wondered I hadn’t noticed it before.
“What goes on?” a flat voice demanded.
I looked around, saw a State Highway cop frowning at me. I let go of the girl’s wrist.
“Arrest that man!” the girl stormed. “He was trying to assault me.”
“Bad for business,” the cop said, eyeing me over.
“Very,” I said.
Clair appeared from nowhere.
I winked at her.
“The lady’s charging me with assault,” I said, and laughed.
Clair took my arm, said nothing. We looked at the cop. The ball seemed to be in his court.
“Why did you try to hit him?” the cop asked the girl. “I saw you do that.”
“Look what he’s done to my car,” she stormed. “Call this a Service Station! My God! I’ll sue this crummy bastard out of business.”
The cop eyed her disapprovingly, walked to the Cadillac, looked at it.
“Tsk, tsk.” He clicked with his tongue, glanced inside the car, spotted the gear lever, gave me an old- fashioned look. “What have you gotta say about this, pal?” he asked.
“My man saw what happened,” I said. “I just tried to smooth things over.” I turned, waved to Bones, who was watching with enormous eyes in the background. “Tell the officer what happended,” I said as he shuffled up.
“If you’re going to take that lousy nigger’s word against mine, I’ll have the coat off your back!” the girl stormed.
“Will you?” the cop said, raising his eyebrows. “You and who else? Come on,” he went on to Bones, “spill it.”
Bones told how the Cadillac had driven into the driveway very fast, and had pulled up dead, narrowly missing the air tower. He had asked the girl to reverse back to the gas pump as she had wanted gas, and she had promptly driven slap into the wall.
“Yeah, I guess that’s about how it did happen,” the cop said. He eyed the girl over. “What’s your name, sister?”
I thought she was going to explode.
“My good man,” she said, after a tense pause. “I am Lydia Hamilton, the Goldfield Production star.”
I had never heard of her, but then I seldom went to the movies. Bones apparently had, because he sucked his teeth and goggled at her.
“I don’t care if you’re George Washington’s grandmother or even Abe Lincoln’s aunt, you’re pinched,” the cop said. “The charge, if it interests you, is being drunk while in charge of a car. Now come on, we’ll all take a trip to the station.”
I thought the girl was going to strike the cop; so did he, because he took a quick step back. But she controlled herself, said, “You’ll be sorry you started this,” walked to the Cadillac.
“Hey, you ain’t fit to drive,” the cop said. He looked at me. “Take her over to the station, pal. You’ll be wanted as a witness, anyway. Better send the dinge over too.”
I didn’t want to go, but there was nothing else I could do. I told Clair I’d be right back, asked Bradley to keep an eye on the station, and went over to the Cadillac.
“I’m not having that rat drive me,” the girl said.
“Look, sister,” the cop said in a bored voice, “I’ll send for the waggon if you like. You’re under arrest, and you can come to the station any way you like, but you’ll come.”
She hesitated, then got into the Cadillac. She threw the ignition keys at me, hitting me in the face. I picked them off the floor, got in beside her, shifted the gear lever from bottom to neutral, trod on the starter.
She began cursing me as soon as we had driven out into the highway. She kept on without a pause for a mile or so, then I got tired of it, told her to shut up.
“I’m not shutting up, you cheap grease monkey,” she said. “I’ll ruin you for this. You and your prissy mouth floozie. When I’m through with you, you’ll be sorry you were born.”
“Someone who doesn’t mind touching you ought to apply a hairbrush to your tail,” I said.
She gave a squeal of fury, flung herself at me and wrenched the wheel to the right. The car, travelling at forty miles an hour, slewed across the road. I stamped on the foot brake, lugged back the parking brake. The car stopped dead, and she was thrown forward. Her head slammed against the dash-board. She passed out.
The cop had skidded to a standstill. He got off his motorcycle, walked over to me.
“For the love of Mike,” he said crossly. “Can’t you drive, either?”
I told him what had happened, and be looked at the unconscious girl.
“Crazy as a bug,” he said. “I’ve heard tales about her. These movie stars give me a pain. This dame is always in a jam, but she buys her way out. This little outing’s going to cost her something. Well, come on, I ain’t got all day.”
We continued on our way to the station.
2
It was our first visit to San Francisco, and neither of us knew where to find the kind of place we were looking for. We took a traffic cop into our confidence and told him we wanted a good meal and some fun. Where did he suggest ?
He put his foot on the running board, pushed his hat to the back of his head, and regarded us with a kindly eye. At least, he regarded Clair with a kindly eye I don’t think he even noticed me.
“Well, miss, if you want a night out you couldn’t do better than Joe’s. It’s the nicest joint in town, and that’s saying a lot.”
“Listen, brother,” I said, leaning over Clair so he could see my tuxedo. “We want class with our fun tonight. Nothing’s too good for us. I’m burning to spend dough, and low dives are off the agenda.”
He gave me a fishy look. “I still say Joe’s,” he said. “It has plenty of class, and you have a good time as well. If you don’t want Joe’s, you can go drive into the harbour Why should I worry my head?”
It seemed as if it had to be Joe’s. We thanked him, asked him the way.
He told us. In fact, he did everything except draw a map.
“Tell Joe I sent you,” he said, winking. “Patrolman O’Brien. Tell him, and you’ll get special treatment.”
After we had driven a block, I said: “Now, we’ll ask someone else. I bet that flatfoot is just a talent scout for Joe’s.”
Clair said she would like to go to Joe’s.
“If it’s no good, we can always go somewhere else,” she argued.
We found Joe’s down a side street. There was nothing gaudy nor deluxe about the place; no doorman to help you out of your car, no one to tell you where to park, no awning, no carpet. It was just a door in the wall with a neon sign: JOE’S.
“Well, here we are, sweetheart,” I said “Do I leave the car here or do we take it inside?”
“You knock on the door and ask,” Clair said severely. “The way you behave you’d imagine you’d never been to a joint before.”
“Not in a tuxedo I haven’t,” I said, getting out of the car. “It makes me kind of shy.” I rapped on the door, waited.
The door was opened by a thickset man with a tin ear, and a broken nose. He had squashed himself into a boiled shirt, and he looked no more comfortable in it than if he’d been wearing a hair shirt.
“Good evening,” I said. “We have come to eat. Patrolman O’Brien recommended this place. How about it?”
“That jerk always recommends us,” the thickset man said, spat past me into the street. “As if we want his lousy recommendations. Well, now you’re here, you’d better come in.”
“What do I do with the car?” I asked, a little startled.
