Kling looked at his watch. “Almost two. What do I call you? Augusta or Gussie?”
“Depends on what we’re doing,” she said, and smiled.
“What are we doing tonight?” Kling asked immediately.
“I’m busy,” Augusta said.
“How about tomorrow?”
She looked at him for a moment, seemed to make a swift decision, and then said, “Let me check my book.” She reached into her bag for her appointment calendar, opened it, said, “What’s tomorrow, Thursday?” and without waiting for his answer, flipped open to the page marked Thursday, April 22. “No, not tomorrow, either,” she said, and Kling figured he had got the message loud and clear. “I’m free Saturday night, though,” she said, surprising him. “How’s Saturday?”
“Saturday’s fine,” he said quickly. “Dinner?”
“I’d love to.”
“And maybe a movie later.”
“Why don’t we do it the other way around? If you won’t mind how I look, you can pick me up at the studio…”
“Fine…”
“Around six, six-fifteen, and we can catch an early movie, and then maybe grab a hamburger or something later on. What time do you finish work?”
“I’ll certainly be free by six.”
“Okay, the photographer’s name is Jerry Bloom, and he’s at 1204 Concord. The second floor, I think. Aren’t you going to write it down?”
“Jerry Bloom,” Kling said, “1204 Concord, the second floor, at six o’clock.”
“Gussie, let’s go!” Schaeffer shouted.
“Saturday,” she said and, to Kling’s vast amazement, touched her lingers to her lips, blew him an unmistakable kiss, grinned, and walked swiftly to where Rick Schaeffer was waiting.
Kling blinked.
The trouble was, Kling could not stop staring at her.
He had picked up Augusta at six o’clock sharp, and whereas she had warned him about the way she might look after a full day’s shooting, she looked nothing less than radiant. Red hair still a bit damp (she confessed to having caught a quick shower in Jerry Bloom’s own executive washroom), she came into the reception room to meet Kling, extended her hand to him, and then offered her cheek for a kiss he only belatedly realized was expected. Her cheek was cool and smooth, there was not a trace of makeup on her face except for the pale green shadow on her eyelids, the brownish liner just above her lashes. Her hair was brushed straight back from her forehead, falling to her shoulders without a part. She was wearing blue jeans, sandals, and a ribbed jersey top without a bra. A blue leather bag was slung over her right shoulder, but she shifted it immediately to the shoulder opposite, looped her right hand through his arm, and said, “Were you waiting long?”
“No, I just got here.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. What do you mean?”
“The way you’re looking at me.”
“No. No, no, everything’s fine.”
But he could not stop staring at her. The film they went to see was Bullitt, which Kling had seen the first time it played the circuit, but which Augusta was intent on seeing in the presence of a real cop. Kling hesitated to tell her that, real cop or not, the first time he’d seen Bullitt he hadn’t for a moment known what the hell was going on. He had come out of the theater grateful that he hadn’t been the cop assigned to the case, partially because he wouldn’t have known where to begin unraveling it, and partially because fast car rides made him dizzy. He didn’t know what the movie was about this time either, but not because of any devious motivation or complicated plot twists. The simple fact was that he didn’t watch the picture; he watched Augusta instead.
It was dark when they came out into the street. They walked in silence for several moments, and then Augusta said, “Listen, I think we’d better get something straight right away.”
“What’s that?” he said, afraid she would tell him she was married, or engaged, or living with a high-priced photographer.
“I know I’m beautiful,” she said.
“What?” he said.
“Bert,” she said, “I’m a model, and I get paid for being beautiful. It makes me very nervous to have you staring at me all the time.”
“Okay, I won’t…”
“No, please let me finish…”
“I thought you were finished.”
“No. I want to get this settled.”
“It’s settled,” he said. “Now we both know you’re beautiful.” He hesitated just an instant, and then added, “And modest besides.”
“Oh boy,” she said. “I’m trying to relate as a goddamn person, and you re…
“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable,” he said. “But the truth is…”
“Yes, what’s the truth?” Augusta said. “Let’s at least start with the truth, okay?”
“The truth is I’ve never in my life been out with a girl as beautiful as you are, that’s the truth. And I can’t get over it. So I keep staring at you. That’s the truth.”
“Well, you’ll have to get over it.”
“Why?”
“Because I think you’re beautiful, too,” Augusta said, “and we’d have one hell of a relationship if all we did was sit around and stare at each other all the time.”
She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. Kling searched her face, hoping she would recognize that this was not the same as staring.
“I mean,” she said, “I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, and I’d like to think I’m permitted to sweat every now and then. I do sweat, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose you do,” he said, and smiled.
“Okay?” she said.
“Okay.”
“Let’s eat,” she said. “I’m famished.”
In the dim silence of Augusta Blair’s bedroom, they made love.
It was not so good.
“What’s the matter?” Augusta whispered.
“I don’t know,” Kling whispered back.
“Am I doing something wrong?”
“No, no.”
“Because if I am…”
“No, Augusta, really.”
“Then what is it?”
“I think I’m a little afraid of you.”
“Afraid?”
“Yes. I keep thinking, What’s a dumb kid from Riverhead doing in bed with a beautiful model?”
“You’re not a dumb kid,” Augusta said, and smiled, and touched his mouth with her fingertips.
“I feel like a dumb kid.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re so beautiful.”
“Bert, if you start that again, I’ll hit you right on the head with a hammer.”
“How’d you know about a hammer?”
“What?”
“A hammer. About it being the best weapon for a woman.”
“I didn’t know.”
They were both silent for several moments.
“Relax,” she said.
“I think that’s exactly the problem,” Kling said,
“If you want me to be ugly, I can be ugly as hell. Look,” she said, and made a face. “How’s that?”
“Beautiful.”
“Where’s my hammer?” she said, and got out of bed naked and padded out of the room. He heard her rummaging around in the kitchen. When she returned, she was indeed carrying a hammer. “Have you ever been hit with a hammer?” she asked, and sat beside him, pulling her long legs up onto the bed, crossing them Indian fashion, her head and back erect, the hammer clutched in her right hand.
“No,” he said. “Lots of things, but never a hammer.”
“Have you ever been shot?”
“Yes.”