rail. He had a look. "It would be," he said and let his head droop again.
The boat eased up against the rickety pier. Its every shift was echoed by a muffled groan from the dude draped on the rail. Finally the boat stopped, and the dude made a dash for the pier.
She went along with him. "Don't you ever get used to it?"
"To tell you the truth," he said glumly, "I haven't gone out of my way to try."
The mid-afternoon sun was warm on deck. She waited for him to come up from the rail to the nearly vertical. He kept hold on the rail, but it was one of his respite periods between relapses. She was learning to time his cycles and she didn't bother to talk to him except during the respites.
"Maybe we ought to introduce ourselves," she said. "What do you call yourself?"
"Unless I want me, I don't call."
"Well, my name's Evangeline."
"Evangeline," he said in a flat tone of voice, looking at her with an expression that implied he didn't believe a bit of it but that it didn't surprise him because it wasn't the first time he'd been lied to.
"That's the truth. Evangeline Kemp."
"Sure."
"No, really."
He looked her over. "Your parents sure didn't know much when they named you."
"You bite your tongue!"
"I only speak as a gent whose pocket you picked. What do folks call you? Vangie?"
"Not if they care whether I speak to them or not. My name is Evangeline. E-van-ge-line."
"Well, I'll tell you, Vangie," he said weakly. "Right now four syllables is more than I can handle all at once."
"I'd rather be called Hey-You."
"In your line of work you probably are, most of the time."
"That was the first time in my life I ever did anything like that," she said.
He just looked at her.
She shifted around a bit, looking defensive. "That's the truth," she said.
"Fine," he said. "Now tell me a lie. I want to see the difference."
"No, really." She leaned toward him, her expression earnest and brave but tragic. "My folks are down in San Francisco," she said, "and all my money was stolen from me, and…"
"Vangie," he said. "Just pretend you told me the whole story, all right?"
Innocent bewilderment spread across her face. "Story?"
"Let's just say," he suggested, "that I'm not quite as gullible as some of these acorn-crackers you're used to around here."
She would have had a comment on that, but he'd hardly got the statement out before he was into another relapse. Evangeline left him in disgust and took a turn around the deck. When she returned he was still draped over the rail with one eye on the big toughs who stood in a circle around the stack of gold boxes.
He looked like a consumptive with the wadded handkerchief pressed against his mouth, but she knew that wasn't it. She'd never seen such a persistent case of seasickness before.
It was a terrible thing. She patted his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Really."
He looked at her balefully, but when the relapse ended he straightened up and said, "It's supposed to be funny."
"I don't think it's funny."
"You don't, do you," he said. He was looking at her in a different way now.
"Well it must be very painful. I mean I don't see anything to laugh about."
"That's real sweet of you, Vangie."
"You'll feel better when we get to dry land."
"Yeah."
Liking him, feeling a strange sort of comradeship, a kind of rapport, she said, "You still haven't told me your name."
"Uh," he said. He looked pale, but alert. "It's, uh, John Lexington."
So much for rapport. "What do people mostly call you?" she asked. "Mister Avenue?"
It was his turn to display injured innocence. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I maybe never was in New York City," she said, "but I've heard of it. And I've heard of Lexington Avenue."
"Well, it's a name," he said. "They called it after somebody, didn't they?"
"Not after you. Come on, now, I told you my real name."
"E-van-ge-line Kemp," he said slowly, working the name over like a tough steak. "Yeah, you probably did."
"I did."
"Mine's Gabe," he said.
"Gabe what?"
"Beauchamps."
"Bo-champs?"
"Right."
"What's the Gabe stand for?"
"Gabe," he said. "Excuse me."
She watched him go into another relapse, sagging over the rail once more like a mattress hanging out a window to air. She studied him with a mixture of sympathy and awe. "Don't you ever empty?"
"Uuuurrrrg."
CHAPTER FIVE
Gabe watched the water go by. How could there be so much water in the world?
"There it is," the girl said.
He went on peering droop-lidded at the water. Whatever it was, he didn't see it. "Where?"
"Not down there. Over there. San Francisco!" She made it sound like a fanfare of cornets.
He lifted his head-it weighed a ton-and saw one of the world's biggest small towns. "Oh, that's fine," he said. "That's just dandy."
"We've got tall buildings and everything," she said, on the defensive again.
"You do not. You have short buildings on tall hills. There's a difference."