Джон Болл - The First Team

As he approached her she nodded slightly in recognition. He walked up and asked, “Did you bring a car?”

“A cab would be better, I think.” He liked her voice and the way she spoke. She kept it from being a demand or an order; it was a suggestion he could override if he wanted to.

Frank was there waiting; without explanation Hewlitt put her inside, climbed in himself, and then asked, “Where to?”

“Drive out toward Maryland,” Barbara said. “I’ll show you where.”

Obediently Frank started up and headed out in a northwesterly direction. The usual Friday after-work traffic was far heavier than normal; there had been rumors all week of a severe gasoline rationing program to come, coupled with that was the apparent desire of all who could to get out of a city that promised nothing but greater disaster to follow. Following Barbara’s occasional directions Frank worked his cab slowly through the almost impossible congestion until they reached the state line. A half mile farther on she stopped him before a good-sized shopping center and indicated to Hewlitt that she wanted to get out.

He asked no questions. He handed her out of the cab and reached in to pay the bill, but Frank nodded with his head that he was to come to the other side. Hewlitt walked around the car and then leaned in. Frank took the bill which he offered and then asked, “Did I take you back to your place tonight, or what?”

Hewlitt appreciated that; he was a good man and clearly he was willing to take a chance if he was asked to do so.

“No,” he answered. “If anybody asks you, I had a young lady with me — they’ll know that anyway. You took us over to the Maryland side and dropped us off somewhere around here. You may not remember exactly.”

“That’s no joke in this traffic,” Frank said. “Then that’s how it is. You be wanting me later?”

“Maybe, but right now I can’t say.”

With his change Frank handed him a card; it stated with proper formality Taxiand in one corner frank jordan.At the other corner was a telephone number.

Hewlitt put the change and the card in his wallet together, spoke his thanks, and rejoined Barbara, who was waiting silently for his return. When the cab was gone she led him casually past the stores which were still putting up a brave show of carrying on the usual way of life. The window displays were as bright as ever; from the record mart hard rock music came surging out of the door. It was America on any Friday night, on this one pretending as best it could that nothing had happened.

The real estate office was well back toward the rear and behind a row of other shops which depended much more on eye appeal for their trade. Barbara walked in the door with the kind of familiarity which implies an established relationship and leaned on the railing before the one occupied desk.

The woman seated there was short, solidly built, and had white pudgy fingers. Her hair was cascaded up into an artificial arrangement which made claims that her body could not fulfill. Vermilion lipstick accentuated the lines worn into her face; the eyebrow makeup was an anachronism which had been applied twenty years too late in her life. A certain hardness emanated from her; it told of the years that she had spent earning her own way, of the disappointments she had had, of the few pleasures that had come her way. It told also of a hard-gotten bank balance that was her security against the fate that life had prepared for her, and that she would guard it with her life’s blood. She was a businesswoman.

She looked up, offered a mechanical, commercially approved smile, and asked, “May I help you?”

“This is the gentleman,” Barbara said. There was no emotion in her voice, the heavy restraint she had maintained since Hewlitt had picked her up remained intact.

“Oh, yes, of course.” The woman got up, crossed to the wall behind her, and surveyed a board hung with keys. After some scrutiny she took down a set from one of the hooks, checked the tag, and then brought it back to the counter. “This is really a very nice place,” she said. “It’s not too far from here; you can walk if you want to. Take your time looking it over; if you don’t want to see it tonight you can go in the morning, just so long as I get the keys back by noon.”

“That’s fine,” Barbara said. She dropped the keys into her purse, gave Hewlitt an unexpected half smile, and led the way out. When they were by themselves she turned and said, “There’s a little restaurant here, if you like Chinese food.”

His mind was confused as he nodded. He was prepared to follow any clue that she gave him, but the tone of her initial invitation over the telephone, plus the business of the keys, had him slightly off balance. They were a long way from the White House now and there was no visible need for play acting. Despite this, her mood and actions appeared to be directed along a single pathway which gave him a strong feeling that he was simply along for the ride.

They ate together in a small but quite attractive little restaurant which clearly outclassed the one which Hewlitt occasionally visited near his home. It was much newer, the menus were less thumb-worn, and the decor was more subtly conceived. The food, as far as he could tell, was the same. They sat in a booth making conversation which had little shape and definition. They spoke to each other from time to time, exchanging bits of trivia, but saying nothing. Hewlitt enjoyed Barbara’s company, but the occasion was too heavily overshadowed for it to be anything more than a surface pleasure. He realized that there were many things he would have liked to have said to her if the circumstances had been less strained. This time he was entirely following her lead; she had started this game and until he knew what the rules were he was content to wait.

Barbara excused herself while he was paying the bill; he wondered if she had gone to telephone. She rejoined him promptly enough to dispel that notion and then led the way outside. When they were by themselves once more she turned and asked, “Would you like to go and look at the house now?”

“Fine,” he answered. He still did not know what she really had in mind. There was an obvious explanation and he considered it carefully: they had met semisocially and, while he did not regard himself as anything exceptional as a potential lover, it could be that her purely animal instincts called for masculine company. Under such circumstances she might well prefer someone who could be relied upon to keep his mouth shut. It was doubtful if she was concerned with protecting what once would have been called her reputation; too many girls regarded that consideration as archaic and too many men no longer desired a spotless virgin for a bride. But when a girl who carried the responsibilities that she undoubtedly did chose to relax, she would have good reason to want a companion she could trust.

It took them almost fifteen minutes to reach the house. It appeared to be a quiet ordinary one which had had the good sense to be neither conspicuously better or worse than its contemporaries in the immediate neighborhood. It sat a little back on the lot; a short straight driveway led up to the garage. Two or three sun-faded throwaway newspapers before the front door suggested that no one had been in or out for at least a day or two.

Without glancing either way to see if anyone was watching, Barbara fitted the key into the lock and opened the door enough to pass inside. As Hewlitt followed, the slight mustiness of the air told him that despite the furniture in place the house was unoccupied. Barbara dropped her coat onto a chair, glanced at him, and said, “You take the upstairs.”

He knew precisely what she meant. He went through the small second floor carefully, opening all of the closet doors, and for a finale checked the panel covering the crawl hole which gave access to the small space between the ceiling and the rafters. It was tightly shut, and when he attempted to move it, a fine sifting of dust told him that it had not been disturbed in some time. Brushing himself off he went back downstairs, noting the undistinguished furniture, the commonplace prints of bug-eyed children which adorned the living room, and two pieces of bric-a-brac which depicted a leaping gazelle and a Japanese geisha girl in the best traditions of lower Broadway. Whoever lived here, or had done so, had been contented with an installment payment decor and had picked out the objets d’art at a price of a dollar or two each.