Mary And The Giant

"Beth is a little mixed up, too. Their manias jigsaw." He explained: "She told me Danny was expelled from his grade school for peeping the girls' gym. Later on that camera was his roaming eye."

"And she likes to-exhibit herself," Mary Anne said, with aversion.

"Beth was an artists' model. That's how Coombs met her .. . he was running a girl-picture agency. He wanted a model who would pose nude. You can imagine how happy that made her. It was a satisfactory arrangement for both of them."

He was, of course, relieved that Coombs was dead. Beth, alone, was little or no menace; the mistake of five years ago had finally ceased to plague him. It meant a turning point in his life.

"I'm not sorry to have him gone," he said.

"That's the wrong attitude," Mary Anne informed him. "Why?" He was surprised.

"It's just wrong, that's all. He was a human being, wasn't he? Nobody should be killed; capital punishment and all that, it's wrong." With a shake of her head she dismissed the topic. "I'm going to have to change into some other shoes; I wore these so I'd look older."

Amused, he said: "I know how old you are. You're twenty."

"You're a wizard." She hobbled to the door. "I'm going home and change. Is the job decided? Everything's set, isn't it?"

His humor departed. "The job is open, yes."

"Well, I'm applying. Do I get it or not?"

"You get it," he said, with a tug of emotion. "At two-fifty a month, a five-day week, everything we talked about when you were in before." Good God, it had been four months. He had waited for her that long. "When do you want to start?"

"I'll be back this afternoon, as soon as I've changed." For a moment she lingered. "What should I wear? How formal do you want me to dress? Heels, I suppose."

"No, not necessarily." But he experienced a kind of delight at the idea. "You can wear flats, if you want. But definitely stockings."

"Stockings."

"Don't go overboard ... but don't come in wearing jeans. Whatever you'd wear to go shopping downtown."

"That's what I thought," she said, consulting with herself. "How often do you pay, every two weeks?"

"Every two weeks."

Without embarrassment, she asked: "Can I have ten dollars right now?"

He was partly captivated, partly outraged. "Why? What for?"

"Because I'm broke, that's what for."

Shaking his head, he got out his wallet and handed her a ten-dollar bill. "Maybe I'll never see you again."

"Don't be silly," Mary Anne said, and disappeared out the doorway, leaving him alone, as he had been before.

At one-thirty in the afternoon the girl returned, wearing a cotton skirt and a short-sleeved blouse. Her hair was brushed back and her face was shiny with eagerness; she looked ready to go to work. But with her was an indolent-looking young man.

"Where can I put my things?" she asked, meaning her purse. "In the back?"

Schilling showed her the steps leading to the basement stockroom. "That's the safest place, down there." Reaching into the stairwell, he snapped on the light. "The bathroom's down there, and a closet. Not very large, but enough for coats."

While Mary Anne was absent, the young man sauntered up to him. "Mr. Schilling, they told me you'd give me the word on music."

From his coat pocket the man got out a crumpled envelope; he began flattening it on the counter. It was a list of composers, Schilling saw; all contemporary and all individualistic experimentalists.

"You're a musician?" Schilling asked.

"Yeah, I play bop piano over at the Wren." He scrutinized Schilling. "Let's see how good you are."

"Oh," Schilling said, "I'm good, all right. Ask me something."

"Ever heard of a fellow named Arnie Scheinburg?"

"Schonberg," Schilling corrected. He couldn't tell if he was being made fun of. "Arnold Schonberg. He wrote the Gurre lieder. "

"How long have you been in this racket?"

He computed. "Well, in one form or another since the late twenties. This is my first retail shop, though."

"You like music?"

"Yes," Schilling said, worried in an obscure way. "Very much."

"Don't you do anything else? Don't you get outdoors?" The young man strolled around, taking in the store. "This is an elegant little shop. Shows good taste. But tell me, Schilling, don't you sometimes feel cut off from the broad masses?"

Mary Anne appeared from the back. "Well? Let's get with it."

Having loaded the young man up with records, Schilling steered him into a booth. At the counter Mary Anne was busily opening the cash register.

"Friend of yours?" Schilling asked, amused that, in her world, introductions did not exist.

"Paul plays over at the Wren," she answered, starting to count the one-dollar bills. As soon as she had left the store she had gone home to her apartment, changed, and then hurried to the Wren to pay Paul back his ten dollars.. . money that had kept her going since she cashed her final check from the telephone company.

"That place?" Nitz had said. "That record shop? That's the fellow they said I should talk to."