“I’m not joking,” she said. “You always think I’m joking, and you really shouldn’t because I’m — I’m a serious girl.”
“I know.”
“So…”
He shifted his position abruptly, grimacing.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, suddenly concerned.
“No. This goddamn pistol.” He shifted again.
“Pistol?”
“Yes. In my back pocket. We have to carry them, you know. Even off duty.”
“Not really? A gun? You have a gun in your pocket?”
“Sure.”
She leaned closer to him. Her eyes were clear now, as if they had never known tears or sadness. They sparkled with interest. “May I see it?”
“Sure.” He reached down, unbuttoned his jacket, and then pulled the gun with its leather holster from his hip pocket. He put it on the table. “Don’t touch it, or it’ll go off in your face.”
“It looks menacing.”
“It is menacing. I’m the deadest shot in the 87th Precinct.”
“Are you really?”
‘“Kling the King,’ they call me.”
She laughed suddenly.
“I can shoot any damn elephant in the world at a distance of three feet,” Kling expanded. Her laugh grew. He watched her laughing. She seemed unaware of the transformation.
“Do you know what I feel like doing?” he said.
“What?”
“I feel like taking this gun and shooting out that goddamn Spry sign across the river.”
“Bert,” she said, “Bert,” and she put her other hand over his, so that three hands formed a pyramid on the table. Her face grew very serious. “Thank you, Bert. Thank you so very, very much.”
He didn’t know what to say. He felt embarrassed and stupid and happy and very big. He felt about eighty feet tall.
“What — what are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“Nothing. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I’m calling Molly Bell to explain why I can’t snoop around anymore. And then I’m stopping by at your place, and we’re going on a picnic. If the sun is shining.”
“The sun’ll be shining, Bert.”
“I know it will,” he said.
She leaned forward suddenly and kissed him, a quick, sudden kiss that fleetingly touched his mouth and then was gone. She sat back again, seeming very unsure of herself, seeming like a frightened little girl at her first party. “You — you must be patient,” she said.
“I will,” he promised.
The waiter suddenly appeared. The waiter was smiling. He coughed discreetly. Kling watched him in amazement.
“I thought,” the waiter said gently, “perhaps a little candlelight at the table, sir? The lady will look even more lovely by candlelight.”
“The lady looks lovely just as she is,” Kling said.
The waiter seemed disappointed. “But…”
“But the candlelight, certainly,” Kling said. “By all means, the candlelight.”
The waiter beamed. “Ah, yes, sir. Yes, sir. And then we will order, yes? I have some suggestions, sir, whenever you’re ready.” He paused, his smile lighting his face. “It’s a beautiful night, sir, isn’t it?”
“It’s a wonderful night,” Claire answered.
The Mugger, 1956
The department stores on Friday, December 22nd, were a little crowded. Bert Kling could not honestly say he disliked the crowds because the crowds forced him into close proximity with Claire Townsend, and there was no girl he’d rather have been proximately close to. On the other hand, however, the alleged purpose of this excursion was to pick up presents for people like Uncle Ed and Aunt Sarah — whom Kling had never met — and the sooner that task was accomplished, the sooner he and Claire could begin spending an uncluttered afternoon together. This was, after all, a day off and he did not enjoy trudging all over department stores on his day off, even if that trudging were being done with Claire.
He had to admit that of all the trudgers around, he and Claire made the nicest looking pair of trudgers. There was a tireless sort of energy about her, an energy he usually associated with Phys. Ed. majors. Phys. Ed. majors were easily identified by short, squat bodies with muscular legs and bulging biceps. Claire Townsend had none of the attributes of the Phys. Ed. major, except the tireless energy — Claire, in Kling’s estimation, was perhaps the most beautiful woman alive. She was certainly the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Her hair was black. There are blacks, you know, and then there are blacks. But Claire’s hair was a total black, a complete absence of light, a pure black. Her eyes were a warm brown, arched with black brows. She had the pale complexion of a high-bred Spanish girl coupled with the high cheek bones of an Indian. Her nose was straight and her mouth was full, and she was obviously the loveliest woman in the world. Whether she was or not doesn’t matter. Kling thought she was.
He also thought she was a dynamo.
He wondered when the dynamo would run down, but the dynamo kept right on discharging electrical bolts and buying gifts for Cousin Percy and Grandmother Eloise, and Kling trailed along like a dinghy tied to a schooner in full sail, mixing his metaphors with reckless abandon.
“You should see what I got you,” she told him.
“What?” he asked.
“A gold-plated holster for your ridiculous weapon.”
“My gun, you mean?” he asked.
“And a carton of soap for your dirty mind.”
“I’ll bet I could make 2nd/Grade in ten minutes just picking up shoplifters here,” he said.
“Don’t pick up any who are young or blond.”
“Claire…”
“Look at those gloves! Only $2.98 and perfect for…”
“Cousin Antoinette in Kalamazoo. Claire…”
“As soon as I get these gloves, darling.”
“How do you know what I was going to say?”
“You want to stop all this nonsense and get some drinks, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Just what I had in mind,” Claire said. And then, being in a gay and expansive mood, she added, “You should be delighted. When we’re married, you’ll have to pay for all this junk.”
It was the first time the subject of marriage had come up between them and, being towed as he was, Kling almost missed it. Before he became fully aware of the miracle of what she had said, Claire had purchased the $2.98 gloves and was whisking him along to the roof garden of the store. The roof garden was packed with matronly women who were bulging with bundles.
“They only serve those triangular little sandwiches here.” Kling announced. “Come on, I’ll take you to a shady bar.”
The shady bar he took her to was really not quite so shady as all that. It was dim, true, but dimness and shadiness are not necessarily synonymous.
When the waiter tiptoed over, Kling ordered a Scotch on the rocks and then glanced inquisitively toward Claire.
“Cognac,” she said, and the waiter crept away.
“Are you really going to marry me someday?” Kling asked.
“Please,” Claire told him. “I’ll burst. I’m full of Christmas cheer, and a proposal now will just destroy me.”
“But you do love me?”
“Did I ever say so?”
“No.”
“Then what makes you so impetuous?”
“I’m sure you love me.”
“Well, confidence is a fine quality, to be sure, but…”
“Don’t you?”
Claire sobered quite suddenly. “Yes, Bert,” she said. “Yes, Bert darling, I do love you. Very much.”
“Well then…” He was speechless. He grinned foolishly and covered her hand with his and blinked.
“Now I’ve spoiled you,” she said, smiling. “Now that you know I’m in your power, you’ll be unbearable.”