“The guy'll be awful sore when he comes to.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But he won't call any law. He won't take a chance on a mashing rap.”
“That's so.” The bartender took my glass and began to make another sour. “But the next time don't be so rough.” He smiled at me. “You scared “em so they forgot to pay for their drinks.”
I liked the bartender's face. He was young and decent-looking.
“I'll pay for them,” I said.
The girl came over to me. It was the first time I'd seen her standing up. It was something to see. She had a million-dollar figure, as they say. She was tall, and it was nice to see good breasts on a tall babe.
“Hello ...” I said.
Her eyes were blue-green. “Thanks,” she said. “That's all right.”
“I could have handled him,” she said. “Sure,” I said. “But I thought it would be a good way to pick you up.”
She laughed at that. “I'm a popular dame tonight.” The bartender put my drink on the bar.
“Have one?” I asked her.
“Why not?” she said.
While we waited for the drink she stared at me. Her eyes weren't bold any more, but thoughtful. She was younger than I'd figured. When she saw I was watching her, she looked away.
“Why'd you want to pick me up?” she asked. “I'm lonely,” I said; “and you got a swell shape.” She took the Tom Collins from the bartender. “Well, my God!” she said. “At least the man's honest.” She held up the drink. “Here's how.”
She liked her liquor all right. We had three drinks. I saw it was nine o'clock. I said it was time for dinner. I asked her if she knew of a cool place to eat.
“Tony's,” she said. “But you don't want to take me there.”
“Why don't I?”
“You just don't.”
“Yes, I do,” I said.
The bartender looked as though he didn't care about what was going on. I saw him shake his head at the girl. She didn't pay any attention to him. “Got a car?” she asked me. “I'll get one.”
“And you don't give a damn what happens?”
“Not with you, beautiful.”
“Don't start that beautiful stuff.”
“I wouldn't go,” the bartender said. “What can Hose?” I asked. “Plenty,” the bartender said. “Shut up,” the girl said.
I grinned at the bartender. “Well, it's your funeral,” he said.
“Sure,” the girl said.
The check was $7.10. I paid it and we took a cab to a Drive-It garage on Main Street. On the way she told me her name was Ginger.
“Not Ginger Rogers?” I said.
“Ginger Boiton,” she said.
I said my name was Karl. I said she smelled nice. I asked her where she got the perfume and the expensive clothes.
“I get around,” she said.
I told her I was a hardware salesman.
“You act tough for a salesman,” she said.
“That's because I was in the army.”
I got a Chevy sedan at the Drive-It garage. I had a card identifying myself as Peter Jensen, u Division Street, Fond du Lac, Wisconsin; but the night manager made me lay down a hundred dollar deposit anyway. When Ginger saw my wallet she looked surprised. I expected her to. I went to a lot of trouble to let her catch sight of the wad of hundred-dollar bills in it.
I let her drive out to Tony's. I wanted to look at the town. It wasn't much to see. The street lights were dim and all I-got was an impression of many brick and frame houses kept back by lawns from the street. We passed a hospital and the city pumping plant. Then we were in the country. It was cooler. I looked at Ginger. She was intent on her driving and her face was not so sullen.
“What's a girl do in a town like this?” I asked her.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“You'd get sore if I told you.”
“Yeah?” she said. “Well, I'm a singer.”
“What kind?”
