He glanced inside the bill section. Two fifty-dollar bills and a certified check for five-hundred dollars. He put the wallet in his shirt pocket and brushed the seat with his whisk broom. He breathed a little hard. The money was easy. He could take it out and leave the wallet behind the seat for some other swamper to find down the line. The check would be left too. There was too much danger in checks. But those two sweet fifties—those sweet, sweet fifties! His throat was tight and would be until he got those sweet fifties out and the wallet behind the seat.

But he couldn’t get to them because the punk kid was washing the outside of the windows where they were splashed with dirty mist from the highway. The swamper had to wait. If they caught him they’d put him away.

There was a little rip in the cuff of his blue serge trousers. He figured he would slip those two sweet fifties in there, inside the cuff, before he got off the bus. Then he’d get sick before he went off the job. He’d be sick, all right. Like enough he wouldn’t be back for a week. If he got sick on the job and still stayed out the day till quitting time, they wouldn’t figure anything if he didn’t show up for a few days and it would save his job. He heard a step on the bus and stiffened a little. Louie, the driver, looked in.

“Hi, George,” he said. “Say, did you find a wallet? Guy says he lost it.”

George mumbled.

“Well, I’ll come back and look,” said Louie.

George swung around, still on his knees. “I found it,” he said. “I was going to turn it in as soon as I finished.”

“Yeah?” said Louie. He took the wallet from George’s hand and opened it. The punk kid looked in through the window. Louie smiled sorrowfully at George and flicked his eyes toward the punk.

“Too bad, George,” Louie said. “I guess they’ve got ’em stacked against us. Two fifties the guy said and two fifties it is.” He pulled out the bills and the check so the punk looking through the window could see them. “Better luck next time, George,” Louie said.

“Suppose the guy pays a reward,” said George.

“You’ll get half,” said Louie. “If it’s under a buck, you’ll get it all.”

Louie moved out of the bus and into the waiting room. He handed the wallet in at the desk.

“George found it. He was just bringing it in,” said Louie. “That’s a good nigger.”

Louie knew the wallet’s owner was right beside him so he said to the cashier, “If it was me that lost this, I’d give George a nice little present. Nothing don’t turn a guy bad like no appreciation. I remember a guy found a grand and he turned it in and he didn’t even get a thank-you. The next thing you know he robbed a bank and killed a coupla guards.” Louie lied easily and without strain.

“How many going south?” Louie asked.

“You’re full up,” said the clerk. “You got one for Rebel Corners, and don’t forget the pies like you did last week. I never had so much trouble with fifty pies in my life. Here’s your wallet, sir. Will you inspect it to see if it’s all right?”

The owner paid a five-dollar reward. Louie figured to give George a buck sometime. He knew George wouldn’t believe him, but what the hell. It was a stinker’s game and a muddy track. Everybody had to take his chance. Louie was big, a little on the stout side, but a dresser. His party friends called him “meat-face.” He had a fast line and was smart and liked to be known as a horse player. He called race horses dogs and spoke of all situations as parlays. He would have liked to be Bob Hope or, better, Bing Crosby.²

Louie saw George looking in from the loading platform doors. An impulse of generosity seized him. He walked over and gave George a dollar bill. “Cheap son of a bitch!” he said. “Here, you take the buck. Over five-hundred dollars he gets back and he puts out a buck!”

George looked into Louie’s face, just one quick, brown flash of the eyes. He knew it was a lie and he knew there wasn’t anything he could do about it. If Louie was mad at him he could make it tough. And George had wanted that drunk. He had almost felt the liquor take hold of him. If only that punk kid had kept his big nose out of it.

“Thanks,” said George.

The kid went by with his bucket and sponge. George said, “You call those windows clean?” And Louie made it up to George. He said to the kid, “You want to get any place, you better get on the ball. Those windows stink. Do them again.”

“I ain’t taking orders from you. I’ll wait till I get some kind of complaints from the super.”

Louie and George exchanged glances. It was just a punk. In less than a week he’d be out on his ass if Louie thought of it.

