"This is my taxi," the man said.
"It's my taxi," Jonah said flatly, and held open the door for Sally. The man, he now saw, was perhaps sixty-five years old, and he was drenched to the skin. He stared up at Jonah without rancor, a pleading, frightened look on his wet, red face. He wore rimless glasses, and they were speckled with raindrops. The brim of his hat kept dripping water.
"My wife is waiting there on the sidewalk," the man said lamely.
Jonah did not answer. He hurried Sally into the taxi, slammed the door shut as soon as he was inside, and then gave the driver Sally's address.
"Did you see a woman on the sidewalk?" he asked her.
"No."
"I didn't either."
"I did," the driver said.
"What?" Jonah said.
"Forgive me for living," the driver said, "but there was a little old lady huddled in the doorway there near Stern's, that was probably the guy's wife."
"Well, I didn't see her," Jonah said.
"It's none of my business," the driver said, "and I don't like to get into arguments with passengers, but by rights, this was that guy's cab. If a man signals to you, that's his cab. He gives you a signal, and you give h i m a signal back. You either wave your hand out the window, or dip your lights, anything to let him know you seen him. That's your contract, mister, that means you ain't gonna pick nobody else up, and he ain't gonna jump in no other cab before you get to him. That's the way it works in this city. You from New York?"
"I'm from New York," Jonah said.
"Then you should know that's the way it works here."
"A new slant on contract law," Jonah said to Sally.
"What was that?" the driver said, glancing over his shoulder.
"Don't you think you ought to watch the road?" Jonah said.
"I'm watching the road fine, thanks. I been driving a taxi for seventeen years, and I never had an accident yet, thank God. Don't worry about my watching the road. That guy signaled to me, and I signaled back, and by rights this was his cab, not that it's any of my business. Also, there was a little old lady huddled in the doorway there near Stern's, dripping wet, no matter what you say."
"Look, just drive, will you?" Jonah said, annoyed.
"Forgive me for breathing," the driver said.
Sally cleared her throat.
"But if you think it's fun driving a cab on a rainy night, you ought to try it sometime."
Jonah did not answer. Sally squeezed his hand, and he nodded to her in the darkness of the back seat. The driver was silent for the remainder of the trip downtown. When they reached Sally's building, the fare on the meter was a dollar and ten cents. Jonah tipped the driver a quarter, and got out of the cab to follow Sally, who had taken the umbrella.
"Hey, just a minute, buddy," the driver said.
Jonah hesitated. He ran back to the taxi, stooped to peer through the open front window, and said, "What is it?" The rain was beating down on his head and back. It splashed noisily in the curbside puddles, drummed on the roof of the taxi.
The driver had his hand extended, the dollar bill resting under the dime and the quarter. "You sure you don't need this more than I do?" he asked.
Jonah looked at him steadily.
"Yes, I do," he answered and gingerly picked the quarter from his palm. "Good night," he said politely. He turned away from the cab, and ran through the rain and up the steps to where Sally was wrestling with the umbrella, simultaneously trying to unlock the vestibule door. Behind him, the driver shouted, "What're you, a wise guy?" and gunned the taxi away from the curb.
They climbed the four flights to her apartment. Jonah's trouser legs were sticking to him. The shoulders of his raincoat were soaked through to his suit jacket. Sally quickly unlocked the door and said, "You must be drenched," which he acknowledged with a surly nod as they entered the apartment. He took off the dripping raincoat at once, and then removed his jacket and draped it over the living room radiator. His shirt was wet too, clinging to his shoulders and chest. He took off his glasses and dried them briefly on his handkerchief.
"Here," Sally said, "try some of this."
"What is it?"
"Spanish brandy."
Jonah took the extended glass. "Let's drink to the little old lady huddled in the doorway of Stern's," he said.
"It bothers you, doesn't it?" Sally said.
"Yes."
"Then admit it."
"I admit it."
"No, you're joking about it."
"All right, I won't joke about it. It bothers me. It bothers the hell out of me. I don't like the idea of having beat an old lady out of a taxicab. All right? I may be a son of a bitch, but I'm not that ruthless."
"Who says you're a son of a bitch, Jonah?"
"I don't know," he said. He could hear a radio playing somewhere in the building. In the bathroom, the rain drummed noisily on the skylight. "Listen," he said.
"I hear it."
Her head was studiously bent as she poured brandy into her own glass, her light brown hair hanging over one cheek, her eyes intent on the glass and the lip of the bottle. Watching her, he felt curiously relaxed, as though this tiny apartment, the sound of the rain and the distant radio, the feeling of contained heat, this tall and slender girl gracefully putting the cork back into the bottle, all evoked a memory for him that was both comforting and secure. And then, as she turned from the coffee table, head rising, soft brown hair settling gently into place beside the curve of her cheek as though in slow motion, her eyes meeting his, her mouth slowly widening into a smile, everything so slow and easy and tirelessly simple, he remembered the alcohol ring on the bedroom dresser, where Christie's glass of sherry had rested through the night, and the morning had dawned bleakly on the dead and floating fruit flies of their marriage. Without realizing he was about to say it, without recognizing his need to tell her about it, he said "Have you ever been to San Francisco?"
"No," she said. "Whatever made you think of San Francisco?"
"It rained the whole weekend we were there," he said, and shrugged.
She waited. She looked at him expectantly, and waited.
"My partner," he said.
"What?"
"We went to San Francisco together. Have you ever been inside a prison?"
"No."
"You wouldn't like it."
"I guess not."
Silence again, the rain unceasing, the distant radio carrying snatches of melody on the night air, unrecognizable, and still she waited and he thought, What the hell do you want from me? and realized, of course, that she had asked for nothing.
"What is it?" she said.
"What?"
"A… a strange look just came over your face."
"No," he said. "Nothing."
"Tell me."
"Nothing," he said.
She nodded, a curious nod that was more like a shrug, and then she sat and crossed her legs, still waiting, knowing he would tell her when he was ready, and wondering if she wanted him to tell her, and remembering the way Hadad had kept referring to him as her boy friend. The internal revenue agent's name had been Ronny, and she'd been very fond of him. Even Gertie had liked him, but of course Gertie didn't know he was married and lived in Scarsdale with his wife and small son. She had not been to bed with a man since she and Ronny ended it in April. She felt no desire now, and yet she knew without question that she would go to bed with Jonah Willow tonight, and she wondered why.
"We were asked to defend a prisoner out there, that's all," Jonah said. "At San Quentin."
"I see."
"He'd killed one of the guards. Said the man had been harassing him."