Эд Макбейн - Running From Legs and Other Stories

I was a little out of breath. She was walking with swift long-legged strides, her sandals slapping along beside me, spewing her rapid monologue, telling me she shouldn’t have come all the way east to begin with, and wouldn’t have come if her parents hadn’t offered a sort of a bribe...

“How are your parents?” I asked.

“Oh, fine,” she said.

... agreeing to take her down to Nassau with them for the Spring break, though you’d never guess she’d been South, the sun hadn’t come out the whole week she’d been there. She’d expected to go back to San Francisco with at least some kind of a tan, and instead she looked like a sickly white thing that had crawled out from under a rock.

“You look very healthy, Jennifer,” I said.

“Depends where you’re looking,” she answered, and flashed her quick grin again, and before I had time to think about what she’d just said, she stopped before what was undoubtedly the airport bar and said, “Is this it?”

“I guess so.”

“Let me get the door,” she said, and reached out with the hand still clutching the wig box. After a lot of awkward shuffling and maneuvering, we finally managed to squeeze the three suitcases, the wig box and ourselves through the door and over to the checkroom, where I deposited the luggage with an enormous sense of relief.

“Made it!” Jennifer said triumphantly.

“I wasn’t sure we would.”

“Neither was I.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way you were puffing back there. I see a table, come on.”

The bar was fairly crowded and resounding with the same kind of noise I had heard over the telephone wires from New York. Jennifer led me to an unoccupied table against the rear wall, and we slid in behind it on the leatherette banquette. I immediately signaled to the waiter.

“Seat’s warm,” Jennifer said. “Must have been a very fat lady sitting here.”

The waiter, a crew-cut, clean-shaved kid who looked to be twenty-two or — three ambled over, stared admiringly at Jennifer, glanced balefully at me, and then said, “Yes, sir, can I help you?”

“Jennifer?”

“I’d like a scotch on the rocks, please,” she said.

“A scotch for the lady,” I said, “and I’ll have...”

“Excuse me, miss,” the waiter said, “but would you happen to have some identification with you?”

“Flatterer,” Jennifer said, and immediately unslung her shoulder bag, opened it, and produced her ID card. The waiter studied it as though I were a white slaver transporting nubile blondes across state lines. As his scrutiny persisted, I felt first embarrassment, and then anger.

“The young lady’s over twenty-one,” I snapped. “If you’re finished with her card, we’d like some drinks here.”

“Sorry, sir,” the waiter said, “but I don’t make the laws in this state.”

“Do you control the weather here?”

“Huh?”

“Just give the young lady her card, and bring us a scotch on the rocks and a vodka martini, straight up.”

“We could lose our license, you know,” the waiter said.

“We could lose our patience,” I said, and gave him the same penetrating, disintegrating look I had wasted on the hostess’ back.

The waiter dropped Jennifer’s card on the table top, mumbled, “Scotch on the rocks, vodka martini, straight up,” and then walked off with a cowpuncher’s lope.

“My, my,” Jennifer said, picking up her card and putting it back in her bag, “you do take control of a situation, don’t you?”

“I get vicious when I’m thirsty.”

“What it probably was,” Jennifer said, “is that he probably figures you’re too old for me.”

“Well, yes,” I said, “but still, you know, you did, you know, show him the identification he asked for, you know, and he had no right...”

“Don’t get nervous,” Jennifer said. “I’m not coming on or anything.”

“I’m not nervous,” I said.

“You seem nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay. Do you always drink martinis?”

“Not always.”

“I mean, this late at night. I thought people only drank martinis before dinner.”

“I haven’t had dinner yet,” I said.

“Didn’t you eat on the plane?”

“Yes, but that would hardly qualify as dinner.”

“I never eat on airplanes, either,” she said. “I get like a ravenous beast, but I’ll be damned if I’ll eat any of that plastic crap they serve. I’m starved right now, to tell the truth, I haven’t eaten since early this morning. What I did, you see, was grab a plane from New York because I couldn’t get a San Francisco flight, and I figured Chicago’s better than nothing, don’t you think? Closer to where I’m headed, anyway.”

“Wasn’t it foggy?”

“Where?”

“In New York.”

“No. Not when I left.”

“Scotch on the rocks.” the waiter said. “Vodka martini, straight up.” He put down the drinks, and then hesitated. “Sir,” he said, “I’m sorry about what happened.”

“That’s okay,” I said.

“But I do have to check, sir, it’s the law.”

“Fine,” I said.

“And the lady did look to be underage.”

“Uh-huh, fine,” I said.

“I hope you understand, sir.”

“I do, yes.”

“Is there anything else you’d like, sir, before I see to my other tables?”

“Yes, bring us another round when you get a chance, will you?”

“I’ll take care of that right away, sir, before I see to my other tables.”

“Fine, thank you.”

“And I’m sorry about the misunderstanding, sir.”

“That’s okay.”

“And sorry to have caused you any embarrassment, miss.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Jennifer said.

“Okay then,” the waiter said, and grinned in relief. “Everything’s okay then, good,” he said, and went off to get the other drinks.

Jennifer lifted her glass. Without a word, she clicked it against mine and then sipped at the scotch. “Mmm, delicious,” she said. She smiled suddenly. “I’m glad we ran into each other, you know, Mr. Eisler? We have a lot of talking to do.”

“Oh? What about?”

“The abortion.”

I lifted my glass again and took a deep swallow. “Jennifer,” I said, “I really don’t think we need to talk about your abortion.”

“It was your abortion, too.”

“No, it was my son’s abortion. Yours and Adam’s. Not mine.”

“You paid for it,” Jennifer said.

“I know I did. But that was three years ago, Jennifer. And it all worked out fine for everyone concerned. So, if it’s okay with you, I’d really rather not...”

“Oh, sure,” she said, and smiled. “What would you like to talk about, Mr. Eisler?”

“Anything,” I said, “anything at all. How do you like Berkeley?”

“I like it a lot. I mean, I’m not into any of that protest stuff anymore, I’m a little too old for that...”

“Old?” I said, and laughed.

“Well, I mean, you can go around getting your face smashed by The Establishment just so many times, you know what I mean? When you get to be my age, it’s easier to go back to the apartment, kick off your shoes and bust a joint.”

“Mmm-huh,” I said.

“Marijuana,” she said.

“Yes, I know.”

“I thought maybe...”

“No, I understood you.”

“But you disapprove, huh?”

“What gives you that idea?”

Jennifer shrugged and brushed hair out of her eyes. “I don’t know. Your voice sounded kind of funny.”

“I’m aware that all the kids today smoke marijuana.”

“Can’t bring yourself to call it pot, huh?”