But the luck had to turn lousy; it's the story of my life. After a couple of years, I found out I was down to my last set, and then I was in trouble. This night Gil run one of them icky commercials where this smart-aleck woman saves a marriage with the right laundry soap. Naturally I reached for my gun, and only at the last minute remembered not to shoot. Then he run an awful movie about a misunderstood composer, and the same thing happened. When we met back at the house, I was all shook up.
"What's the matter?" Gil asked.
I told him.
"I thought you liked watching the shows," he said.
"Only when I could shoot 'em."
"You poor bastard," he laughed, "you're a captive audience now."
"Gil, could you maybe change the programs, seeing the spot I'm in?"
"Be reasonable, Jim. WNHA has to broadcast variety. We operate on the cafeteria basis; something for everybody. If you don't like a show, why don't you switch channels?"
"Now that's silly. You know damn well we only got one channel in New Haven."
"Then turn your set off."
"I can't turn the bar set off; it's part of the entertainment. I'd lose my whole clientele. Gil, do you have to show them awful movies, like that army musical last night, singing and dancing and kissing on top of Sherman tanks, for Jezus' sake!"
"The women love uniform pictures."
"And those commercials; women always sneering at somebody's girdle, and fairies smoking cigarettes, and—"
"Aw," Gil said, "write a letter to the station."
So I did, and a week later I got an answer. It said: Dear Mr. Mayo: We are very glad to learn that you are a regular viewer of WNHA, and thank you for your interest in our programming. We hope you will continue to enjoy our broadcasts. Sincerely yours, Gilbert O. Watkins, Station Manager. A couple of tickets for an interview show were enclosed. I showed the letter to Gil, and he just shrugged.
"You see what you're up against, Jim," he said. "They don't care about what you like or don't like. All they want to know is if you are watching."
I tell you, the next couple of months were hell for me. I couldn't keep the set turned off, and I couldn't watch it without reaching for my gun a dozen times a night. It took all my willpower to keep from pulling the trigger. I got so nervous and jumpy that I knew I had to do something about it before I went off my rocker. So one night I brought the gun home and shot Gil.
Next day I felt a lot better, and when I went down to the Body Slam at seven o'clock to clean up, I was whistling kind of cheerful. I swept out the restaurant, polished the bar, and then turned on the TV to get the news and weather. You wouldn't believe it, but the set was busted. I couldn't get a picture. I couldn't even get a sound. My last set, busted.
So you see, that's why I have to head south (Mayo explained)—I got to locate a TV repairman.
There was a long pause after Mayo finished his story. Linda examined him keenly, trying to conceal the gleam in her eye. At last she asked with studied carelessness, "Where did he get the barometer?"
"Who? What?"
"Your friend, Gil. His antique barometer. Where did he get it?"
"Gee, I don't know. Antiquing was another one of his hobbies."
"And it looked like that clock?"
"Just like it."
"French?"
"I couldn't say."
"Bronze?"
"I guess so. Like your clock. Is that bronze?"
"Yes. Shaped like a sunburst?"
"No, just like yours."
"That's a sunburst. The same size?"
"Exactly."
"Where was it?"
"Didn't I tell you? In our house."
"Where's the house?"
"On Grant Street."
"What number?"
"Three fifteen. Say, what is all this?"
"Nothing, Jim. Just curious. No offense. Now I think I'd better get our picnic things."
"You wouldn't mind if I took a walk by myself?"
She cocked an eye at him. "Don't try driving alone. Garage mechanics are scarcer than TV repairmen."
He grinned and disappeared; but after dinner the true purpose of his disappearance was revealed when he produced a sheaf of sheet music, placed it on the piano rack, and led Linda to the piano bench. She was delighted and touched.
"Jim, you angel! Wherever did you find it?"
"In the apartment house across the street. Fourth floor, rear. Name of Horowitz. They got a lot of records, too. Boy, I can tell you it was pretty spooky snooping around in the dark with only matches. You know something funny? The whole top of the house is full of glop."
"Glop?"
"Yeah. Sort of white jelly, only it's hard. Like clear concrete. Now look, see this note? It's C. Middle C. It stands for this white key here. We better sit together. Move over …"
The lesson continued for two hours of painful concentration and left them both so exhausted that they tottered to their rooms with only perfunctory good nights.
"Jim," Linda called.
"Yeah?" he yawned.
"Would you like one of my dolls for your bed?"
"Gee, no. Thanks a lot, Linda, but guys really ain't interested in dolls."
"I suppose not. Never mind. Tomorrow I'll have something for you that really interests guys."
Mayo was awakened next morning by a rap on his door. He heaved up in bed and tried to open his eyes.
"Yeah? Who is it?" he called.
"It's me. Linda. May I come in?"
He glanced around hastily. The room was neat. The hooked rug was clean. The precious candlewick bedspread was neatly folded on top of the dresser.
"Okay. Come on in."
Linda entered, wearing a crisp seersucker dress. She sat down on the edge of the four-poster and gave Mayo a friendly pat. "Good morning," she said. "Now listen. I'll have to leave you alone for a few hours. I've got things to do. There's breakfast on the table, but I'll be back in time for lunch. All right?"
"Sure."
"You won't be lonesome?"
"Where you going?"
"Tell you when I get back." She reached out and tousled his head. "Be a good boy and don't get into mischief. Oh, one other thing. Don't go into my bedroom."
"Why should I?"
"Just don't anyway."
She smiled and was gone. Moments later, Mayo heard the jeep start and drive off. He got up at once, went into Linda's bedroom, and looked around. The room was neat, as ever. The bed was made, and her pet dolls were lovingly arranged on the coverlet. Then he saw it.
"Gee," he breathed.
It was a model of a full-rigged clipper ship. The spars and rigging were intact, but the hull was peeling, and the sails were shredded. It stood before Linda's closet, and alongside it was her sewing basket. She had already cut out a fresh set of white linen sails. Mayo knelt down before the model and touched it tenderly.
"I'll paint her black with a gold line around her," he murmured, "and I'll name her the Linda N."
He was so deeply moved that he hardly touched his breakfast. He bathed, dressed, took his shotgun and a handful of shells, and went out to wander through the park. He circled south, passed the playing fields, the decaying carousel, and the crumbling skating rink, and at last left the park and loafed down Seventh Avenue.
He turned east on 50th Street and spent a long time trying to decipher the tattered posters advertising the last performance at Radio City Music Hall. Then he turned south again. He was jolted to a halt by the sudden clash of steel. It sounded like giant sword blades in a titanic duel. A small herd of stunted horses burst out of a side street, terrified by the clangor. Their shoeless hooves thudded bluntly on the pavement. The sound of steel stopped.