The big Greyhounds came in and out of the covered loading shed heavy and high as houses. The drivers slipped them smoothly and beautifully into place. The station smelled of oil and diesel exhaust fumes and candy bars and a powerful floor cleaner that got in the nose.

Louie went back toward the front. His eyes had caught a girl coming in from the street. She was carrying a suitcase. All in one flash Louie caught her. A dish! A dish like that he wanted to ride in a seat just behind his own raised driver’s chair. He could watch her in the rear-view mirror and find out about her. Maybe she lived somewhere on his route. Louie had plenty of adventures that started like this.

The light from the street was behind the girl so he couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was a looker. And he didn’t know how he knew it. There might have been fifty girls come in with a light behind them. But how did he know this one was a looker? He could see a nice figure and pretty legs. But in some subtle way this girl smelled of sex.

He saw that she had carried her suitcase over to the ticket window so he did not go directly toward her. He went into the washroom. And there he stood at the wash basin and dipped his hands in water and ran them through his hair. From his side pocket he took a little comb and combed his hair back smoothly and patted it behind where the suggestion of a duck tail stood out. And he combed his mustache, not that it needed combing for it was very short. He settled his gray corduroy jacket, tightened the belt, and pulled his stomach in a little bit.

He put the comb back in his pocket and inspected himself again in the mirror. He ran his hand over the sides of his hair. He felt behind to see that no strands were out and that the duck tail was lying down. He straightened his regulation black ready-made bow tie and he took a few grains of sen-sen out of his inner shirt pocket and threw them in his mouth. And then he seemed to shake himself down in his coat.

Just as his right hand went to the brass knob of the washroom door, Louie’s left hand flipped fingers up and down his fly to be sure he was buttoned up. He put on his face a little crooked smile, half worldliness and half naïveté, an expression that had been successful with him. Louie had read someplace that if you looked directly into a girl’s eyes and smiled it had an effect. You must look at her as though she were not only the most beautiful thing in the world, but you must keep looking into her eyes until she looked away. There was another trick too. If it bothered you to look into people’s eyes, you should look at a point on the bridge of the nose right between the eyes. To the person looked at it appeared that you were looking into the eyes, only you weren’t. Louie had found this a very successful approach.

Nearly all his waking hours Louie thought about girls. He liked to outrage them. He liked to have them fall in love with him and then walk away. He called them pigs. “I’ll get a pig,” he would say, “and you get a pig, and we’ll go out on the town.”

He stepped through the door of the washroom with a kind of lordliness, and then had to back up because two men came down between the benches carrying a long crate with slats to let air in. The side of the crate said in large white letters MOTHER MAHONEY’S HOME-BAKED PIES. The two men went in front of Louie and through to the loading platform.

The girl was sitting on a bench now, her suitcase beside her on the floor. As he moved across the room Louie took a quick look at her legs and then caught her eyes and held them as he walked. He smiled his crooked smile and moved toward her. She looked back at him, unsmiling, and then moved her eyes away.

Louie was disappointed. She hadn’t been embarrassed as she should have been. She had simply lost interest in him. And she was a looker too—fine well-filled legs with rounded thighs and no stomach whatever and large breasts which she made the most of. She was a blonde and her hair was coarse and a little broken at the ends from a too-hot iron, but well-brushed hair that had good lights in it and a long, curling bob that Louie liked. Her eyes were made up with blue eyeshadow and some cold cream on the eyelids and plenty of mascara on the lashes. No rouge, but a splash of lipstick that was put on to make her mouth look square, like some of the picture stars. She wore a suit, a tight skirt and a jacket with a round collar. Her shoes were tan saddle-leather with white stitching. Not only a looker but a dresser. And the stuff looked good.

Louie studied her face as he walked. He had a feeling that he had seen her someplace before. But then, she might look like someone he knew, or he might have seen her in a movie. That had happened. Her eyes were wide set, almost abnormally wide-set, and they were blue with little brown specks in them and with strongly marked dark lines from the pupil to the outer edge of the iris. Her eyebrows were plucked and penciled in a high arch so that she looked a little surprised. Louie noticed that her gloved hands were not restless. She was not impatient nor nervous, and this bothered him. He was afraid of self-possession, and he did feel that he had seen her somewhere. Her knees were well-covered with flesh, not bony, and she kept her skirt down without pulling at it.

