His account simply did not convince her. Perhaps he had not been in North Africa at all, had not even fought in the war on the Axis side, had not even fought. What hijackers? she wondered. No truck that she knew of had come through Canon City from the East Coast with an armed professional ex-soldier as guard. Maybe he had not even lived in the U.S.A., had made everything up from the start; a line to snare her, to get her interested, to appear romantic.
Maybe he’s insane, she thought. Ironic… I may actually do what I’ve pretended many times to have done: use my judo in self-defense. To save my—virginity? My life, she thought. But more likely he is just some poor low-class wop laboring slob with delusions of glory; he wants to go on a grand spree, spend all his money, live it up—and then go back to his monotonous existence. And he needs a girl to do it.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll call the gym.” As she went toward the hall she thought, He’ll buy me expensive clothes and then take me to some luxurious hotel. Every man yearns to have a really well-dressed woman before he dies, even if he has to buy her the clothes himself. This binge is probably Joe Cinnadella’s lifelong ambition. And he is shrewd; I’ll bet he’s right in his analysis of me—I have a neurotic fear of the masculine. Frank knew it, too. That’s why he and I broke up; that’s why I still feel this anxiety now, this mistrust.
When she returned from the pay phone, she found Joe once more engrossed in the Grasshopper, scowling as he read, unaware of everything else.
“Weren’t you going to let me read that?” she asked.
“Maybe while I drive,” Joe said, without looking up.
“You’re going to drive? But it’s my car!”
He said nothing; he merely went on reading.
At the cash register, Robert Childan looked up to see a lean, tall, dark-haired man entering the store. The man wore a slightly less-than-fashionable suit and carried a large wicker hamper. Salesman. Yet he did not have the cheerful smile; instead, he had a grim, morose look on his leathery face. More like a plumber or an electrician, Robert Childan thought.
When he had finished with his customer, Childan called to the man, “Who do you represent?”
“Edfrank Jewelry,” the man mumbled back. He had set his hamper down on one of the counters.
“Never heard of them.” Childan sauntered over as the man unfastened the top of the hamper and with much wasted motion opened it.
“Handwrought. Each unique. Each an original. Brass, copper, silver. Even hot-forged black iron.”
Childan glanced into the hamper. Metal on black velvet, peculiar. “No thanks. Not in my line.”
“This represents American artistry. Contemporary.”
Shaking his head no, Childan walked back to the cash register.
For a time the man stood fooling with his velvet display boards and hamper. He was neither taking the boards out nor putting them back; he seemed to have no idea what he was doing. His arms folded, Childan watched, thinking about various problems of the day. At two he had an appointment to show some early period cups. Then at three—another batch of items returning from the Cal labs, home from their authenticity test. He had been having more and more pieces examined, in the last couple of weeks. Ever since the nasty incident with the Colt .44.
“These are not plated,” the man with the wicker hamper said, holding up a cuff bracelet. “Solid copper.”
Childan nodded without answering. The man would hang around for a while, shuffle his samples about, but finally he would move on.
The telephone rang. Childan answered it. Customer inquiring about an ancient rocking chair, very valuable, which Childan was having mended for him. It had not been finished, and Childan had to tell a convincing story. Staring through the store window at the midday traffic, he soothed and reassured. At last the customer, somewhat appeased, rang off.