Small g by Patricia Highsmith

the place over. Didn’t find anybody. Where are you?”
    Lulu was fine and they all wanted Rickie to come back.
    Rickie hung up and conveyed the good news to Georg. “I’m going back. You’re coming or—? If you’re still afraid, you can stay here. I’ll be gone just an hour or so.”
    Georg looked the least surprised at this; his brows went up. “No, well—if the police are gone—”
    “ You didn’t steal the car.”
    “No.”
    “Was the car damaged?”
    “No. Hermie didn’t wipe his fingerprints off, I’m pretty sure. I did—tried. Hermie thought we were being followed. So we just parked the car somewhere and ran—went into the Biergarten.” The boy finished his beer and glanced at Rickie. “OK, I’ll go—to this place for a while. Then I’ll catch a taxi home—if it’s very late.”
    He meant if it was after midnight and the trams had stopped, Rickie supposed. Rickie much wanted to—suddenly he blurted, “You are most welcome to stay the night, if you’re worried.” About what, Rickie wondered. He simply wanted to be with the boy and realized that he had zero reason to think the boy was gay, or that he himself had the slightest chance—except for the fact that Hermie worked in a men’s gym!
    “No. I don’t think I will. But—thank you.”
    Rickie went and got his best cardigan, a black cashmere, from his bedroom. “You’re going to get cold—in just a shirt tonight.”
    “Thanks. I’ll borrow it. Nice one. I’ll be sure to return it. I promise you.”

9
    R ickie entered the Small g so proud of having Georg with him that he hardly breathed. Head high, really looking at no one, Rickie walked into the lighted bar area, acknowledged a couple of “Hi, Rickie!” greetings, and managed to gesture and say to Georg, “The back corner!”
    The place was busier; people shouted more loudly to make themselves heard. And there was old Renate, barely visible to Rickie through the crowd, drawing coolly on her long cigarette holder, wearing a shocking-pink blouse tonight, and at her usual table! She’d probably asked somebody to move, in her arrogant way. Rickie thought he had seen her little sketchpad on the table, ready to record what the weirdos were wearing.
    “Georg!” Rickie said by way of introduction, when they had made it to the back-corner table, trying to appear cool at having such a handsome boy with him, merely another capture, like a rare butterfly.
    “Georg,” a few at the table echoed, staring.
    “Hello. G’d evening,” Georg replied.
    “Luisa,” Rickie said, gesturing with upturned palm. “This is Georg.”
    Luisa smiled and replied something inaudible.
    There were no chairs, but if Rickie could keep out of people’s way, he preferred standing. Someone had ordered several beers, and here they came. Ernst was giving Georg a thorough visual examination, Rickie saw.
    “Dance?” Georg said to Luisa, and when she got up, he set his beer down in a big ashtray.
    Philip Egli, closer than Rickie, righted the beer glass at once. “Where’d you pick up Golden Boy?” he shouted at Rickie.
    Rickie took a deep breath, looked at the ceiling and smiled, as if to say it was due simply to his usual luck. He watched Luisa and the boy dancing, Georg graceful and easy, Luisa looking happy. It was a French tune, rather fast. Georg had the arms of Rickie’s black cardigan tied round his neck now. Rickie was aware of his own heaviness, of the fact that he was too shy to make a trio with them, as people often did here. Rickie wasn’t a bad dancer.
    Lulu, in the corner with Ernst, wriggled with expectation when Rickie looked at her.
    “Let ’er go !” Rickie said to Ernst.
    “Off the leash?”
    “ Ja! Up, Lulu!”
    Lulu rose like a rocket from the bench seat over the table into Rickie’s arms. A fine catch!
    “Bravo, Lulu!”
    Rickie swung her round his neck, held her feet, and Lulu relaxed as if she were a limp scarf. “ Dum-dum-dum —dum— dum-dum-dum —dum,” he sang,