Della nodded in agreement.
In Malibu, they passed a restaurant whose exterior was covered with synthetically weathered wood and decorative anchors. A coiled rope over the door spelled The Galley.
"Let's stop in there for a drink," Della said. "Please."
"I don't think you need any more to drink."
"Don't be an old klutz," she whispered in his ear.
Inside, the floors and walls were bare planks. There were lots of cheap oil paintings of sailing ships and a few diver's masks lamps for decoration. Because of the hour, there were empty tables next to the windows. A young man wearing a sea captain's cap seated them. Della ordered a rusty nail with double scotch. Carr asked for coffee. Outside, in the ocean's blackness, a silhouette of what looked like a cruise ship moved slowly along the coastline beyond a well-lighted offshore oil rig whose metal structures had been camouflaged with painted partitions in an attempt to make it look like a tiny, palm-treed island.
"It almost looks real," Della said.
"The ship or the oil derrick?"
She slapped his hand playfully.
"No matter what it looks like," Carr said, "it's still an oil derrick … an oil derrick built right smack in the middle of the ocean view so somebody could make a buck."
The waiter brought drinks. "Pretend it's not there," she said, taking a couple of sips.
Impulsively she put her hand in his. "Thanks for not being crazy. All the men I've been out with lately seem crazy.
A few minutes later the maitre d' walked by them leading three women to a table. One of the women was Sally Malone. She stopped and stared at Carr for a moment, her lips quivering. She said something to her friends, then turned and quickly headed toward the door.
Carr excused himself from the table and followed Sally out the door. Jogging a few steps, he caught up with her in the parking lot as she fumbled for car keys. He grabbed her by the arm.
"Don't touch me," she said as if he were a leper.
He turned her toward him. Her eyes were closed tightly in anger. "You humiliated me in front of my friends," she said through gritted teeth. "I told them that you had broken our date tonight because you were working."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I mean that, Sally. I'm very sorry."
She pulled away from him and unlocked the door of her sports car. Having swung the door open, she climbed in. As she started the engine, he saw tears on her cheeks. She slammed the car into gear and raced out of the lot onto the highway.
Carr rubbed his temples for a moment, then returned to the table. Della Trane had finished her rusty nail. She stared out the window as she fiddled with a swizzle stick. "She may never forgive you," she said to the window. "I know I wouldn't."
Carr gestured to a cocktail waitress, who took his order for a round of double scotches. The waitress made frequent trips to the table until closing time. Della Trane told and retold her marriage stories.
On the trip back to her apartment she fell asleep on Carr's shoulder. When they arrived, he nudged her awake and helped her up some steps to her front door. He helped her find keys and unlock the door. Pulling him inside, she threw her arms around him. They kissed until Carr pulled his lips away from hers. "You drink too much," he said.
She pushed him away. "You cops should talk. If it hadn't been for cops I would never have started drinking in the first place." She covered her face with her hands and cried. Carr put his arms around her again. "I really like you," she said, crying. "Now you'll probably never ask me out again."
"I will."
"Promise?" She looked up at him, tears welled in her eyes.
"Promise." He touched her cheek with the back of his hand and walked out the door. Carr drove the speed limit along a deserted Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Monica, keeping on the alert for Highway Patrol vehicles. He knew a drunk-driving incident would give No Waves enough ammo to have him transferred again. Finally, he reached Santa Monica. On the way to his apartment, he passed by the street Sally Malone lived on. Her car was parked in front of her apartment complex. He made a couple of turns around the block as he considered her possible reaction if he stopped. "The hell with it," he said out loud, and continued the flew blocks to his apartment. He parked the sedan in a carport, locked it and made his way up the steps to his apartment.
After fumbling with the key, he unlocked the front door and went in, flicking on the light. The place looked as it always did: neither messy, spotless nor particularly lived in. The brown leather sofa and recliner chair (Sally hated both) showed few signs of wear. On a bookcase the stacks of outdated criminology and police journals, as well as the James Jones and Graham Greene novels, needed dusting. The Miró prints on the wall were a Christmas gift from Sally. She always said the place looked like a motel room. Carr flopped down on the sofa. Hell, he thought, he might as well live in a motel room.
After staring at the blank screen for a while, he stood up and staggered to the television. He flicked it on and switched channels; cowboys shooting from horses, cops shooting from behind the doors of police cars, used-car commercials.
He turned off the set.
In the kitchen, he checked the refrigerator. There was nothing on the shelves but eggs and wilted lettuce. He slammed the door shut. He yanked a bottle of scotch from the cupboard and a glass from the dish drainer, poured a stiff drink. He sipped and felt acidy booze-warmth roll slowly down his throat and into his empty stomach. For some reason, he thought of Jack Kelly's home, where he had Sunday dinner once a month or so: there were always catcher's mitts and bicycles scattered about … and a kitchen that always smelled delicious.
He poured the scotch into the sink.
In the bedroom, he picked up the telephone receiver and dialed Sally Malone's number except for the last digit. Hesitating, he dropped the receiver back in the cradle. On his way out the front door, he lit a cigarette. Having staggered down the steps to his sedan, he realized that he had left his car keys in the apartment. Without hesitation, he headed toward Sally's place on foot. As he trudged along the dark, narrow streets crowded with apartments and double-parked cars, a foggy mist dampened his face and hair. Chilled, he picked up his pace.
By the time he reached the door of her apartment he was slightly out of breath. He knocked softly. There was no answer. He knocked louder. There were footsteps inside.
"Who's there?" Sally said.
"I want to talk for a minute."
"There's nothing to talk about." Her tone was angry. He heard her walk away from the door.
Carr knocked again. He waited, knocked again. Finally, he slammed his fist against the door a few times. Sally's footsteps. "Please go away," she said, pleading.
"Open the goddamn door or I'll kick it in."
He heard her fasten the chain latch and a dead-bolt lock.
Carr leaned close to the door.
"I'm sick and tired of being alone," he said. "I've never cared about anyone except you, and the last thing in the world I ever wanted to do was to hurt your feelings, or to embarrass you. I love you and I…" he swallowed "…want to marry you."
"Are you drunk?"
"Yes," he said.
The chain latch was unfastened. The dead bolt snapped. Sally opened the door. She wore a robe over her nightgown. "Did you mean that?"
Carr nodded.
She came into his arms. "I've waited for years to hear you say that," Sally whispered. They kissed. "Please tell me you really mean it."
"I mean it."
"Let's leave right now," she said. "We can go to Las Vegas."
"Right now?"
"Why not?" she said, kissing him again. "I think I've waited long enough."
NINE
During the five-hour trip through the desert, Carr and Sally discussed particular matters diplomatically. Gingerly they came to agreement on the following issues: One, that he would break his lease and move into her apartment (her rent was cheaper and the place was larger); two, that Carr's furniture, which Sally hated, would be donated to the Salvation Army; three, that they would keep both cars. Carr was surprised that he found himself discussing such topics with relative ease.