wanted more than anything in the world was to take her shoes off and go to bed.
"Let's go downtown and have a drink."
"Okay, let's."
They walked through the streets quickly, not stopping to look at any window displays—typical small-town, stodgy streets that got shabbier as they neared the college. It was silly, Joyce felt, to have such a high-class or anyway high-priced school on the edge of an area like this, but times changed and you couldn't always predict which neighborhoods were going downhill. They walked past the Honey Bee quickly, looking the other way in case some of the girls were inside, and stopped in front of The Bobcat's Den, its neon sign alight, a curvaceous nude with red flashing nipples. Mary Jean looked up at her. "Keep 'em covered, kid. You're likely to get in trouble that way."
"In here?"
"All right."
It was dark inside and nearly empty; it smelled clean, but faintly sour. Colored bubbles of light chased each other around the rim of the giant juke box, which was mercifully silent, and the mirror behind the bar caught and reflected what light there was. Glasses and bottles arranged in artistic stacks and pyramids glittered in the dusk. The faces of the three men sitting perched at the bar were in shadow. "Martini," Mary Jean said. Joyce nodded. She had never been in a bar before—Aunt Gen, who still deplored the passing of Prohibition, called them saloons, and back in Ferndell no nice girl went into one. She looked around curiously, forgetting herself and her tired feet and her worries for a while.
One of the men laid a bill on the bar and stood up to wait for his change. "Hi," he said, nodding to the girls. Mary Jean glanced up. "Hi, Scotty. Working or loafing?"
"Some of both, I guess. What are you beautiful dolls doing out on the town, all dolled up like Mrs. Rockefeller's plush horse? The duchess know you're out?"
"We're like you, we like a break in the monotony once in a while. How about another Martini, Joyce?"
The drink still stung Joyce's throat. She was terribly thirsty; she would have liked another, but Scotty's eyes were fixed on her inquisitively. She shook her head. "No. You've had enough."
"All right, meanie. If you're in a mood for work," Mary Jean said to Scotty, "why don't you take us back to the salt mine? We're too pooped to walk."
"Take your time. I'll be ready when you are."
Joyce fished the olive out of her glass and chewed it up, dipped a paper napkin into her water glass, and wiped her sticky fingers. She was hungry, too—they hadn't bothered about lunch. The drink and the short rest had perked Mary Jean up; she looked less pallid and she walked out to the taxi almost briskly. Scotty had vanished into the men's room, but they climbed into the back seat and sat there waiting.
Scotty piled in and slammed the door shut. "You kids out lookin' for new hats?"
"Looking for a doctor," Mary Jean said, sounding quite calm and even a little pleased with herself. Joyce thought: Oh dear, she never should have taken that drink.
Scotty shifted gears. "Bellyache?"
"You can call it that."
"I always figured some of you kids knew your way around," Scotty said. "Can't all be lessies in a place like that, the way I got it figgered. Some of 'em's bound to been caught and broke in before they cooped 'urn up. Have any luck?"
"Nope."
"Well, hell, you don't have to go outa town for that. Doc Prince right here on Elm Street, he's turned many a one loose in his time. One hundred bucks, and he's as careful as any of 'em. My wife's kid sister, she got fixed up a couple times already."
"That's the one in the Medical Arts Building?"
"Sure." Scotty grazed through an amber light. "You tell him Stella Chivari sent you. He'll give you a shot, too, if it gets hurtin' too bad. Some won't. My wife she went there with Stell once and she says it's bad, all right, but no worse than having a kid." Scotty swiveled around to look at them. "I guess the dames figure it's worth it, or they wouldn't have it
"Let's go downtown and have a drink."
"Okay, let's."
They walked through the streets quickly, not stopping to look at any window displays—typical small-town, stodgy streets that got shabbier as they neared the college. It was silly, Joyce felt, to have such a high-class or anyway high-priced school on the edge of an area like this, but times changed and you couldn't always predict which neighborhoods were going downhill. They walked past the Honey Bee quickly, looking the other way in case some of the girls were inside, and stopped in front of The Bobcat's Den, its neon sign alight, a curvaceous nude with red flashing nipples. Mary Jean looked up at her. "Keep 'em covered, kid. You're likely to get in trouble that way."
"In here?"
"All right."
It was dark inside and nearly empty; it smelled clean, but faintly sour. Colored bubbles of light chased each other around the rim of the giant juke box, which was mercifully silent, and the mirror behind the bar caught and reflected what light there was. Glasses and bottles arranged in artistic stacks and pyramids glittered in the dusk. The faces of the three men sitting perched at the bar were in shadow. "Martini," Mary Jean said. Joyce nodded. She had never been in a bar before—Aunt Gen, who still deplored the passing of Prohibition, called them saloons, and back in Ferndell no nice girl went into one. She looked around curiously, forgetting herself and her tired feet and her worries for a while.
One of the men laid a bill on the bar and stood up to wait for his change. "Hi," he said, nodding to the girls. Mary Jean glanced up. "Hi, Scotty. Working or loafing?"
"Some of both, I guess. What are you beautiful dolls doing out on the town, all dolled up like Mrs. Rockefeller's plush horse? The duchess know you're out?"
"We're like you, we like a break in the monotony once in a while. How about another Martini, Joyce?"
The drink still stung Joyce's throat. She was terribly thirsty; she would have liked another, but Scotty's eyes were fixed on her inquisitively. She shook her head. "No. You've had enough."
"All right, meanie. If you're in a mood for work," Mary Jean said to Scotty, "why don't you take us back to the salt mine? We're too pooped to walk."
"Take your time. I'll be ready when you are."
Joyce fished the olive out of her glass and chewed it up, dipped a paper napkin into her water glass, and wiped her sticky fingers. She was hungry, too—they hadn't bothered about lunch. The drink and the short rest had perked Mary Jean up; she looked less pallid and she walked out to the taxi almost briskly. Scotty had vanished into the men's room, but they climbed into the back seat and sat there waiting.
Scotty piled in and slammed the door shut. "You kids out lookin' for new hats?"
"Looking for a doctor," Mary Jean said, sounding quite calm and even a little pleased with herself. Joyce thought: Oh dear, she never should have taken that drink.
Scotty shifted gears. "Bellyache?"
"You can call it that."
"I always figured some of you kids knew your way around," Scotty said. "Can't all be lessies in a place like that, the way I got it figgered. Some of 'em's bound to been caught and broke in before they cooped 'urn up. Have any luck?"
"Nope."
"Well, hell, you don't have to go outa town for that. Doc Prince right here on Elm Street, he's turned many a one loose in his time. One hundred bucks, and he's as careful as any of 'em. My wife's kid sister, she got fixed up a couple times already."
"That's the one in the Medical Arts Building?"
"Sure." Scotty grazed through an amber light. "You tell him Stella Chivari sent you. He'll give you a shot, too, if it gets hurtin' too bad. Some won't. My wife she went there with Stell once and she says it's bad, all right, but no worse than having a kid." Scotty swiveled around to look at them. "I guess the dames figure it's worth it, or they wouldn't have it
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