As he strolled by Louie punished her for looking away from his eyes by staring at her legs. This usually had the effect of making a girl pull down her skirt, even if it was not too high, but it hadn’t any effect on this girl. Her failure to react to his art made him uneasy. Probably a hustler, he said to himself. Probably a two-dollar hustler. And then he laughed at himself. Not two dollars with that stuff she’s wearing.

Louie went on to the ticket window and smiled his sardonic smile at Edgar, the ticket clerk. Edgar admired Louie. He wished he could be like him.

“Where’s the pig going?” Louie asked.

“Pig?”>

“Yeah. The broad. The blonde.”

“Oh, yes.” Edgar exchanged a secret man-look with Louie. “South,” he said.

“In my wagon?”

“Yeah.”

Louie tapped the counter with his fingers. He had let the little fingernail on his left hand grow very long. It was curved, like half a tube, and sanded to a shallow point. Louie didn’t know why he did this, but he was gratified to notice that some of the other bus drivers were letting their little fingernails grow too. Louie was setting a style and he felt good about it. There was that cab driver who had tied a raccoon’s tail on his radiator cap and right overnight everybody had to have a piece of fur flapping in the breeze. Furriers made artificial fox tails, and high-school kids wouldn’t be seen in a car without a tail whipping around. And that cab driver could sit back and have the satisfaction of knowing he had started the whole thing. Louie had been letting his little fingernail grow for five months and already he’d seen five or six other people doing it. It might sweep the country, and Louie would have started the whole thing.

He tapped the counter with the long, curved nail, but gently, because when a nail gets that long it breaks easily. Edgar looked at the nail. He kept his left hand below the counter. He was growing one too, but it wasn’t very long yet, and he didn’t want Louie to see it until it was much longer. Edgar’s nails were brittle, and he had to put colorless nail polish on his to keep it from breaking right off. Even in bed it broke once. Edgar glanced toward the girl.

“Figure to make some time with the—pig?”

“No harm trying,” said Louie. “Probably a hustler.”

“Well, what’s wrong with a good hustler?” Edgar’s eyes flicked up. The girl had recrossed her legs.

“Louie,” he said apologetically, “before I forget, you’d better see to the loading of that crate of pies yourself. We had a complaint last week. Someplace along the line somebody dropped the crate and a raspberry pie got all mixed up with a lemon pie and there was raisins all over hell. We had to pay the claim.”

“It never happened on my run,” said Louie truculently. “It goes to San Juan, don’t it? That jerk line from Rebel Corners done it.”

“Well, we paid the claim,” said Edgar. “Just kind of check it, will you?”

“There wasn’t no pies dropped on my run,” Louie said dangerously.

“I know. I know you didn’t. But the front office told me to tell you to check it.”

“Why don’t they come to me?” Louie demanded. “They got complaints, why don’t they call me up instead of sending messages?” He tended his anger as he would a fire. But he was angry at the blonde. The god-damned hustler. He looked up at the big clock on the wall. A hand two feet long jerked seconds around the dial, and in the reflection of the glass Louie could see the girl sitting with crossed legs. Although he couldn’t be sure because of the curve of the glass, he thought she was looking at the back of his head. His anger melted away.

“I’ll check the pies,” he said. “Tell them there won’t be any raspberries in the lemon pie. I guess I’ll make a little time with the pig.” He saw the admiration in Edgar’s eyes as he turned slowly and faced the waiting room.

He was right. She had been looking at the back of his head, and when he was turned she was looking in his face. There was no interest, no nothing, in her glance. But she had beautiful eyes, he thought. God-damn, she was a looker! Louie had read in a magazine that wide-set eyes meant sexiness, and there was no doubt that this girl put out a strong, strong feeling of sex. She was the kind of girl everybody watched walk by. Why, she walked in a place and everybody turned and looked at her. You could see their heads turn, like watching a horse race. It was something about her, and it wasn’t make-up and it wasn’t the way she walked, although that was part of it too. Whatever it was, it projected all around her. Louie had felt it when she came in from the street and the light was behind her so he couldn’t really see her then. And now she was looking in Louie’s face, not smiling, not putting out anything, just looking, and he still felt it. A tightness came into his throat and a little flush rose out of his collar. He knew that in a moment his glance would slide away. Edgar was waiting, and Edgar had faith in Louie.

