He had left his muddy taxi, flag down, in a deserted alley round the corner from the lunchroom. There was no time-limit there, the cops wouldn’t bother him. Judas priest, what a rotten night! He stepped into an invisible puddle, cold water came through his shoes. Squelch, squelch. Hell’s delight. He crawled stiffly into his seat and pushed the self-starter. Nga—nga—nga—nga—nga—it didn’t start. Dead as a door-nail. Spark on—gas on—he pushed it again. Nga—nga—nga—nga—nga—nga nn! What the hell—cold probably. He primed it and was about to try once more when a girl, who must have come up from behind, made him jump by suddenly saying into his ear, “Hey, taxi!” Her hand was on his sleeve, and she laughed when she saw him jump. She seemed to be slightly drunk. Laughing, she showed, under the street lamp, several gold teeth. Her hat was sodden with rain, the fur piece round her neck was bedraggled, her wet pale face glistened.
“What the hell,” said O’Brien and, disengaging his arm roughly, again pushed the self-starter. Nga—nga—nga!… No response. He heard his door slam, and, turning round, discovered that the girl had got in. He was furious. “Well, I’ll be—” He banged on the glass and shouted, waving his arm. “Get out of there!” She didn’t move. He could hear her laughing. “Jesus Christ!” he muttered. “What’s the idea?” He sat, puzzled, for a moment; the problem seemed almost more than he could cope with, fantastic, horrible. It merely revealed to him his abysmal tiredness. He crawled out of his seat and opened the door. Rain struck his cheek, the door-handle was wet.
“Come on, Liz,” he said. “Get out.”
As she made no reply he put his head inside and stared at her. A smell of wet face-powder. She sat still in the far corner, smiling, showing a gold tooth.
“Come on!” he repeated. “You can’t ride with me.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to ride with you, did I?”
O’Brien was taken aback.
“Well, what’s the idea? Are you kidding me?”
She gave a peal of laughter, lifting up her feet from the floor in delight.
“Sure I’m kidding you,” she giggled. “All I want is to sit down!”
“Oh, you do, now! You just want to sit down and have a nice little rest in popper’s taxi!”
“Sweet popper!” she cooed. “Come on in and sit down. You’re letting the draft in.”
“You come on out before I drag you out!”
“Oo! Isn’t he rough!”
“One—two—”
“If you touch me I’ll scream, I swear to God I will!… Don’t you dare!… Ow, you dirty dog, let go of my arm! Let go!”… She screamed, as if experimentally, her blue eyes uninterruptedly bright with amusement. He dropped her arm, astonished. Then, while he stared, silent, she added, taking off her wet hat and giving her bobbed yellow hair a shake, “You shouldn’t be so rough, Charlie—that’ll make a bruise on my arm.… And now that you’ve come in, for God’s sake shut the door! It’s cold.”
“Are you drunk?” He sat down, as if merely temporarily, on the edge of the seat, wondering what to do.
“Sure, I’m drunk. You got to feel good sometimes, haven’t you?”
“Well, you oughter be ashamed of yourself.”
She slapped his cheek lightly, by way of administering an affectionate reproach. He seized her wrist and twisted it savagely. She screeched. Her face became hard and furious.
“Say, what the hell are you doing!”… She yanked her hand away, put her wrist to her mouth, and sucked it, absorbed, as if utterly forgetting him. In the silence he heard the rain pattering irregularly on the taxi roof. A shower of needles. He felt as if he were going to fall asleep, stared at her uncomprehending, shivered a little.
“Come on, kid,” he said, altering his tone. “You know you can’t stay here. I’m taking the boat round to the garage. I’m dog-tired and I want to hit the hay.”
“Who’s stopping you? I’m not stopping you!”
“Where do you live, then?”
She eyed him distrustfully, with a hard childlike guile.
“What do you want to know for? Bah, you make me sick.”
“If it’s on my way, I’ll drop you there.”
“Oh, you will, will you! Very kind of you, I’m sure.… Not a chance, Charlie, I’m wise!”
“What the hell are you talking about?… Come on, now, be a good kid and get out.”
She looked at him, smiling. She leaned toward him, smelling of perfume, and smiled ingratiatingly, tilting her pale face a little to one side. She put her hand, with a very large wedding ring, on his knee, and gently squeezed it.
“Don’t you like me, Charlie?” she chirruped.
He put his arm quickly around her waist—she was soaking wet—and picked her up bodily. She screamed. “Let me go, you devil! Let me go, or I’ll break every damned window in your cab!” She struggled. As he tried to drag her toward the open door she struck his face, kicked in every direction, and finally had the brilliant idea of beating him over the eyes repeatedly with her wet velvet hat. Rain-water stung his eyes, blinded him. He dropped her on the seat again. Her fur piece had fallen off, and her dress, pulled up to her knees and twisted, showed a pale blue satin petticoat and gray silk legs, mud-splashed.
“Oo! How strong you are, Charlie. Regular caveman stunt. But don’t try it again, let me tell you! or I’ll smash your windows for you.” She drew away into the corner of the seat again, panting a little, and smiling apprehensively. Then she added, “Oh, gee! look at my petticoat!” She giggled, and gave a flounce to her skirt in an unsuccessful attempt to cover her legs. “You don’t mind looking at my legs, do you, Charlie! They’re easy to look at.… Say, my skirt’s awful wet—I think I’ll take it off and hang it up to dry.…”
“What are you trying to do, get me pinched?” O’Brien pulled the door shut and sat down. “You’re a tough baby, all right!…” He leaned back and for a second closed his eyes. With eyes shut, he saw a long road swarming at him with sparkling puddles, rivers running, and a spotlight full of rain.
“Sure, I’m tough. I’m so tough, I spit brass! Ha, ha!” She was immensely amused by this, and rocked back and forth, laughing, and looking at him with cunning blue eyes, sidelong.
“Well, you oughter be ashamed to say it, a young kid like you!… And all boozed up like an old war horse.… Judas!… Where’d you get it? Who gave it to you?”
“None of your damned business who gave it to me. I’ve been given worse things, let me tell you!… It was a friend of mine gave it to me.” She was coarsely defiant.
“Well, he must be a crumby kind of friend, getting you all tanked up like this on rotten whisky and then leaving you out in the rain like an old cat! Some friend.”
“When I ask for your opinion of my friends, you can give it!…”
“Oh! Is that so!”
“Yes—that’s so!… And my friend’s a cop—you can put that in your pipe and smoke it. You make me tired.”
“A cop!… Tell it to the marines.”