The Huddlers Part 2

"You're the only thing in Los Angeles that doesn't," she said bitterly.

"Where are you from, Fred?"

"New York," I said. "Where are you from, Jean?"

"Believe it or not, I was born here," she said. "I'm one of the three people in this town who was born here."

"It's a big town, isn't it?" I said. "Less huddled than the others."

"Huddled," she said, and laughed. "Huddled. I like that. They huddle, all right, and not just the football teams. The gregarious instinct, Freddy boy."

"Well, yes," I agreed, "but why, Jean? Why haven't they outgrown it? Is it--fear?"

"You would have to ask somebody bright," she said. "When you get to Bundy, turn over toward Wilshire. We'll find an eating place that's open."

"You tell me when I get to Bundy," I said. "I'm not exactly familiar with this part of town."

She told me, and we got to Wilshire, eventually, and on Wilshire there were many eating places.

We went into one; it was too cold to eat outside. And it was bright in there, and I got my first really clear look at the face and figure of Jean Decker.

Well, it was ridiculous, the attraction that seemed to emanate from her.

It actually made me weak.

And she was staring at me, too.

"If you're hungry," she said finally, "get a sandwich. You won't find me stingy.... What in the world is that material in that suit, Fred?"

"I don't know," I said. "You are beautiful, Jean."

She smiled. "Well, thanks. You can have a piece of pie, too, for that.

That certainly is a fine weave in that material. What did your tailor call it?"

We were next to a sort of alcove, furnished with a table and two high-backed benches, and she sat down. I sat across from her.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"I don't have a tailor," I said. "Your lips are so red, Jean."

She frowned. "Slowly, sailor."

Then a waitress was there, and I saw how red her lips were, too, and I realized it was another of the old vices I'd forgotten, cosmetics.

"Just coffee, for me, black," Jean said. "Golden boy over there will have a beef barbecue, probably, won't you, Fred?"

"I guess," I said. "And some milk, cow's milk."

Jean laughed. "It's my money. Have canary milk."

"Not tonight," I said.

The waitress went away, and there was a noticeable period of silence.

Jean was tracing some design on the table top with her index finger. Her nails, too, were painted, I saw. I liked the effect of that.

She looked up, and faced me gravely, "Fred, you're a very attractive gent, which you undoubtedly know. Are you connected with pictures?"

I shook my head. "Just a traveler, a tourist."

She said, "Oh" and went back to tracing the design. I thought her finger trembled.

A very dim smile on her face, and she didn't look away from the table top. "You've been--picked up before, undoubtedly."

"No. What kind of talk is this, Jean?"

Now, she looked up. "Crazy talk. You're no New Yorker, Freddy lad.

You're a Middle Westerner; you can't fool me. Fresh from the farm and craving cow's milk."

"I never saw a cow in my life," I told her truthfully, "though I've heard about them. What makes you think I'm from a farm?"

"Your freshness, your complexion and--everything about you."

The waitress brought our food, then, and I didn't answer. I tried to keep my eyes away from Jean as I ate; I had a mission, here, and no time for attachments beyond the casual. I was sure, even then, that loving Jean Decker would never qualify as casual.

She drank her coffee and smoked; I ate.

She asked, "Where are you staying, in town, Fred? I'm sober enough to drive, now."

"I'll get public transportation," I said. "You get home, and to bed."

She laughed. "Public transportation? Freddy, you don't know this town.

There isn't any. Did you just get here, tonight?"

I looked at her, and nodded.

"On the b.u.m?" she said quietly.

"I--suppose," I said honestly, "though the word has connotations which don't describe me." I put my hand in my jacket pocket and fumbled in the open bag for one of the smaller diamonds. I brought one out about the size of my little finger nail, and placed it on the table.

All the light in the room seemed to be suddenly imprisoned there. She stared at it, and up at me.

"Fred--for heaven's sake--that's not--real, is it?"

I nodded.

"But--it--" She glanced from the diamond to me, her mouth partially open. "Fred, what kind of monstrous gag is this? G.o.d, I thought I'd seen everything, growing up in this town. Fred--"

"I'd like to sell it," I said. "You, Jean, are my only friend in this town. Could you help me arrange for its sale?"

She was looking at me with wonder now, studying me. "Hot?" she asked.