Part 2 (1/2)

”You're the only thing in Los Angeles that doesn't,” she said bitterly.

”Where are you from, Fred?”

”New York,” I said. ”Where are you from, Jean?”

”Believe it or not, I was born here,” she said. ”I'm one of the three people in this town who was born here.”

”It's a big town, isn't it?” I said. ”Less huddled than the others.”

”Huddled,” she said, and laughed. ”Huddled. I like that. They huddle, all right, and not just the football teams. The gregarious instinct, Freddy boy.”

”Well, yes,” I agreed, ”but why, Jean? Why haven't they outgrown it? Is it--fear?”

”You would have to ask somebody bright,” she said. ”When you get to Bundy, turn over toward Wils.h.i.+re. We'll find an eating place that's open.”

”You tell me when I get to Bundy,” I said. ”I'm not exactly familiar with this part of town.”

She told me, and we got to Wils.h.i.+re, eventually, and on Wils.h.i.+re there were many eating places.

We went into one; it was too cold to eat outside. And it was bright in there, and I got my first really clear look at the face and figure of Jean Decker.

Well, it was ridiculous, the attraction that seemed to emanate from her.

It actually made me weak.

And she was staring at me, too.

”If you're hungry,” she said finally, ”get a sandwich. You won't find me stingy.... What in the world is that material in that suit, Fred?”

”I don't know,” I said. ”You are beautiful, Jean.”

She smiled. ”Well, thanks. You can have a piece of pie, too, for that.

That certainly is a fine weave in that material. What did your tailor call it?”

We were next to a sort of alcove, furnished with a table and two high-backed benches, and she sat down. I sat across from her.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

”I don't have a tailor,” I said. ”Your lips are so red, Jean.”

She frowned. ”Slowly, sailor.”

Then a waitress was there, and I saw how red her lips were, too, and I realized it was another of the old vices I'd forgotten, cosmetics.

”Just coffee, for me, black,” Jean said. ”Golden boy over there will have a beef barbecue, probably, won't you, Fred?”

”I guess,” I said. ”And some milk, cow's milk.”

Jean laughed. ”It's my money. Have canary milk.”

”Not tonight,” I said.