“That kid,” he said.
“That kid,” she said, “was you. Still is you.”
“Is the girl safe?” he said.
At the dresser she brushed her hair with a hairbrush, her head down, her arms raised. “They’re both safe. So are we. We’re in together; we can’t menace them . . . can we? How is this a menace? Have I taken anything away from him? Have you taken anything from her?”
“No,” he said, “and I’m not going to.”
She had stopped brushing her hair. “Jim,” she said, “if this doesn’t heal you and me, then nothing ever will. Do you understand? Do you see that?”
“I see,” he said, “that after you finish messing around here and wrecking these kids’ marriage and lives, you’re going to say that’s it and you’re going back and marry Bob Posin.”
“I won’t marry him,” she said, “under any circumstances. Whatever happens.”
“Thank god for that,” he said.
“If this doesn’t work out—I don’t know what I’ll do. Anyhow—” She tossed down her hairbrush and ran over to him; her eyes were bright with joy. “I’m so happy. It was like nothing on earth; he just never got tired or wore out, the way we used to. We could have gone on forever, all night and all day tomorrow and on and on, not even eating or sleeping, just going on forever.”
“How about your job?”
His tone made the color and glow vanish from her. She finished dressing, and then she said, “How’s Rachael?”
“Okay.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Not much.”
Pat said, “I’m—a little scared of her.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Would she—do anything?”
“I haven’t any idea. But,” he said, “I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.” He patted her on the back. “Think about that for a while.”
“She’s just a kid,” Pat said. “She’s only sixteen.” But in her voice was a thread of concern. “That’s silly. She’ll mope for a while, like you. But my god, he’s going back to her; does she think this is going to last forever? It’s not—”
Leaving her apartment, he walked downstairs.
When he got home to his own apartment, the phone was ringing. Leaving the hall door open, with his key in the lock, he crossed the dark cold living room and groped on the table at the end of the couch.
“Hello?” he said, finding the receiver. An ashtray tumbled to the floor, disappearing from sight.
“This is Pat.” She was crying, and he could barely understand her. “I’m sorry, Jim. I don’t know what to do. I’m so unhappy.”
Softening, he said, “Don’t feel bad. It can probably be patched up.”
“I—wish we hadn’t gone over there. I didn’t mean to get involved with him.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said. It was his fault, not hers.
“They’re both so sweet,” Pat said. She was blowing her nose and undoubtedly wiping her eyes.
“Better go to bed,” he said. “Get some sleep. You have to go to work tomorrow.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“Don’t be silly,” he said.
“Do You?”
“Of course.”
She said, “I wish we could get along. It’s so miserable. What do you think will happen? Is Rachael out gunning for me? Do you think she’ll be after me?”
“Go to bed,” he repeated.
“I guess you don’t want to come back here tonight. Even for a while.”
“I can’t,” he said. “The cops towed away my car.”
“I—could get you in my car.”
“Go to bed,” he repeated. “I’ll see you in a day or so. I’ll call you up.”
“Is it too late for me to call her tonight?”
“If I were you,” he said, “I’d stay away from them.”
“All right,” Pat said. He hung up, and then he went stiffly into the bathroom and turned on water for a shower.
11
In the course of keeping strong ties with his various clients, Bob Posin met Hugh Collins, the wealthy San Francisco credit optometrist, for lunch.
“Hugh, old man,” he said.
Across the table they shook hands. Collins was a balding middle-aged person with the grimacing smile of the successful businessman. Station KOIF had carried his ads for three years: hourly spots before and after the summary of the news. Dr. H. L. Collins’s offices were located on Market Street and in Oakland and down the coast in San Jose. He was a major account.
“You’re looking well,” Posin said.
“Same can be said for you, Bob,” Collins said.
“How’s the eye business?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Still selling glasses?”
“Plenty of them.”
The baked salmon steaks arrived; both men began to eat. Toward the conclusion of the meal, Hugh Collins mentioned why he had got hold of Posin.
“Guess you know about our convention.”
“Say,” Posin said, “that’s right. What is it, all the optometrists in North America?”
“Just in the West,” Collins said. “Big doings,” Posin said. “Plenty big. We’re holding it at the St. Francis Hotel.”
“Starts this week, doesn’t it?” Posin said, he had only a hazy idea of such convention activity.
“Next week,” Coffins said. “And I’m heading the entertainment committee.”
“Yeah,” Posin said.
“Look here,” Collins said, leaning toward him, “I want to show you something I picked up for the boys. Not all of them; just the fellows, if you get inc. Personal pals.” From under the table he slipped Posin a fiat, disc-like container.
“What’s this?” Posin said, holding it cautiously, suspecting a trick. “Go ahead, open it.”
“What’ll it do, give me a shock?” He was familiar with convention gimmicks. “No, just open it.”
Posin opened it. Inside the container was a pornographic gewgaw, brightly colored, made of durable plastic. The kind that in the old days had been made from ordinary red-phosphorus kitchen matches and was imported from Mexico. During World War II, he had been stationed at El Paso and had gone down to Juarez and brought such items back; he had made a steady profit on them. It was a shock to see such a thing again after so many years.
This one was better made. He put it through its limited paces; it had only two postures. Going to and doing.
“What do you think?” Collins said.
“Great,” he said, closing the gewgaw up in its box.
“That ought to go over.”
“Absolutely,” Posin said.
Folding and unfolding his napkin, Hugh Collins said, “Of course that won’t hold them for long.”
“It’ll give them something to fiddle with,” Posin said. “So they won’t stick their hands up girls’ dresses along Market Street.”
At that, a queer, strained look appeared on the optometrist’s face. “Look here,” he said hoarsely. “Sure, Hugh.”
“You run a radio station . . . you must see a lot of folks in the entertainment field. Singers, dancers.”
“Sure,” he said.
“You got any ideas? You know, for our entertainment program.”
Posin, out of spite, said, “Like a young fellow to sing pop ballads?”
“No,” Collins said, perspiring. “I mean—well, some gal who can really entertain.”
“Afraid it’s out of my line,” Posin said.
Disappointed, Collins said, “I see.”
“But maybe I know a guy who can help you. An agent. He handles a bunch of singers and similar stuff in San Francisco . . . for different supper clubs and night spots and the Pacific Avenue places.”
“What’s his name?”
“Tony Vacuhhi. I’ll have him give you a call.”
“I’d really appreciate it,” Hugh Collins said. Behind his glasses his eyes sparkled moistly. “I really would, Bob.”