There were a few lies in Louie’s reputation but actually he did have a way, he did make time with pigs. Only now he wasn’t easy. This pig was getting him down. He wanted to slap her face with his open hand. His breath was rising painfully in his chest. The moment was going to be over unless he did something. He could see the dark raylike lines in her irises and the fullness of her jowls. He put on his embracing look. His eyes widened a little and he smiled as though he had suddenly recognized her. At the same time he moved toward her.

Carefully he made his smile a little respectful. Her eyes held onto his, and a little of the coldness went out of them. He stepped near to her. “Man says you’re going south on my bus, ma’am,” he said. He almost laughed at that “ma’am,” but it usually worked. It worked with this girl. She smiled a little.

“I’ll take care of your bag,” Louie went on. “We leave in about three minutes.”

“Thanks,” said the girl. Her voice was throaty and sexy, Louie thought.

“Let me take your suitcase. I’ll put it on now and then you’ll have a seat.”

“It’s heavy,” said the girl.

“I ain’t exactly a midget,” said Louie. He picked up her suitcase and walked quickly out to the loading platform. He climbed into the bus and put the suitcase down in front of the seat that was right behind his seat. He could watch the girl in his mirror and he could talk to her some when they got rolling. He came out of the bus and saw the punk and another swamper putting the crate of pies on top of the bus.

“Careful of that stuff,” Louie said loudly. “You bastards dropped one last week and I got the beef.”

“I never dropped nothing,” said the punk.

“The hell you didn’t,” said Louie. “You watch your step.” He went through the swinging doors to the waiting room.

“What’s eating him?” the other swamper asked.

“Oh, I sort of jammed him up,” said the punk. “The nigger found a wallet and I seen it, so they figured they got to turn it in. It was a big roll of jack too. They’re both sore at me ’cause I seen it. Louie and that nigger was gonna split them up a coupla half centuries and I guess I jammed it for ’em. Course they had to turn it in when they seen I saw ’em.”

“I could use some of that,” said the swamper.

“Who couldn’t,” said the punk.

“I can take me a century and I can go out and I can get very nice stuff for that there.” They went on for a time with ritual talk.

In the waiting room there was a little burst of activity. The crowd for the southbound bus was beginning to collect. Edgar was busy behind the counter, but not too busy to keep his eye on the girl. “A pig,” he said under his breath. It was a new word to him. From now on he would use it. He glanced at the little fingernail on his left hand. It would be long before he would have as good a one as Louie’s. But why kid himself? He couldn’t make time like Louie anyway. He always ended up by going down the line.

There was a last-minute flurry of customers at the candy counter, at the peanut vending machines, at the gum dispensers. A Chinaman bought copies of Time and Newsweek³ and rolled them carefully together and put them in his black broadcloth overcoat pocket. An old lady restlessly turned over magazines on the newsstand without any intention of buying one. Two Hindus with gleaming white turbans and shining black curly beards stood side by side at the ticket window. They glanced fiercely about as they tried to make themselves understood.

Louie stood by the entrance to the loading platform and glanced continually at the girl. He noticed that every man in the room was doing the same thing. All of them were watching her secretly, and they didn’t want to get caught at it. He turned and looked through the swinging glass doors and saw that the punk and the swamper had got the crate of pies safely on top of the bus and the tarpaulin pulled down over it. The light in the waiting room dimmed to dusk. A cloud must have covered the sun. And then the light rose again as though controlled by a rheostat. The big bell over the glass doors clamored. Louie looked at his watch and went through the door to his big bus. And the passengers in the waiting room got up and shuffled toward the door.

Edgar was still trying to make out where the Hindus wanted to go. “The god-damned rag heads,” he said to himself. “Why’nt they learn English before they start running around?”

