Frank Hubble kicked open the door from the broadcast studio. An LP of Gershwin tunes was on the turntable, twenty minutes of music. Hubble, lighting his pipe, said, “What are you doing?”
“Taking home my stuff. Bringing station stuff back.”
“Why don’t you leave it all here? You’ll be back in August.”
“Maybe not,” he said.
Tossing a dead match across the room to the wastebasket, Hubble said, “Patricia was in earlier.”
“That’s why I’m in late,” he said. It was after ten o’clock.
“I don’t mean during the day. I mean around fifteen minutes ago. She was supposed to meet Bob, but he’s out closing some deal. You know how he operates.”
“More used car lots?” Jim said. He could imagine Bob Posin still out, still chasing down contacts.
“No, this is for a food account. She was all dressed up. I guess they were going out for a good time.”
Jim continued sorting the records from the cabinet. A Fats Wailer disc slipped from his fingers, and he seized it and stuffed it into the carton. It was not his, but the hell with it, he wanted to finish and get out of the station.
“Take it easy,” Frank said. Puffing on his pipe, he strolled back into the studio and closed the door.
While he was returning the station’s records to the cabinet, a woman’s voice said from behind him, “Hello, Jim.”
“Hi,” he said, continuing to work.
Pat entered the office. Her clothes, as always, were the best, he thought, noticing her shoes, her high heels, the straps at her ankles. She wore a rust-colored suit; a coat was over her arm, and on her hair was a small, simple hat. How red her lips are, he thought. Her figure was remarkable, but he was wise enough to recognize it from the bra ads; it was a professional figure, done with wire hoops and cones and straps. Too much pointing. Too much of an upward angle.
“What time did you get up?” she said. “The next morning.”
“Around ten,” he said.
“I thought you should sleep. & I didn’t wake you up. Did you see my note?”
“No, I cleared out as soon as I could.”
Pat said, “I said in the note that you should go ahead and have breakfast. There was bacon and eggs in the refrigerator. And if you wanted lunch there was a frozen chopped steak in the freezer.”
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I saw the note. But I wanted to get out.”
“Why?” She walked over beside him and the hem of her coat dangled by his shoulder. Close beside him her legs were smooth in that fine, regular manner that was so gratifying to the touch.
“Because,” he said, “I was miserable enough as it was.”
“You saw the writeup in the Chronicle?”
Pouring the odds and ends into the carton, he prepared to carry his possessions downstairs. “I’m parked in the taxi zone,” he said. “I don’t know how long I can get away with it.”
“Are you moving out your things?”
She followed as lie lugged the carton along the hall to the stairs. “Can I carry anything?”
“I can manage,” he said. “Use the elevator.”
“Habit.” He returned to the hall and, with the corner of the carton, punched the button for the elevator. “You’re going out tonight?”
“Yes,” she said.
“You look good,” he said. “When did you get that suit?”
“I’ve had it.”
The elevator arrived, and Pat held the door aside for him. “Don’t come down with me,” he said.
“Why not?” She was already in the elevator; she touched the button, and the elevator descended. “I can help you with the car door.”
When they reached the ground floor, she went ahead of him. He carried his load outside onto the sidewalk and to his parked car. Sure enough, a San Francisco cop was prowling at the license plate, considering it for a ticket. His motorcycle leaned by the curb, and he was already reaching his gloved hands toward his pad and pencil.
“Station business,” Jim said, balancing his load to get out his keys. “Records and scripts.” The cop eyed him.
“We always use this loading zone.” As Pat opened the car door, he shoved the carton inside onto the back seat and went quickly around to the wheel.
“This is a taxi zone,” the cop informed him.
“I’ll be right out of here,” he said, starting the motor.
The cop shook his head and returned to his motorcycle. Jumping bodily on the accelerator, he roared off into the nighttime traffic and was gone.
“I have to go back up,” Jim said. He had forgotten his hat and Anacin bottle. “Will he be back?” Pat said.
“No,” he said, shutting off the motor. “Not for a while.”
They went back up, this time walking up the flight of stairs. The building was cold and deserted, and the stairs were gloomy. Beside him, Pat put on her coat; he helped her with it.
“It’s scary,” she said, “this late at night.” She held onto the bannister. He said, “I appreciated that, your letting me stay.”
“If wish—” she said. “I wish we could have gone ahead.” She stared down at the steps.
Upstairs on the station floor, she caught Frank Hubbies attention through the glass window of the broadcasting booth. When he stepped out, she said, “Has Bob been in?”
“No,” Hubble said, “not since you were in last.”
While Jim got his hat and Anacin bottle, she telephoned Bob Posin’s apartment. Hanging up, she said, “No answer.”
“He’s out making money,” Jim said.
They went back down the flight of stairs. There, under the windshield wiper of his car, was a ticket. “He came back,” Pat said.
“He or one of his kind.” Furiously, Jim tossed the hat and Anacin bottle in with the other things. “You should have moved it,” she said, “when he told you to.”
“How do you like that,” he said, trying to control himself. “You can’t believe in anything anymore.”
“You always hated to get a ticket.”
He stuffed the ticket into his pocket. “Don’t you? That’s ten bucks shot. For nothing.”
“Calm down,” Pat said.
“Good night.” He started into the car.
“Wait,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t want you to go off like this. Why don’t you take me across the street? That wouldn’t do any harm.”
He looked to see what was across the street. Most of the shops were closed and dark, and he dismissed them, but the Roundhouse cocktail lounge was open, and he realized that she meant it.
“The bar?” he said.
“No,” she said, changing her mind, “let it go.”
“Why not?” he said, taking hold of her arm. Why not indeed, he thought to himself, not letting her go. “I better not,” she said.
“If it was all right for me to stay with you the other night—” He led her across the street—the traffic was held up at a light—and onto the far curb. “This certainly ought to be okay.”
She was nervous. “It’s so much like a date. As if you were taking me out again.”
“I am,” he said, keeping tight hold of her.
Pulling away, she walked a few rapid steps; her heels clacked on the pavement. “I was just afraid if you drove you might be under too much strain; you are, aren’t you? You might hit something. And I’d blame myself.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, pushing open the doors of the bar. With all his willpower, he kept himself from looking back; the doors swung shut, and he was inside, alone. The Roundhouse was a small high-class bar where the drinks were mostly water and cost more than he could afford; he traditionally avoided the place. The booth seats were red leather with brass studs. Quite a number of women were at the bar, and they were all well dressed. At the rear, a jukebox played dance music, strings and winds. The air was close. Everyone seemed to be smoking as well as talking.