I'll Get You For This

  I leaned forward confidentially. "They say the elastic shortage has made woman's position in world affairs less secure than it was four years back," I said briskly.

  She didn't say "Huh?", but she wanted to. She looked away instead, the way you look when a drunk speaks to you. Then she looked back and caught my grin. She smiled bleakly.

  "Reilly's the name," I said. "I'm a playboy with a lot of dough and a yen for red-heads. You'd better scream for help while there's time. I'm considered to be a fast worker."

She looked me over. No smile now. Eyes medium to hard.

  "I could handle you without help," she said in a husky voice that sent chills up and down my spine, "and I don't like playboys."

  "My mistake," I said, shaking my head. "I missed out on psychology when I worked my way through college. I'd've thought playboys would have been your strong suit. Let's forget it," and I picked up my program and pretended to study it.

  She gave me another bleak stare and concentrated on the court below.

  Four men had just walked on. One of them was Gomez. You could tell he was the local champ. Not only did the crowd give him a tremendous hand, but the other three players hung back and let him scoop the limelight. He was full of bounce and arrogance. I watched him wave to the crowd. He certainly had something to be arrogant about. I've never seen such a specimen of a he-man. He looked in our direction and gave Miss Spence a special wave. She ignored him, so I waved for her, just for the hell of it. He didn't seem to appreciate the gesture.

  Miss Spence's mouth tightened, but she didn't say anything.

  The four men were now in a huddle in the middle of the court, testing the pelota which had just been thrown in. Then they broke up and went to their positions.

  "Do these guys get paid to play this sissy game?" I asked out of the corner of my mouth.

  "What makes you think you're so tough?" she snapped back, before she remembered her dignity.

  "Give me a chance and I'll show you," I said.

  She leaned forward and looked down at the players. Her eyes brooded sudden death.

  Gomez served. I'll say this for him, he could certainly sling a mean pelota. The ball whizzed through the air, struck the front wall and shot back, hugging the wall and buzzing like an outsized hornet. One of the other players turned into the side wall and took three quick steps up its perpendicular height, like a man running up a short flight of stairs. He trapped the ball in his cesta, dropped back and slammed the ball away. White figures darted about the court, arms reached out, the ball whizzed to and fro. Gomez did all the things you'd expect a champ to do, and did them well. His stamina was terrifying. The score moved quickly. It looked a walk-over

for him.

  I gave Miss Spence a sidelong look. She was watching the game with a bored disdainful expression on her face as if she knew what was going to happen, and didn't care if and when it did happen.

  I remembered what the hall porter had said about her flopping at the drop of a hat. I wondered if it had to be a certain kind of a hat or whether any hat would do. I wished I'd asked for further details.

  "Before long that side of beef will be looking for you," I said softly. "Suppose you and me walk out on him? I could show you the moon. If you don't like moons, I'll show you my tattoo marks instead."

  Her long, slender, red-tipped fingers tapped on the binocular case.

  "I still don't like playboys," she said, and looked away.

  Gomez had smashed his cesta. Scowling, he signalled time out, and went over to a Negro attendant who strapped a new basket on his hand.

  I looked around to make sure no one was paying us any attention. No one was. I made my hand into a fist and slugged Miss Spence just above her hip bone. She rocked, and breath whistled through her nose.

  "Maybe you like tough guys better?" I said, smiling at her.

  She didn't look at me, but her nose was pinched and her eyes like holes in a mask. She gathered up her junk off the balcony wall and stood up.

  "Show me the moon," she said in a brittle hard voice, and pushed past the spectators to the gangway.

  I followed her out, accompanied by a storm of cheering. I guessed Gomez had taken the final tan to, and I'd launched Miss Spence just in time.

  The dignified doorman signalled for her car as soon as he saw her coining. By the time we had reached the revolving doors the black and chromium Cadillac was lined up, waiting.

  The doorman gave me a hard look as he handed Miss Spence into the car. She left the driving

seat vacant, and I slid under the wheel. We drifted away with the smoothness of a falling leaf, and with less noise.

  I drove fast to Lancing Avenue. She didn't say anything during the drive, and she sat stiff and straight, looking at the road ahead, her big white teeth gnawing her underlip.