Louie climbed into the high seat enclosed by a stainless steel bar and glanced at the tickets as the passengers got on. The Chinaman in the dark coat went directly to the back seat, took off his coat, and laid the Time and Newsweek in his lap. The old lady clambered breathlessly up the step and sat down in the seat directly behind Louie.

He said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, that seat’s taken.”

“What do you mean, taken?” she said belligerently. “There aren’t any reserved seats.”

“That seat’s taken, ma’am,” Louie repeated. “Don’t you see the suitcase beside it?” He hated old women. They frightened him. There was a smell about them that gave him the willies. They were fierce and they had no pride. They never gave a damn about making a scene. They got what they wanted. Louie’s grandmother had been a tyrant. She had got whatever she wanted by being fierce. From the corners of his eyes he saw the girl on the lower step of the bus, waiting behind the Hindus to get in. He was pushed into a spot. Suddenly he was angry.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I’m the boss on my bus. There’s plenty of good seats. Now will you move back?”

The old woman set her chin and scowled at him. She switched her behind a little, settling into the seat. “You’ve got that girl in this seat, that’s what you’ve got,” she said. “I’ve got a mind to report you to the management.”

Louie blew up. “All right, ma’am. You just get out and report me. The company’s got lots of passengers, but it hasn’t got many good drivers.” He saw that the girl was listening, and he felt pretty good about it.

The old woman saw that he was angry. “I’m going to report you,” she said.

“Well, report me then. You can get off the bus,” Louie said loudly, “but you’re not going to sit in that seat. The passenger in that seat got a doctor’s order.”

It was an out, and the old woman took it. “Why didn’t you say so?” she said. “I’m not unreasonable. But I’m still going to report you for discourtesy.”

“All right, ma’am,” Louie said wearily. “That I’m used to.”

The old woman moved back one seat.

“Going to hang out her big ear and catch me off base,” Louie thought. “Well, let her. We got more passengers than drivers.” The girl was beside him now, holding out her ticket. Involuntarily Louie said, “You only going as far as the Corners?”

“I know, I’ve got to change,” said the girl. She smiled at his tone of disappointment.

“That’s your seat right there,” he said. He watched the mirror while she sat down and crossed her legs and pulled down her skirt and put her purse beside her. She straightened her shoulders and fixed the collar of her suit.

She knew Louie was watching every move. It had always been that way with her. She knew she was different from other girls, but she didn’t quite know how. In some ways it was nice always to get the best seat, to have your lunches bought for you, to have a hand on your arm crossing the street. Men couldn’t keep their hands off her. But there was always the trouble. She had to argue or cajole or insult or fight her way out. All men wanted the same thing from her, and that was just the way it was. She took it for granted and it was true.

When she’d been young she’d suffered from it. There had been a sense of guilt and of nastiness. But now she was older she just accepted it and developed her techniques. Sometimes she gave in and sometimes she got money or clothes. She knew most of the approaches. She could probably have foretold everything Louie would do or say in the next half hour. By anticipating, she could sometimes stave off unpleasantness. Older men wanted to help her, put her in school or on the stage. Some young men wanted to marry her or protect her. And a few, a very few, openly and honestly simply wanted to go to bed with her and told her so.

These were the easiest because she could say yes or no and get it over with. What she hated most about her gift, or her failing, was the fighting that went on. Men fought each other viciously when she was about. They fought like terriers, and she sometimes wished that women could like her, but they didn’t. And she was intelligent. She knew why, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. What she really wanted was a nice house in a nice town, two children, and a stairway to stand on. She would be nicely dressed and people would be coming to dinner. She’d have a husband, of course, but she couldn’t see him in her picture because the advertising in the women’s magazines from which her dream came never included a man. Just a lovely woman in nice clothes coming down the stairs and guests in the dining room and candles and a dark wood dining table and clean children to kiss good night. That’s what she really wanted. And she knew as well as anything that that was not what she would ever get.

