He gave them the money he had in the apartment. Joe counted it while Pat searched her purses for more.
“Forty bucks,” Joe said. “I don’t know if that’s enough.”
Going to the phone, Jim called the station. Bob Posin answered from his office. “If I send two kids around,” he said to Posin, “do me a favor and give them some money. It’s an emergency.”
“How much?” Posin said. “I don’t see why I should—”
“Fifty or sixty bucks. I’m good for it.”
“You’re sure it’s an emergency?” Posin said.
“It is,” he said. He hung up. “Go over to the station,” he said to Ferde and Joe. “She can get a lawyer with a hundred-dollar retainer. I’ll get out and try to cash a check.”
They thanked him and hurried off.
In the bedroom Pat was changing her clothes.
“I want to go with you,” she said.
Hubble, his wine glass in his hand, said, “What’s this all about?”
“Friends,” Jim said.
“I’m not going yet,” he said to Pat. “What’s the name of that lawyer that handled the divorce for us?”
“Toreckey,” she said. “I have his number. Here.”
He picked up the phone and called Toreckey.
“It might be they could keep him there,” Toreckey said.
Pat, coming out of the bedroom, stood beside him with her ear to the receiver, Jim said, “This is out of your line?”
“I don’t usually handle cases of this sort. But I can give you—”
He thanked Toreckey and hung up.
“We can get somebody else,” Pat said.
“No,” he said. His head ached, but he was able to think; his thoughts were lucid enough.“She should be doing this, not us. Let’s scare up the money.”
“Maybe so,” Pat said.
The time was eleven-thirty. The streets were deserted. The good people, he thought to himself, were in bed where they belonged.
They have him, he thought, but I can get him away because I have enough money. Or at least I can raise enough money. I can sell my car. I can borrow. Pat can borrow. I can go out and beg if I have to. Sooner or later I’ll have enough. So eventually he’ll be out.
“I’ll go down there,” he said to Pat. “To the Kearny Street jail.”
“Can’t I come?” She followed after him as he got his coat. She had on a blue skirt and bolero, and her face was dark with concern. “Isn’t there something I can do?”
He said, “It might be better if I went alone.”
“Whatever you say,” Pat said. “But I feel it’s my fault.”
“Why?” he said, pausing at the door to the hall.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said.
“This time,” she said, “it isn’t my fault this time.”
“What’s this about?” Hubble said. “Some kids steal a car or something?”
Jim left the apartment and went downstairs to his car. While he was warming the engine, Pat appeared beside the window.
“If you won’t take me,” she said, “I’ll drive along after you in my own car.”
“Get in,” he said, with rage.
She got in next to him, and without waiting for the engine to warm or the windshield to clear, he drove the car forward into traffic.
“Can you see?” Pat said. “Maybe you should wipe off the windows.”
A car, a nebulous shape, honked at him. Lights flashed and dazzled; he brought out his handkerchief and scoured the windshield before him. Cold water dripped onto his fingers and wrist.
“Be careful,” Pat said.
“Yes,” he said, still angry, still shaking. A car materialized in front of him; he tramped down on the brake, and his tires screeched. For an instant the side of the other car rose in the windshield and confronted him, and then it disappeared; the car had got out of his path. Somebody yelled. He had driven through a red light. Slowing down, he pulled over to the side of the street. For a time neither of them spoke.
“If you want,” Pat said, “I can drive.”
“Maybe I can just sit,” he said, “for a second.”
“The wind’s cold,” she said presently. She pressed her coat around her ankles. “It’s amazing that in July the weather could be so cold. It must be the fog.”
“Okay,” he said, “you drive.” He got out of the car and came around. Pat slid behind the wheel, and she drove the rest of the trip to Kearny Street.
“Thanks,” he said as she parked across the street from the jail.
At the corner, several cars away, a blue prewar Plymouth was parked. Inside were three figures, one of them a girl.
“I’ll stay here,” Pat said.
He walked down the sidewalk, and the door of the Plymouth was opened for him. Joe Mantila and Ferde Heinke sat on each side of Rachael.
“Hi,” Ferde said.
“He’s supposed to be on his way here; she called him.”
“You went over to the station?” Jim said, getting into the car.
“Yeah,” Joe Mantila said.
“We’re waiting for her lawyer,” Ferde Heinke said.
Rachael said, “Thanks for the money.”
“Was it enough?”
“Yes,” she said.
“How do you feel?” he said.
“She’ll be okay,” Joe Mantila said.
Rachael said, “We’ll be able to get him out. The police say they won’t hold him. I was with him during the evening, and he didn’t go outside. So he couldn’t have had anything to do with the junk from the hotel roof. But I know they’ll get us sooner or later. If not now, then some other time.”
“They’re going to put Grimmelman in prison,” Joe Mantila said. “A felony. Draft evasion. The FBI was after him.”
“Did you know that?” Jim asked them.
“No,” Ferde Heinice said, “he didn’t tell us. But we knew he was scared of something; he had the Horch all ready to go, so he could get away. But he didn’t get away.”
“That sure was a cool car,” Joe Mantila said.
Jim said to her, “What do you think? Was that a good idea?”
“No,” she said. “You mean Grimmelman? No, it was a mistake. Because they did get him.”
“But if they hadn’t.”
She said, “They did.” Her face was colorless and thin with worry. Her hair hung unevenly against her cheeks and ears. What a little hungry-looking creature, he thought. And the lovely eyes. Black-violet and immense, and the long lashes. He thought: She was afraid, and now I’ve lived to see that.
I will put whatever I have into this, he thought. I will do the best I can. When they come in and get at this family, then I will fight them. I am upright and full of anger.
Rachael said, “It may be that they’re going to say we’re not married. We lied about our ages, so maybe they can say it’s void. I thought about that. They always have that there, hanging over our heads. When they feel like it, they can use it.”
“But you are married,” he said.
“Are we?”
“Yes,” he said. “You are. You and Art are.”
Her face, violently alive, filled out and lost its hollowness. He saw the colors and lines blur; he saw the warmth from inside her. The tremendous warmth.
“You think we can get through this?” she said. “You do, don’t you?”
He thought: They know you will win. They know they are doomed. You have repudiated their words, their culture and customs and refinement and taste. Their precious things.
And, he thought, I have been forced to take sides. You are our enemy, they said to the kids. We will kill you. We will demolish you. And he said to them: If you are going to fight the kids, you are going to have to take me on, too. Because I am going to stand by them. I am going to see the kids survive you.