At the wheel he said, “How’d you like to see the H-h-horch?”
“Whatever you want.”
“It’s real rare,” he said. “You never saw one like it.” As they drove along the dark street, he said, “Maybe you d-d-don’t care.”
She repeated, “Whatever you want.” She sounded indifferent, as if it was all the same to her. To him she sounded far off.
On both sides of the car, industrial installations and warehouses passed. Streetlights were few and far between. Once he saw a bus parked at an intersection; the driver, alone inside, was reading a magazine.
No good, he decided. He turned right and headed back into town.
When they crossed Columbus, Pat said, “Are we going any place in particular?”
“No,” he said.
“Then why don’t we stop over there.” Ahead of them was a night spot; a green-and-blue neon sign whisked on and off. Cars and taxis were parked close by. An awning stretched from the door of the club to the curb; several men in dinner jackets stood in the entrance. A woman in an evening gown and fur joined them.
“There?” Art said.
“I’d like something to drink.”
“I can’t go in there.”
Pat said, “Then let’s stop somewhere else. Over in North Beach somewhere.”
“No,” he said.
“They don’t care how you dress in the North Beach places.”
“I can’t go in because I’m under age.”
“You haven’t got anything you can show them?”
He had only one piece of forged identification, a borrowed Air Force pass. It was too risky. If they asked for his driver’s license or his social security card, he was sunk.
“Let’s just go home,” he said. “To your place.”
“Then we’re through going out?”
He did not look at her, but he knew she was smiling.
“It wasn’t much of an evening,” she said. Stretching her arms, she said, “I shouldn’t go out on workdays anyhow. I have to be up at seven tomorrow.”
“You want to just drive?” he said.
“No. I’d just as soon go home.”
And still, he thought, she was smiling. She was enjoying this; she was amused.
“What does Rachael think of your revolutionary pal?”
“Not much.”
“I don’t think—what’s his name?—likes girls.”
“No,” he said.
“Did he ever make any passes at you?”
“No,” he said.
“There’re a lot of them in San Francisco. Once Jim went around with a girl whose husband was queer. He had an affair with her. That’s what he said, anyhow. That was years ago.”
He grunted.
“Sex is mysterious,” Pat said presently. “Sometimes I think it isn’t an instinct . . . It’s what you’re accustomed to or what you think you should want. Or something you haven’t ever had and you wonder how it would be. There’s a certain element of illicitness in it. The concealed . . . the denied. Something you’re not supposed to have. The ads hint; they never say exactly. They build it up, with mentions and elusive words. Like the lyrics in pop tunes. When I was in my teens, we were still listening to Glenn Miller. I remember during the war . . . we used to get our Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller records together, six or seven of us, and we’d play the records and lie around on the floor. Frank Sinatra.” She laughed. “I remember Frankie . . . on the ‘Hit Parade.’ He and Bea Wain. ‘I’ve Got Spurs That Jingle, Jangle, Jingle.’ ” She began to hum. “That was—when was that?—1943, I guess.”
He said nothing.
“That was when the Russians were our friends,” she said. “When they stopped the Germans at Stalingrad.” Rolling down the car window, she rested her arm on the sill. Cold evening wind rushed in, mixing with the warm air from the heater. “When I was growing up,” she said, “we sang all the different pop tunes. What was the first one? ‘Bei Mir Bist Du Schön.’ I was in grammar school. And ‘The Lambeth Walk.’ We actually believed the different lyrics. Do the kids believe them now?”
“No,” he said.
“About ‘June on the Moon’?”
“No.”
“I remember one. It always thought was beautiful. Do they ever play it anymore? ‘I’ll Build a Stairway to the Stars.’ I liked that about the best. The stuff Jim plays on ‘Club 17’ . . . I can’t get used to Mitch Miller’s echo chamber. It’s so—bloated. And the styles, you can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man. Like Johnny Ray. And it’s everything mixed together, Western and Negro jump and sweet sentimental . . . a mishmash.”
“Some aren’t so bad,” he said.
“You listen to ‘Club 17’? Yes, I think you said so. Until this last week.”
“Rachael likes it,” he said.
“Don’t you think—it’s about the best kids’ disc-jockey program in the afternoon?” He nodded.
“How about these ballrooms? Do you have to be twenty-one to get into them?”
“No,” he said.
“Thinking about the old tunes makes me feel like dancing. But it’s too late. Maybe some other time. I never could get Jim to go dancing. He’s always so self-conscious. Did you used to have high school dances?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Every week?”
“Yes.”
“On Fridays?”
“Yes.”
“Do the boys all line up on one side?”
Ahead of them was the apartment building. He slowed the car, looking for a parking place.
“Are we there?” Pat said. “Too bad.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “It’s still early. I’d like to go somewhere and sit. And maybe listen to a small combo, nothing noisy. Just a rhythm-and-blues group. Or maybe some folksinger. Bob Posin and I were going to hear June Christy . . . she’s in town. She used to be with Stan Kenton. Jim and I go to hear Kenton when he’s in town.” She added, “We used to, anyhow.”
He parked and turned off the motor.
“Well,” she said archly, “I guess that’s that.”
“You sure change your mind,” he said.
“Do I?” Her nails tapped on the metal side of the car, a rhythmical drumming. “You know I can’t take you to those places.”
“I wish you could.” Opening the door, she stepped out onto the curb. When he came around he found her strolling toward the door of the apartment house; she seemed animated and he could not understand why.
A passing car honked. She turned.
The car stopped beside the Dodge. The window was rolled down, and a man slid across the seat and stuck his head out. “Where you been?” he called. “I came by a couple of times tonight.”
Advancing a step, she said, “Oh, I’ve been out.”
“Who’s that with you? Just a second.” The man tugged on the parking brake and climbed from the car. “You kinda had me worried; the last time I saw you, you said something about being sick. I thought maybe you’d come down with ptomaine poisoning.”
“Bob,” she said, “this is Art Emmanual.”
The man stuck out his hand. Still addressing Pat, he said, “You know where I was all day? Talking to the Burgermeister beer people. They may take a full hour every night, the eleven to twelve spot. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Pat said, “Would it be pops or classical?”
“Sort of semi. Boston Pops and Morton Gould. Nothing too heavy.” He raised an eyebrow. “You all beat out?”
“No, not particularly.”
“Want to . . . ” He gestured. She glanced at Art.
Grimacing, Bob said, “How about Scoby’s Place? Ralph Sutton’s there. We could drop by for an hour or so.”
“Good enough,” she said. “Then it’s a deal,” Bob Posin said.
To Art, Pat said, “You can’t come along, can you? They’d want to see your identification.” Scrutinizing Art, Bob Posin said, “Haven’t I seen you around the station in the afternoons? Around four?”