There was a great deal of sadness in her. She wondered about other women. Were they different in bed than she was? She knew from watching that men didn’t react to most women the way they did to her. Her sexual impulses were not terribly strong nor very constant, but she didn’t know about other women. They never discussed this kind of thing with her. They didn’t like her. Once the young doctor to whom she had gone to try to have the pain of her periods relaxed had made a pass at her, and when she had talked him out of that he had told her, “You just put it out in the air. I don’t know how, but you do it. Some women are like that,” he said. “Thank God there aren’t many of them or a man would go nuts.”

She tried wearing severe clothes, but that didn’t help much. She couldn’t keep an ordinary job. She learned to type, but offices went to pieces when she was hired. And now she had a racket. It paid well and it didn’t get her in much trouble. She took off her clothes at stags.⁴ A regular agency handled her. She didn’t understand stags or what satisfaction the men got out of them, but there they were, and she made fifty dollars for taking off her clothes and that was better than having them torn off in an office. She’d even read up on nymphomania, enough, anyway, to know that she didn’t have it. She almost wished she had. Sometimes she thought she’d just go into a house and make a pile of dough and retire to the country—that, or marry an elderly man she could control. It would be the easiest way. Young men who were attractive to her had a way of turning nasty. They always suspected her of cheating them. They either sulked or tried to beat her up or they got furious and threw her out.

She’d tried being kept and that was the way it ended. But an old man with some money—that might be the way. And she would be good to him. She’d really make it worth his money and his time. She had only two girl friends, and both of them were house girls. They seemed to be the only kind who weren’t jealous of her and who didn’t resent her. But one was out of the country now. She didn’t know where. She followed troops somewhere. And the other was living with an advertising man and didn’t want her around.

That was Loraine. They had had an apartment together. Loraine didn’t care much about men; still, she didn’t go for women. But then Loraine got caught short with this advertising man and asked her to move out. Loraine explained everything when she told her not to come around.

Loraine was working in a house and this advertising man fell for her. Well, Loraine had got gonorrhea, and before she even had a symptom she gave it to this advertising man. He was a nervous type and he blew his top and lost his job and came bellyaching to Loraine. She felt responsible in a way so she took him in and fed him while they both got cured. That was before the new treatment,⁵ and it had been pretty rough.

And then this advertising man went on a sleeping-pill pitch. She’d find him passed out and he was pretty vague, and his temper was bad unless he had his pills, and he took more and more of them. Twice Loraine had to have him pumped out.

Loraine was a really good girl and things were hard because she couldn’t work in the house until she was cleared up. She didn’t want to infect anybody she knew, and still she had to have money for doctor’s bills and rent and food. She had to work the streets in Glendale to make it, and she wasn’t feeling good herself. And then, with everything else, the advertising man turned jealous and didn’t want her to work at all in spite of the fact that he didn’t have a job. It would be nice if the whole thing had blown over by now and she and Loraine could have the apartment together. They had been a good pair together. They had had fun, good, quiet fun.

There had been a whole series of conventions in Chicago and she had saved some money from the stags. She was taking busses back to Los Angeles to save money. She wanted to live quietly a while. She hadn’t heard from Loraine for a long time. The last letter said this advertising man was reading her mail so not to write.

The last passengers were coming through the doors and getting into the bus.

Louie had his legs crossed. He was a little timid with this girl. “I see you’re going to L.A.,” he said. “Do you live there?”

“Part of the time.”

“I like to try and figure people out,” he said. “A guy like me sees so many people.”

The motor of the bus breathed softly. The old woman was glaring at Louie. He could see her in the mirror. She would probably write a letter to the company.

“Well,” Louie said to himself, “the hell with the company.” He could always get a job. The company didn’t pay much attention to old ladies’ letters anyway. He glanced back down the bus. It looked like the two Hindus were holding hands. The Chinaman had both Time and Newsweek open on his lap and he was comparing stories. His head swung from one magazine to the other, and a puzzled wrinkle marked his nose between his brows. The dispatcher waved at Louie.

