We were stopped for a light and there was an Imperial in the lane next to us. The man behind the wheel looked over, smiled and waved. Jan waved back.
“Nice friends you have,” I said.
“I did his house for him,” Jan said. “His name’s Rick Martin. He’s in the investment business.” She paused. “Wait, you were being sarcastic—do you know him?”
“I know him. Enrico Martino. And he’s not in the investment business.”
The light changed and we moved on. “Well!” Jan said. “Aren’t we indignant? What business is he in?”
“I think he started as a pimp and went into stags from there. He claims to be a gambler now. Did you go out with him?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I did, a few times. I think you’re wrong about him. He’s gentle and amusing and he has excellent taste.”
“He’s a slimy bastard,” I said, and swung onto Wilshire, just missing the front fender of a gunning Buick.
Silence. I glanced at Jan and saw her grimness. Here we go again, I thought. Silence, growing and deepening.
And then she said, “You’re so clean and noble. You’re such a prize. You’re no Eagle Scout, Brock Callahan. Don’t be so quick to judge.”
Nothing from me. Jan is a wonderful girl, small and neat and beautifully built and talented and entertaining. But though I like to tell myself I am tolerant and adult, I was brought up in Long Beach and some of it still lingers. And since our first meeting, on the Mira case, I hate to see Jan with another man. Except for that we rarely fight.
Silence. The Ford went moving along in the Wilshire traffic and the setting sun glinted off the chrome and windshields of all the cars and I pulled the visor down and squinted ahead, ignoring her.
Finally she said, “It was such a glorious day, but you’ve ruined it. It isn’t the first time, Brock. I don’t think we should see each other any more.” Nothing from me.
“I don’t want to be spiteful about it,” she went on in her patient way, “but you’re vulgar and tactless and insensitive.” I didn’t argue.
“We just don’t seem to have any common meeting ground,” she said thoughtfully.
Common enough, I thought. But said nothing.
“I have a mind, too, you know,” she said with more heat.
I nodded.
“And a number of clients think I have impeccable taste. As a matter of fact, a number of my clients consider me the best interior decorator in Beverly Hills.”
“I’ll bet you are, too,” I said. “Should we eat at Milton’s?”
“I have a dinner engagement,” she said.
I glanced at her. “With who?”
“It’s ‘whom,’ not ‘who.’ With a friend.”
“I’m a friend, Jan. I’m sorry I said what I did about Martino. He was probably at the game, and I don’t like to see gamblers around games I like. And then, your going out with him—well, it burned me. He’s not nearly good enough for you, Jan.”
“Everybody gambles,” she said evenly. “And I’m not marrying the man. I go out with all kinds of people and he was a lot nicer than some of them.”
“Everybody gambles,” I agreed, “but not professionally. I hate to see professional gamblers get interested in any decent sport. They’ve ruined boxing. Professionals of the caliber of Enrico Martino aren’t satisfied with the percentages; they have to put in the fix.”
“His name is Rick Martin; don’t be a snob, Brock.”
“All right, his name is now Rick Martin. And to hell with him. Do we eat at Milton’s?”
“I don’t know where I’m going to eat. I only know it’s not going to be with you. We’re not engaged, you know, Brock.”
I sighed. “I know. All right. Tomorrow, could we be friends again?”
Silence. I cut around a tourist from Missouri and headed toward Sunset, toward the little cottage of Jan Bonnet, nestled in the canyon off Beverly Glen.
Not a word from her since my question. I turned up the narrow road that led to her house and heard the bark of the Doberman from the fenced yard next to Jan’s. I parked and left the motor running.
“Some day he’s going to get out,” I said, “and chew me up. I wonder why he hates me so?”
She didn’t answer that. She looked up at me thoughtfully. I reached over and stroked her tawny hair. It’s a sort of brownish-blond, as honest as the girl below it. Her eyes are brown and soft and difficult to mask with hardness, but she was trying to mask them now.
“Thanks for the afternoon,” she said, and opened the door on her side.
“Aren’t we friends?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Brock. I don’t want to talk about it now. Phone me tomorrow, if you want.”
She got out and didn’t look back. She went up the slope toward her house and the Doberman wagged his tail and tried to stick his nose through the wire netting of the fence. He loved Jan, the Doberman did, and I didn’t blame him.
I guessed I loved Jan, too, in my vulgar and insensitive way.
The radio played an oldie, “Who’s Sorry Now?” The Ford coughed and murmured as I headed it toward Westwood, which is home to me.
But on Westwood Boulevard, I didn’t turn left, toward home. I kept going, toward the ocean, toward Malibu and a gang I knew would be waiting—a mild poker game among the old warriors, gridiron soldiers now over the hill. There would be memories and prophecies and beer. There would be some bragging and some heckling and the scarcely perceptible sadness of time-dimmed glory and faded newspaper clippings.
That’s where I wound up Sunday, September fourth, the day that Johnny Quirk came to glory, the day the new team, jelled, the day of the Ram.
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Copyright © 1959 by William Campbell Gault, Registration Renewed 1987
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This is a work of fiction.
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Death Out of Focus Page 17
