I put my arm round her. “I’ve been too busy to realize that this is settling down. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. I had the idea that when a guy settled down, he parked his fanny, and let moss grow over him. I guess I was wrong.”
“Don’t say fanny,” she reproved. “It’s vulgar.”
I grinned at her. “Let’s run into San Francisco tonight, and paint the town red,” I said. “It’s time you and I stepped out. We’ve been working now three months without a break. How about it?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, let’s do that,” she said, throwing her arms round my neck. “Can you get off early?”
“If we leave just before seven it’ll be time enough. Going to put on your glad rags?”
“Of course, and so are you. It’s time I saw you in something better than those awful old overalls.”
The station buzzer sounded. That told me Bones had someone out front whom he couldn’t handle.
“A little trouble,” I said, kissing Clair. “See how important I am? The moment I turn my back—”
She pushed me out of the kitchen.
“Run away,” she said, “or you won’t have any lunch.”
I beat it back to the station.
There was trouble all right. A big Cadillac had hit the concrete wall of the driveway. Its fender had been pushed in and the bumper was buckled. It was a swell-looking car, and it hurt me to see the damage.
Bones was standing by. His usually smiling face was shiny and dismayed. He rolled his eyes at me as I came up.
“It wasn’t my fault, boss,” he said hurriedly. “The lady got into the wrong gear.”
“Don’t tell such bloody lies, you rotten nigger,” a shrill, hard voice exploded from inside the car. “You waved me on. I thought I had plenty of room.”
I signalled to Bones to scram, then walked up to the car, looked in.
A typical lovely young product of Hollywood sat at the wheel. She was dark, expensively dressed, pretty according to the standard hardness of the Movie colony. She was also very angry, and under her rouge her skin was white as marble.
“See what your blasted nigger’s done to my car,” she stormed as soon as she saw me. “Fetch the manager. I’m going to raise holy hell about this!”
“Start raising it now,” I said quietly. “I’m the owner, manager and office boy all rolled into one. I’m sorry to see such a grand car busted like this.”
She eyed me up and down. “So you’re sorry, are you? What am I supposed to do? Smile and drive away? Let me tell you that you haven’t started to be sorry yet!”
I would have liked to have slapped her, but remembering that customers are always right, I said I’d have the fender fixed for her immediately.
“What?” she snapped. “I wouldn’t let you touch it.” She drummed on the steering wheel. “I must have been crazy to have turned into a hick joint like this. Well, it’ll certainly “be a lesson to me. No more hick joints for me.”
I felt my temper rising, so I walked to the front of the car, inspected the damage. It certainly was pretty bad, and it seemed to me she must have rammed the wall with considerable force.
“Just to get the record straight,” I said, coming back, “just how did this happen?”
“I was reversing … I mean I was coming forward—”
“You were reversing, you mean,” I said. “You couldn’t have come forward from this angle. But you made a mistake in the gears and your car jumped forward.” I glanced inside the car. “If you look, you’ll see your gear is still in bottom.”
She opened the car door, her eyes flashing.
“Are you suggesting I can’t drive a car?” she asked, getting out of the car, facing me.
“It looks that way,” I said, sick of her.
Her mouth tightened, and she swung a slap at my face. I picked it off in mid-air, held her wrist, grinned at her. We were close, and I caught the smell of gin on her breath. I looked at her sharply. She was drunk all right. I 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.”