Louie swung the lever that closed the door. He eased his gear into compound-reverse and crept out of the concrete slip, then swung delicately and wide so that his front fender cleared the north wall by a part of an inch. He swung wide again in compound-low and cleared the other side of the alley by a fraction of an inch. At the entrance to the street from the alley he stopped and saw that the street was clear for him. He turned the bus and it took him over to the other side of the street. Louie was a good driver with a perfect record. The bus moved down the main street of San Ysidro and came to the outskirts and to the open highway.

The sky and the sun were washed and clean. The colors were sharp. The ditches ran full of water; and in some places, where the ditches were clogged, the water extended out onto the highway. The bus hit this water with a great swish, and Louie could feel the tug at the wheel. The grass was matted down from the force of the rain, but now the warmth of the sun was putting strength into the rich grass and it was beginning to rise up again on the high places.

Louie glanced in the rear-view mirror at the girl again. She was looking at the back of his head. But something made her look up at the mirror and right into Louie’s eyes, and the eyes with their dark lines and the straight, pretty nose and the mouth painted on square photographed permanently in Louie’s brain. When she looked into his eyes she smiled as though she felt good.

Louie knew that his throat was closing, and a rising pressure was in his chest. He thought he must be nuts. He knew he was shy, but mostly he convinced himself that he was not, and he was going through all the symptoms of a sixteen-year-old. His eyes flicked from road to mirror, back and forth. He could see that his cheeks were red. “What the hell is this?” he said to himself. “Am I going to go ga-ga over a chippie?” He looked at her more closely to find some thought to save himself, and then he saw deep forceps marks along her jaws. That made him feel more comfortable. She wouldn’t be so god-damned confident if she knew he saw the forceps marks. Forty-two miles. The figures came into his head. She’d get off in forty-two miles. Louie would have to make time. He couldn’t waste a minute if he wanted to throw a line over this little hustler. And when he tried to speak his voice was hoarse.

She leaned close behind him. “I couldn’t hear you,” she said.

Louie coughed. “I said the country looks nice after the rain.”

“Yes, it does.”

He tried to get back to his usual opening. He noticed in the mirror that she was still leaning forward to listen.

“Like I said,” he began, “I try to figure people out. I’d say you was in the movies or on the stage.”

“No,” said the girl. “You’d be wrong.”

“Aren’t you in show business?”

“No.”

“Well, do you work?”

She laughed, and her face was very charming when she laughed. But Louie noticed that one of her upper front teeth was crooked. It leaned over and interfered with its neighbor. Her laughter stopped and her upper lip covered the tooth. “Conscious of it,” Louie thought.

She was ahead of him. She knew what he was going to say. It had happened so many times before. He was going to try to find out where she lived. He wanted her telephone number. It was simple. She didn’t live anywhere. She had a trunk stored with Loraine with some books in it—Captain Hornblower,⁶ and a Life of Beethoven,⁷ and some paper books of the short stories of Saroyan,⁸ and some old evening dresses to be made over. She knew Louie was having trouble. She knew that blush that rose out of a man’s collar and the thickness of labored speech. She saw Louie glance apprehensively in the mirror at the rear of the bus.

The Hindus were smiling a little at each other. The Chinaman was staring up in the air, trying to work up in his mind some discrepancy in the stories he had been reading. A Greek in the rear seat was cutting an Italian cigar in two with a pocketknife. He put one piece in his mouth and thoughtfully placed the other half in his breast pocket. The old woman was working herself up into a rage at Louie. She directed an iron look at the back of his head, and her chin quivered with fury and her lips were white with the tension of their compression.

The girl leaned forward again. “I’ll save you time,” she said. “I’m a dental nurse. You know, I do all those things in a dentist’s office.” She often used this. She didn’t know why. Perhaps because it stopped speculation and there were never any more questions after she said it. People didn’t want to talk much about dentistry.

Louie digested this. The bus came to a railroad crossing. Automatically Louie set his air brakes and stopped. The brakes hissed as he released them and went through the gears to cruising speed again. He sensed that things were closing in on him. The old bitch was going to start trouble any minute now. He didn’t have forty-two miles at all. Once the old bitch put in her oar the thing would be over. He wanted to make time while he could, but it was too soon according to Louie’s methods. He shouldn’t make a play for a good half hour, but the old bitch was going to force his hand.

