Starting his car for the third time, he drove around for a couple of hours, then had lunch at a drive-in and returned to the hotel. He spent a restless afternoon reading. He had dinner, and killed the evening at the movies.
Faced with more idleness the following day, he was again moved to call Moira. But somehow, without seeming to think about it, he rang Carol's number instead.
Coming to the phone drowsy-voiced, she said she could not see him. They had no reason to see each other.
'Oh, now, we might have,' he said. 'Why don't we get together and talk about it?'
She hesitated. 'About what, exactly?'
'Well… you know. A lot of things. We'll have lunch, and-'
'No,' she said firmly. 'No, Roy. It is impossible, anyway. I am working regularly at the hospital now. Night duty. In the day, I must sleep.'
'In the evening, then.' Suddenly it had become very important that he see her. 'Before you go to work. Or I can pick you up in the morning, after you finish. I…'
He rushed on. He had a new job, he explained. Or, well, he was
'No,' she said. 'No, Roy.'
And she hung up.
16
On the following day, he called Moira Langtry. But there again he was defeated. He was surprised as well as irritated, since, momentarily, she had seemed to welcome an early start on their La Jolla weekend, reversing herself in practically the same breath. It couldn't be done, she explained. At least, due to delicate womanly reasons, a periodic difficulty, it wouldn't be very practical. Tomorrow? Mmm, no, she was afraid not. But the next day, Sunday, should be fine.
Roy suspected that she was simply a little miffed at him; that this was his punishment for his weeks of inattentiveness. Certainly, however, he was of no mind to plead with her, so he said casually that Sunday would be fine with him, too, and the arrangements were made on that basis.
He killed the rest of that day, or most of it, with a trip to the Santa Monica beaches. The next day being Saturday, he was free to hit the grift again. But after some mental shilly-shallying, he decided against it.
Let it go. He wasn't quite in the mood. He needed to snap out of himself a little more, to shake off certain disturbing memories which might add to the hazards of a profession which already had hazards enough.
He loafed through the day, he became broody; almost, he pitied himself. What a way to live, he thought resentfully. Always watching every word he said, carefully scrutinizing every word that was said to him. And never making a move that wasn't studiously examined in advance. Figuratively, he walked through life on a high wire, and he could turn his mind from it only at his own peril.
Of course, he was well-paid for his efforts. The loot had piled up fast, and it would go on piling up. But there was the trouble-it simply piled up! As useless to him as so many soap coupons.
Needless to say, this state of things would not go on forever; he would not forever live a second- class life in a second-class hotel. In another five years, his grifted loot would total enough for retirement, and he could drop caution with the grift which impelled it. But those five years were necessary to insure that retirement, filling it with all the things he had been forced to forego. And just suppose he didn't live five years. Or even one year. Or even one day. Or-
The brooding exhausted itself. And him, as well. The interminable day passed, and he fell asleep. And then, wondrously, it was morning. Then, at last, he had something to do.
They were making the trip by train, the southbound one-o'clock, and Moira was meeting him at the station. Roy parked his car on the railroad lot-he would rent another for their holiday use-and took his bag out of the trunk.
It was only a quarter after twelve, far too early to expect Moira. Roy bought their tickets, gave the seat numbers and his bag to a well-tipped redcap, and entered the station bar.
He had a drink, stretching it out as he glanced occasionally at the clock. At twenty minutes to one, he got up from his stool and went back through the entrance.
The Sunday southbound was always crowded, carrying not only the civilian traffic but the swarms of Marines and sailors returning to their duty stations at Camp Pendleton and San Diego. Roy watched as they streamed through the numbered gates and down the long ramps which led to the trains. A little nervously, he again checked the time.
Ten minutes until one. That was enough time, of course, but not too much. The station was more than a block in depth, and the train ramp was practically a block long. If Moira didn't get here very quickly, she might as well stay home.
Five minutes until one.
Four minutes.
Sourly, Roy gave up and started back to the bar. She wouldn't do this deliberately, he was sure. Probably, she'd been caught up in a traffic jam, one of the Gordian-knots of snarled-up cars which afflicted the city's supposedly highspeed freeways. But, damnit, if she'd ever start any place a little early, instead of waiting until the last minute-!
He heard his name called.
He whirled and saw her coming through the entrance, trotting behind the redcap who carried her baggage. The man flashed a smile at Roy as he passed. 'Do my best, boss. Just you stay behind me.'
Roy grabbed Moira and hurried her along with him.
'Sorry,' she panted. 'Darned apartment house! Elevator stuck, an'-'
'Never mind. Save your breath,' he said.
They raced the marble-floored length of the building, passed through the gate and on down into the seemingly endless stretch of ramp. At its far end a trainman stood, watch in hand. As they approached, he pocketed the watch, and started up the short sideramp to the loading platform.
They followed him, passed him.
As the train pulled out, they caught the last car.
A train porter escorted them to their seats. Breathless, they slumped into them. And for the next thirty minutes, they hardly stirred.
At last, as they were pulling out of the town of Fullerton, Moira's head turned on the white-slipped seat back and she grinned at him.
'You're a good man, McGee.'
'And you're a good woman, Mrs. Murphy,' he said. 'What's your secret?'
'Underwear in the chowder, natch. What's yours?'
Roy said his derived from inspirational reading. 'I was reading a wonderful story just as you came in. Author named Bluegum LaBloat. Ever hear of him?'
'Mmm, it does sound slightly familiar.'
'I think this is the best thing he's done,' Roy said. 'The setting is the men's washroom in a bus station, and the characters are a clean old man and a fat young boy who live in one of the coin toilets. They ask little of the world. Only the privacy incident to doing what comes naturally. But do they get it? Heck, no! Every time they begin to function-you should excuse the language-some diarrheal dope rushes up and drops a dime in the slot. And in his coarse surrender to need, their own desire is lost. In the end, fruition frustrated, they gather up the apple cores from the urinals and go off into the woods to bake a pie.'
Moira gave him a severe look.
'I'm going to call the conductor,' she declared.
'I couldn't buy your silence with a drink?'
