She was still sitting back, holding the bottle between her lifted knees, when the front door slammed inward against a table with a sound like a gunshot.

A man had come in on the dead run. He halted himself just past the entrance, hanging forward in a half crouch like a defensive left end posing for stills. For an instant only his eyes moved. It did not take him long to spot the girl.

He sucked in his breath and began to draw himself up. He wasn’t anybody’s left end. He went to five and a half feet, no more. He had on G.I. slacks, and there was nothing under his seersucker jacket except a T-shirt. The T-shirt had possibly been clean earlier in the month. Barley-colored hair lay flat above his pink, fleshy face, which apparently he was trying to make look menacing.

He needed coaching. He looked as menacing as Rumpelstiltskin.

“You slut,” he said hoarsely. He was either out of breath or somewhat drunk. I had the sensation I could smell sweat from fifteen feet away. “She learned it from you, didn’t she? Where is she, Fern?”

I looked back at the girl. Whatever it was, she wasn’t buying. She wasn’t even in the shop. She lifted the bottle deliberately, gazing at him the way she might gaze at a rain she knew she did not have to go out into.

The man wanted more response than that. He lunged forward, stopping about three feet from her table. That put him into profile for me. His features were babyish, and he had almost no eyebrows, which gave him an exceptional amount of forehead. He could have been thirty, in spite of the outraged seven or eight he was being at the moment. He’d fastened his hands to his hips. In a minute he would stamp his foot.

“Damn it, where is she? Who is she running with tonight?”

Neither of the men at the table had made a move. The young one dug out a tobacco pouch and did some busy rooting around in it.

“Why don’t you take it easy, Ephraim?” the second one said.

“Why don’t you chew axle grease?” Ephraim told him. He was leaning between the two men now, gripping the sides of the table top. “Where is she, Fern? I’ve been ringing the bell over there half the night. You’re the one who gives her all the crummy ideas. Or is she chasing around with that other tramp friend of yours?”

Near me the redhead with the exalted sense of brotherly love coughed meaninglessly once. The girl’s eyes were meeting Ephraim’s evenly. Very slowly she set down the beer. She spoke softly, but what she said was not meant to be cherished by Ephraim alone.

“I don’t really believe them myself, Eph, so why don’t you make a formal denial of the stories? You don’t spend all your afternoons watching little girls on the swings in the park?”

He slapped her. It was not a hard slap, since he was off balance, and she hardly jerked her head. Next to her the lad with the pipe jerked his own just about as much. Then he got to his feet. He did it with all the drawling indolence of James Stewart in the scene when the Bad Guy is about to learn he’s been making sport of the wrong townspeople. I was bourgeois enough to watch for the shoulder to drop before the punch. I had forgotten where I was. His pal in the sweater joined him and the two of them walked away from the table.

They didn’t leave. They merely strolled to the front end of the bar. They shook their heads gravely as they went. It was all extremely unfortunate, but it really did not concern them. Assuredly everyone would understand their position.

“I asked you a question, Fern—”

No one else in the place had moved. The girl’s hands were drawn into fists and her eyes were smarting. Ephraim was still glaring when I took the couple of steps that got me over there.

“Got a match, hombre?” I tried to give it more of the John Wayne touch.

He grunted, not seeing me. “Beat it, huh?”

“All I want is a match—”

He turned. He had thick lips and protruding teeth. He might have been going to bite me, but the eight inches he had to raise his eyes changed his mind. “Well, for Chrissakes—”

He stabbed a hand into his jacket and came up with a folder. He shoved it at me, starting to turn back.

“Say, thanks. How about a cigarette now?”

His jaw dropped. “How about a fist in the mouth instead?”

“Aww,” I said. “A fist or a slap?”

He got red. His corneas were slightly glassy. He could have been junked up, but even so he wasn’t about to fight me. He grimaced, then whirled and started out. Halfway across the room he paused long enough to point a nicotine-stained finger at the girl, being ominous once more. “You can tell Josie she’ll get the same thing—”

“Grrr,”Isaid.

“Agh—” He swung a hand in a gesture of contempt. “Tourists!”

I laughed, a little foolishly. The door banged after him. Those two stalwart young Balzacs were watching me, but they turned when I glanced that way.

The marks of the slap had begun to show on the girl’s cheek. She was staring at the table, sitting rigidly.

“Buy you a refill?”

She looked at me for the first time, biting her lip. I realized that she had no make-up on except lipstick. Her eyes were incredibly blue, and also remote. Or maybe just uninterested. She was a beautiful girl and she appreciated the assistance, but no thanks.

I was wrong. It took a minute but then she smiled. It was quite a smile. Two-Gun Ephraim lay face down in the dust, the streets were safe for womenfolk, law had come to the Pecos.

“I’ll be heartbroken if the chivalry was just to pick me up?”

“Not me, ma’am. Now I saddle my trusty roan and ride off” into the sunset.”

“Inscrutable and alone—” She laughed.

“I like the quick recovery,” I told her.

“I make an even better one when I’m removed from the battlefield. I don’t think I want another drink, but you can take me home if you would?”

“Sure.”

She stood, then nodded toward the rear. “Haifa second—” Her voice was husky, and it hung around after she’d walked away from under it.

There was talk again, and the young bartender came across to pick up her bottle. I’d half suspected he’d left for the evening. “You were real good in there,” I told him. “You keep things running smoothly.”

He bent to wipe the table with a rag. “Be a hero. I can get the skirts without it.”

I put my hand on his wrist. Gently, but he stopped wiping. We considered each other.

“So hit me,” he said. “Six bits a week they withhold, workman’s compensation.”

I let him go. He went away whistling.

There’s that about Greenwich Village. Nobody ever takes a poke at you, but you’re never quite sure who’s winning.

CHAPTER 3

She’d been forcing it. She smiled when we went out, but the power lines were down again. I told her my name and she said that her own was Fern Hoerner, but she would have given it to a kitchenware salesman in the same tone.

She turned south, walking glumly with her hands thrust into her pockets. I indicated the Chevy when we came abreast of it.

“We don’t really need it,” she said. “It’s only Grove Street.”

She shuffled along, kicking out with a tennis shoe once or twice and scuffing it on the concrete. I took her arm when we crossed Hudson. There was no traffic, and the few neighborhood stores were closed. The usual imposing American intellects were going slowly blind in the glare of television screens behind random windows.

“Do you live down this way, Harry? I’ve never seen you in Vinnie’s before.”

“Up off Third Avenue. You don’t have to make conversation if you’re feeling rotten.”

“I’m sorry. I guess it was a little embarrassing at that.” She shook her head. “Although I’m acting childish. I was pretty nasty myself, as I recall.”

“Hell—”

“Maybe, but it was just poor old Ephraim. That’s Ephraim Turk — his mother told him he was a poet.”

“But mother died.”