“But why this way? Guns, fists, hoodlums?”
“Because they’re there,” I said.
“You’re laughing at me, but I will proceed. It’s why I’m a good reporter. I keep asking. Why not be a doctor or a schoolteacher or”-she spread her hands, the glass in one of them-“you get the idea.”
“Systems,” I said. “The system gets in the way. You end up serving the medical profession or public education. I tried the cops for a while.”
“And?”
“They felt I was too creative.”
“Fired?”
“Yes.”
Candy poured herself another drink. I squirted in some soda. “Are you attracted to violence?” she asked.
“Maybe. To a point. But it’s also that I’m good at it. And there’s a need for someone who’s good at it. Someone needs to keep that fat guy from smacking you around.”
“But what if you meet someone who’s better?”
“Unthinkable,” I said.
“No,” she said. “It isn’t unthinkable at all. You’re too thoughtful a man not to have thought of it.”
“How about unlikely then?”
“Maybe, but what happens? How do you feel?”
I took in a deep breath. “Talking about myself seriously has always seemed a little undignified,” I said. “But…” The cab on Beverwil got a fare. Must be going a long way. I had the feeling Beverly Hills closed at sundown.
“But what?” Candy said.
“But the possibility that you’ll meet somebody better is part of”-I gestured with my right land-“if that possibility didn’t exist,” I said, “it would be like playing tennis with the net down.”
Candy drank her brandy and soda and got another from the tray, and when she had the drink rebuilt, she looked at it. and then looked at me. She took a sip and then held the glass against her chin with both hands and looked at me some more.
“It’s a kind of game,” she said.
“Yes.”
“A serious game,” she said.
I was quiet. I poured a small splash of brandy in my glass and added a lot of ice and a lot of soda. Be embarrassing to pass out in front of the client.
“But why can’t you play that same game inside a system? In a big organization?”
“You’re talking about yourself now,” I said,
“Perhaps,” she said. The final’s slushed just barely. On the rooftop someone had apparently opened a window or a door. The music was louder, the Glenn Miller arrangement of “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.”
“I can work in a system just fine,” Candy said.
“I imagine so,” I said.
“So what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.”
We were quiet. The band on the roof was playing “Indian Summer.” The smell of flowers seemed to have faded. The smell of Candy’s perfume was stronger. My mouth was dry.
“Is dancing too systematic for you?” Candy said.
“No.”
She got up and reached out toward me, and we began to dance, moving in a small circle on the narrow balcony, with the music drifting down. With her shoes off she was considerably smaller and her head reached only to my shoulder.
“Are you alone?” she said, “Out here?”
“No, in your life.”
“No, I am committed to a woman named Susan Silverman.”
“Doesn’t that cut down on your freedom?” Candy rested her the head against my shoulder as we turned slowly in the darkness.
“Yes,” I said. “But it’s worth it.”
“So you’re not completely autonomous?”
“No.”
“Good. It makes you easier to understand.”
“Why do you need to understand me?” I said,
