Getting to his feet, Tweany walked around the apartment pulling down the window shades. He leaned over Mary Anne to reach the window behind her; he smelled of beer and shirt starch and men’s deodorant. “You’re a nice-looking girl.”
She roused herself a little. “I’m too thin.”
“You’re not a bad-looking girl,” he repeated, looking down at her legs. Instinctively she drew them under her. “Do you know that?” he demanded, in an oddly hoarse voice.
“Maybe.” She stirred fitfully . . . it was getting late. Tomorrow morning she had to be up early; she had to be alert and fresh when she went to see about the ad. Thinking of it, she took hold of her purse.
“You a friend of Nitz’s?” Tweany asked.
“I suppose.”
“You like him?” He settled himself facing her, his body slack. “You like Nitz? Answer me.”
“He’s all right,” she said, feeling uncomfortable.
“He’s little.” The man’s eyes were full of brightness. “I bet you prefer your men large.”
“No,” she said irritably, “I don’t care.” Her head had begun to ache, and Tweany’s closeness seemed oppressive. And she hated his beer smelclass="underline" it reminded her of Ed. “Why don’t you clean this place up?” she demanded, shifting away from him. “It’s an awful mess—junk everywhere.”
He sat back and his face collapsed into itself.
“It’s terrible.” She got to her feet and collected her coat, her purse. The apartment was no longer interesting: she blamed him for spoiling it. “It stinks,” she said. “And it’s all littered and I’ll bet the wiring is bad.”
“Yes,” Tweany said. “The wiring is bad.”
“Why don’t you have it fixed? It’s dangerous.”
Tweany said nothing.
“Who cleans up?” she demanded. “Why don’t you have somebody come in?”
“I have a woman come by.”
“When?”
“Once in a while.” He examined his jeweled wristwatch. “It’s time we were getting back, Miss Mary Anne.”
“I suppose. I have to be up early tomorrow.” She watched him go to get his coat; he had withdrawn back into his shell of formality, and it was her fault. “I’m glad your hot water heater’s okay, she said, as a sort of apology.
“Thank you.”
As they walked down the dark night street, Mary Anne said, “Tomorrow I’m going job hunting.”
“Are you.”
“I want to work in a record shop.” She felt his disinterest, and she wanted to draw him back. “It’s that new one that’s opening.” In the late air she trembled.
“What’s the matter?”
“My sinuses. I’m supposed to go down and have them drained. Changes of temperature make them hurt.”
“Will you be all right?” he asked. They had come to the edge of the business section; ahead, along the street of locked shops, she could see the red glow of the Wren.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m going home and go to bed.”
“Good night,” Tweany said, and started away.
“Wish me luck,” she called after him, suddenly feeling the need of luck. Loneliness closed in, and she had to force herself not to flee after him.
Tweany waved and continued on his way. For a moment she stood anxiously watching the diminution of his figure. Then, holding onto her purse, she turned toward her own neighborhood.
5
At eight-thirty the next morning Mary Anne entered the telephone booth in Eickholz’s Creamery and dialed California Readymade Furniture. Tom Bolden answered.
“Let me talk to Edna,” Mary Anne said.
“What? Who do you want?”
When she had got hold of Mrs. Bolden, Mary Anne explained: “I’m sorry, but I can’t be at work today. It’s my period and I always have a lot of difficulty.”
“I see,” Mrs. Bolden said, in a neutral voice that showed neither doubt nor belief, only an acceptance of the inevitable. “Well, there’s not much we can do about it. Will you be back on your feet tomorrow?”
“I’ll keep you posted,” Mary Anne said, already hanging up. The hell with you, she thought. You and your factory and chrome chairs.
She left the creamery. High heels tapping against the pavement, she walked quickly up the sidewalk, conscious of her appearance, aware of the texture and style of her hair, her careful makeup, the scent of her perfume. She had spent two hours grooming herself, and she had eaten only a piece of toast with applesauce and a cup of coffee. She was on edge, but not apprehensive.
The new little record shop had been the Floral Arts Gift Shop. Carpenters were working busily in the newly decorated store, installing overhead recessed lighting and laying carpets. An electrician had parked his truck and was lugging phonographs inside. Cartons of records were piled everywhere; in the rear a pair of workmen were tacking squares of soundproofing to the ceiling of the half-completed booths. The work in progress was directed by a middle-aged man in a tweed suit.
She crossed the street and walked slowly back, trying to make out the figure that loomed over the carpenters. Waving a silverhandled stick, the man paced back and forth, giving instructions, laying down the law. He walked as if the ground came into existence at his feet. He was creating the store from the puddle of fabrics, boards, wiring, tiles. It was interesting to see this big man building. Was he Joseph R. Schilling? She gave up her prowling and approached the store. It was not yet nine.
Passing through the entrance was a sudden leaving of the emptiness of the street; she found herself in the midst of activity. Large and important objects had been collected here; she felt the tightness, the reassuring pressure that meant so much to her. While she was inspecting a newly built counter, the tweed-suited man glanced up and saw her.
“Are you Mr. Schilling?” she asked, a little awed. “That’s right.”
All around them carpenters were hammering; it was noisier than California Readymade. She took a deep, pleased breath of the smell of sawdust, the stiff unfolding of new carpets. “I want to talk to you,” she said. Her wonder grew. “Is this your store? What’s all the glass for?” Workmen were carrying panes to the rear.
“For record booths,” he answered. “Come in the office. Where we can talk better.”
Reluctantly, she forgot the work in progress and trailed after him, down a hall past a flight of basement steps and into a side room. He closed the door and turned to face her.
. . .
It had been Joseph Schilling’s first impulse to send the girl off. Obviously she was too young, not more than twenty. But he was intrigued. The girl was unusually attractive.
What he saw was a small, rather bony girl, with brown hair and pale, almost straw-colored eyes. Her neck fascinated him. It was long and smooth, a Modigliani neck. Her ears were tiny and did not flare in the slightest. She wore gold hooped earrings. Her skin was fair and unblemished and faintly tanned. There was no emphasis of sexuality; her body was not overly developed and there was an ascetic quality to her, a strictness of line that was refreshing and unusual.
“You’re looking for a job?” he asked. “How old are you?”
“Twenty,” she answered.
Schilling rubbed his ear and pondered. “What sort of experience have you had?”
“I worked eight months for a finance company as a receptionist, so I’m used to meeting the public. And then I worked over a year taking dictation. I’m a trained typist.”