“Sometimes I get into L.A.,” he said. “Is there someplace I could call you and maybe we could—have dinner and go to a show?”

She was friendly about it. There wasn’t anything mean or bitchy about her. She said, “I don’t know. You see, I haven’t any place to live now. I’ve been away. I want to get an apartment as soon as I can.”

“But you work someplace,” said Louie. “Maybe I could call you there.”

The old woman was squirming and twitching in her seat. She was mad because Louie had kicked her out of the front seat.

“Well, no,” said the girl. “You see, I haven’t got a job. Of course, I’ll get one right away because you can always get a job in my profession.”

“This isn’t a brush-off ?” Louie asked.

“No.”

“Well, maybe you could drop me a line when you get settled.”

“Maybe.”

“Because I’d like to know someone to take out in L.A.”

And now here it came, the voice as shrill as a whetstone. “There’s a state law about talking to passengers. You watch the road.” The old woman addressed the whole bus. “This driver’s putting our lives in danger. I’m going to ask to get off if he can’t keep his attention on his driving.”

Louie closed up. This was serious. She really could make trouble. He looked in the mirror and found the girl’s eyes. With his lips he said, “The god-damned dried up old bitch!”

The girl smiled and put her fingers to her lips. In a way she was relieved and in another she was sorry. She knew that sooner or later she would have trouble with Louie. But she also knew that in many ways he was a nice guy and one she could handle up to a certain point. She knew from his blush that she could probably stop him by hurting his feelings.

But it was over and Louie knew it. The girl wasn’t going to get herself in a mess. He had to make time while the bus was rolling. He knew that. Once you got to a station the passengers wanted out as quick as possible. Now he’d lost out. At Rebel Corners he would stop only long enough to let her off and unload that god-damned crate of pies. He hunched over the wheel. The girl had folded her hands in her lap and her eyes would not raise to meet his in the mirror. There were lots of girls prettier than this one. Those forceps scars were damned ugly. They’d give a guy the shivers. Of course, she wore her hair long and forward to cover them. A girl like that couldn’t wear her hair up. Louie liked hair up and, Jesus! suppose you woke up in bed and saw those scars. There were plenty of pigs in the world and Louie could get along. But in his chest and his stomach there was a weight of sorrow. He fought at it and picked at it but it wouldn’t move. He wanted this girl more than he had ever wanted anyone, and in a different way. He felt a dry and grainy sense of loss. He didn’t even know her name, and now he wouldn’t get to know her. He could see Edgar’s eager eyes questioning him when he came back to San Ysidro. Louie wondered if he would lie to Edgar.

The great tires sang on the road, a high, twanging song, and the motor throbbed with a heavy beat. There were big, wet, floppy clouds in the sky, dark as soot in the middle and white and shining on the edges. One of them was creeping up on the sun now. Already, ahead on the highway, Louie could see the shadow of it rushing toward the bus, and far ahead on the highway he could see the towering green mound of the oaks that grew about the lunchroom at Rebel Corners. He was filled with disappointment.

Juan Chicoy came to the side of the bus as it pulled in.

“What you got for me?” he asked as the door opened.

“One passenger and a flock of pies,” said Louie. He got up from his seat, reached around, and lifted the girl’s suitcase. He climbed down to the ground and held up his hands, and the girl put her hands on his arms and stepped down. They walked toward the lunchroom.

“Good-by,” she said.

“Good-by,” said Louie. He watched her go through the door, her little behind bobbing up and down.

Juan and Pimples had the crate of pies off the top of the bus. Louie climbed back into the bus.

“So long,” said Juan.

The old woman had moved up into the front seat. Louie levered the door shut. He went into gear and moved away. When he was in cruising speed and the tires were ringing on the highway, he looked in the mirror. The old woman wore a look of mean triumph.

“You killed it,” Louie said to himself. “Oh, you murdered it.”

The woman looked up and caught his eyes in the mirror. Deliberately Louie made silent words with his lips. “You god damned old bitch!” He saw her lips grow tight and white. She knew what he meant.

The highway sang along ahead of the bus.