Mary And The Giant

"Fine," Coombs said, reaching back to put the car in gear. He wandered next door to a lunch counter, but after he had ordered he discovered he wasn't hungry. Leaving his soup untouched, he paid the tab and walked out.

Gratifyingly, his Ford was already up on the rack. Strolling over, he critically supervised the men as they squirted grease up into the transmission. He created a lively discussion about weights of motor oil, heatedly demanding, in spite of their advice, a crankcase full of detergent oil, ten-thirty weight. Fussily he paced around until he had what he wanted. The attendants finished the greasing, lowered the car, and wrote out a bill.

At eleven-thirty he drove up Elm Street and parked a block from Tweany's house. He was close enough to see who came in and who went out. Clicking on the car radio, he tuned in the good-music station at San Mateo and listened to the Brahms Third Symphony. Now and then somebody passed along the sidewalk, but for the most part there was no sign of life.

Doubt assailed him. Perhaps Tweany had appeared during his absence.

His gun bumping around in his pocket, he climbed out, crossed the street, and walked toward the house. But again, when he tapped on the door, there was no response. Satisfied, he returned to the car and clicked the radio back on. Now they were playing the Berlioz Roman Carnival Overture. He wondered if there was an opera called Roman Carnival or if it was one of those overtures. Schilling would know. Schilling knew everything there was-about music, at least. Outside of that, he wasn't too bright; he certainly was a pushover for a piece of tail. For the space of one Berlioz overture Coombs considered driving around to the record shop, but then he changed his mind. Max Figuera would be hanging close by. It was, as always, too risky.

Slightly after noon, a figure came hurrying up the sidewalk, a brown-haired girl in a cloth coat, with hooped earrings and heels. It was Tweany's friend Mary Anne Reynolds.

Without hesitating, the girl left the sidewalk and dashed up the flight of wooden stairs to Tweany's apartment. She didn't bother to knock; producing a key, she unlocked the door and pushed it open. Disappearing inside, she slammed the door after her. For a time the street was silent. Then, one after another, the windows of Tweany's apartment flew open. The sounds of activity filtered out. At last came the roar of a vacuum cleaner: the girl was cleaning the apartment.

Lounging in the warmth of his Ford, Coombs continued to wait. Time passed, so much and so uniform that he lost all sense of it and drifted into a doze. Somewhere along the line his car battery gave out and the radio faded away. Coombs was unaffected. He remained inert until two o'clock in the afternoon, when, without warning of any kind, Carleton Tweany hove into sight at the far end of the block, his arm around a woman. The woman was Beth Coombs. The two of them, chattering, ascended the stairs and, like a pair of mud wasps, squeezed into the apartment. The door closed after them.

Pulling himself together, Coombs stepped from the car. One leg was asleep; he had to stamp it on the pavement to restore circulation. Then, one hand in his coat pocket, he started at a jog toward the three-story house.

12

That morning, not having to be at the telephone company until three o'clock, Mary Anne showed up at the business office of the Pacific Park Leader.

Evading the information counter, she went directly into the inner offices. "Hello, Mr. Gordon. Can I come inside and sit down?"

Arnold Gordon was pleased to see what he imagined and hoped was his son's fiancee. "Certainly, Mary," he said, getting up and showing her to a chair. "How are you today?"

"Great. How's the newspaper business?"

"Expanding all the time. Well, what can I do for you?"

"You can give me a job. I'm sick and tired of the telephone company."

Her request was no surprise to him. Gravely, Arnold Gordon said: "Mary, you know how much I'd like to."

"Sure," Mary Anne said, recognizing that it was indeed a lost cause.

"But," Arnold Gordon said, and it was true, "this is a small-town newspaper operating on a small budget. We have sixteen employees, not counting carriers. Most of those are typesetters and union men working in the shop. You don't mean that kind of job, do you?"

"Okay, I'm convinced." She got to her feet. "I'll see you again, Mr. Gordon."

"Going?" Eyes twinkling, he observed: "When you're finished with something, you're really finished."

"I have a lot to get done."

"How've you and David been getting along?"

She shrugged. "The same as usual. We went dancing last Thursday."

"Any date set, yet?"

"No, and there isn't going to be unless he wises up."

"What do you mean?"

"That gas station. He could be taking some kind of correspondence course. If I was a man I would; I wouldn't sit around doing nothing, just drifting, waiting. He could take business management. He could learn TV repairing, like you see in the ads."