anger that made his flesh sting. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to talk to him, but he was damned if he’d let her hang up on him like this. This number was his only link with Joanne. The phone company had given him the runaround, and he couldn’t control his rage enough to attempt to reason with them. But Flo wasn’t going to do this to him. She’d never live in peace with that phone in the house unless she talked to him.
Coldly, sweating, he dialed the number again. This time it was picked up immediately. “For God’s sake, Mr. Stuart,” Flo said. “What you want? I got a splitting headache. Knock it off, will you?”
“Flo.”
“All right. So I’m listening.”
“I’m asking you. Please tell me where I can get in touch with Joanne.”
“This is new?”
“This time it is. She left something over here, Flo. Honest. It’s urgent I get in touch with her. I won’t tell her you told me. I won’t bother her. And — there’s a hundred dollars in it for you.”
There was a long pause. They could have repaired the lines during the vibrant silence.
At last Flo said, “She’s working.”
“All right.” His heart was pounding. Sweat was bright blisters on his forehead. “Where?”
“A drive-in restaurant — on Wilshire.” She gave him the address.
• • •
He left Sunset, drove down Fairfax to Wilshire. From habit he glanced at the marquee of the Old Time Movie Theatre. They were playing a silent feature he’d made, playing a supporting role to Louise Dressler. Beautiful Louise Dressler — he remembered her dignity, even as the old frump in
The Goose Woman.
Such a long time ago, he thought. I’m such a fool. I made that picture before Joanne was born, a long time before… .
He cruised past the drive-in restaurant, going slowly. He wanted to turn in, but could not. If he had good sense he would drive out Wilshire to Beverly Hills, return home.
He went around a block, came back to the drive-in. She didn’t want to see him, this was clear enough. He could paste that message on his windshield. If she wanted to see him, she would see him. She knew where he was. She had known all these three days.
He turned the wheel, glided the hardtop convertible to a stop in the most shadowed part of the serving area. He did not touch the horn. He made up his mind. He would apologize to her. He owed her that much. He’d had no right to subject her to Hoff and Shatner and their suspicions — and his own doubts. Hell, even then he’d thought she’d laugh with him at them. She laughed at everything else. This proved the old platitude. You knew nothing about women — you could live to be a hundred, as he had, and still you wouldn’t understand them.
He sat there, feeling his shirt getting damp under his armpits. His stomach muscles cramped, tied in a knot and the emptiness spread inside him. Suppose she walked toward his car, recognized him, and then would not speak to him? Hell, he couldn’t take that. Not right now. This would be worse than not seeing her at all.
He saw her move across a lighted area. His heart seemed to plunge. His throat grew tight. He glanced around at the other cars, at the people in them, the people inside the air-conditioned dining room.
She had never looked so lovely. The shorts she wore were so tight she might as well have been naked. Her legs were long sculptured columns, carefully molded of light and shadow.
She came toward his car, carrying a pad and pencil. She walked directly to him. He studied her face in the faint light, trying to see some of his own longing reflected there. Her face showed nothing. Hell, men died of heartbreak; women never did — not since Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It had gone out of style.
Her eyes were clouded over, and she wore a fixed smile calculated to please the male patrons. It might infuriate the women diners, but none of the carhops gave a damn about women customers. Women never tipped more than a dime anyhow.
She recognized
Coldly, sweating, he dialed the number again. This time it was picked up immediately. “For God’s sake, Mr. Stuart,” Flo said. “What you want? I got a splitting headache. Knock it off, will you?”
“Flo.”
“All right. So I’m listening.”
“I’m asking you. Please tell me where I can get in touch with Joanne.”
“This is new?”
“This time it is. She left something over here, Flo. Honest. It’s urgent I get in touch with her. I won’t tell her you told me. I won’t bother her. And — there’s a hundred dollars in it for you.”
There was a long pause. They could have repaired the lines during the vibrant silence.
At last Flo said, “She’s working.”
“All right.” His heart was pounding. Sweat was bright blisters on his forehead. “Where?”
“A drive-in restaurant — on Wilshire.” She gave him the address.
• • •
He left Sunset, drove down Fairfax to Wilshire. From habit he glanced at the marquee of the Old Time Movie Theatre. They were playing a silent feature he’d made, playing a supporting role to Louise Dressler. Beautiful Louise Dressler — he remembered her dignity, even as the old frump in
The Goose Woman.
Such a long time ago, he thought. I’m such a fool. I made that picture before Joanne was born, a long time before… .
He cruised past the drive-in restaurant, going slowly. He wanted to turn in, but could not. If he had good sense he would drive out Wilshire to Beverly Hills, return home.
He went around a block, came back to the drive-in. She didn’t want to see him, this was clear enough. He could paste that message on his windshield. If she wanted to see him, she would see him. She knew where he was. She had known all these three days.
He turned the wheel, glided the hardtop convertible to a stop in the most shadowed part of the serving area. He did not touch the horn. He made up his mind. He would apologize to her. He owed her that much. He’d had no right to subject her to Hoff and Shatner and their suspicions — and his own doubts. Hell, even then he’d thought she’d laugh with him at them. She laughed at everything else. This proved the old platitude. You knew nothing about women — you could live to be a hundred, as he had, and still you wouldn’t understand them.
He sat there, feeling his shirt getting damp under his armpits. His stomach muscles cramped, tied in a knot and the emptiness spread inside him. Suppose she walked toward his car, recognized him, and then would not speak to him? Hell, he couldn’t take that. Not right now. This would be worse than not seeing her at all.
He saw her move across a lighted area. His heart seemed to plunge. His throat grew tight. He glanced around at the other cars, at the people in them, the people inside the air-conditioned dining room.
She had never looked so lovely. The shorts she wore were so tight she might as well have been naked. Her legs were long sculptured columns, carefully molded of light and shadow.
She came toward his car, carrying a pad and pencil. She walked directly to him. He studied her face in the faint light, trying to see some of his own longing reflected there. Her face showed nothing. Hell, men died of heartbreak; women never did — not since Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It had gone out of style.
Her eyes were clouded over, and she wore a fixed smile calculated to please the male patrons. It might infuriate the women diners, but none of the carhops gave a damn about women customers. Women never tipped more than a dime anyhow.
She recognized
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