She might well be the girl he wanted. She was alert; she would be an efficient worker. And she was pretty; if he could get her to relax she would freshen up the store.

"You'd like to work in a record store?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "It would be interesting."

"By fall you'd know the ropes." He could see that she learned rapidly. "We might work out a trial basis. I'd have to see ... after all, you're the first girl I've talked to." From the hall came the jangle of the phone, and he smiled. "That must be another job applicant."

The girl said nothing. But she seemed even more absorbed in her worry; she was like certain little concerned animals he had seen, those that huddled silently for hours.

"I tell you what," Schilling said, and even in his own ears his voice sounded rough and clumsy. "Let's go across the street and get something to eat. I haven't had breakfast. Is that restaurant all right?"

"The Blue Lamb?" Mary Anne moved to the door. "All right, I suppose. Expensive. I don't know if they're open this early."

"We'll see," Schilling declared, following her up the hall. A light-headedness seized him, a sense of adventure. "If not, then we can go somewhere else. I can't hire you without knowing more about you."

In the main part of the store the carpenters were hammering and pounding above the jangle of the phone. The electrician, surrounded by turntables and speaker systems, was trying vainly to hear the response of his amplifiers. Schilling caught up with the girl and took hold of her arm.

"Be careful," he warned her genially. "Watch out for that tangle of phono lead."

Her arm was firm within his fingers. He was conscious of her clothing, the dry rustling of the green knit suit. Walking beside her, he could catch the faint edge of her perfume. She was really surprisingly small. She plodded along, eyes on the floor; all the way to the street she failed to speak. He could tell she was deep in thought.

When they had reached the sidewalk, the girl halted. Awkwardly, Schilling released her arm. "Well?" he asked, as they faced each other in the bright morning glare. The sunlight smelled of moisture and freshness; he took a deep breath of it and found it better than cigar smoke. "What do you think? How will it look?"

"It's a nice little store."

"You think it'll be a financial success?" Schilling stepped agilely aside for workmen carrying in a cash register and carton of paper tapes.

"Probably."

Schilling hesitated. Was he making a mistake? Once he spoke it would be too late to back out. But he didn't want to back out. "The job is yours," he said.

After a moment Mary Anne said: "No, thanks."

"What?" He was shocked. "What's that? What do you mean?"

Without a word, the girl started off down the sidewalk. For an interval Schilling remained inert; then, tossing his cigar into the gutter, he hurried after her. "What is it?" he demanded, barring her way. "What's wrong?" Passersby gazed at them with interest; ignoring them, he caught hold of the girl's arm. "Don't you want the job!"

"No," she said defiantly. "Let go of my arm or I'll call a cop and have you arrested."

Schilling released her and the girl stepped back.

"What is it?" he begged.

"I don't want to work for you. When you touched me, I could tell." Her voice trailed off. "The store's lovely. I'm sorry-it started out fine. You shouldn't have touched me."

And then she was gone. Schilling found himself standing alone; she had slipped off into the stream of early-morning shoppers.

He made his way back into the store. The carpenters were banging mightily. The telephone shrilled. During his absence Max had appeared with a ham sandwich and a pasteboard carton of coffee (one lump of sugar).

"Here it is," Max said. "Your breakfast."

"Keep it!" Schilling retorted with fury.

Max blinked. "What's bothering you?"

Schilling fished in his coat pocket for a fresh cigar. His hands, he discovered, were shaking.

6

Whistling to himself, David Gordon parked the Richfield service truck and jumped to the pavement. Lugging a damaged fuel pump and a handful of wrenches, he entered the station building.

Sitting in the one chair was Mary Anne Reynolds. But something was wrong; she was too quiet.

"Are-" Gordon began. "What is it, honey?"

One single tear slid down the girl's cheek. She wiped it away and got to her feet. Gordon reached to take hold of her, but she drew back.

"Where were you?" she said in a low voice. "I've been here half an hour. The other man said you'd be right back."

"Some people in a Buick. Broke down on the old Big Bear Pass Road. What happened?"

"I went job hunting. What time is it?"

He located the wall clock; when anybody asked the time he could never seem to find it. "Ten."

"Then it's been an hour. I walked around for a while before I came here."

He was completely baffled. "What do you mean, you went job hunting? What about Readymade?"

"First," Mary Anne said, "can I borrow five dollars? I bought a pair of gloves over at Steiner's."

He got out the money; she accepted the bill and put it in her purse. He noticed that she had on nail polish, which was unusual. In fact, she was all dressed up; she had on an expensive-looking suit, and high heels, and nylon stockings.

"I should have known," she said. "The way he first looked at me. But I wasn't sure until he touched me. Then I was sure, and I got out of there as quickly as I could."

"Explain," he demanded. Her thoughts, like her activities, had become closed to him.

"He wanted to have relations with me," she said stonily. "That was what it was all for. The job, the record store, the ad. 'Young woman, must be attractive.' "

"Who?"

"He owns the store. Joseph Schilling."

Dave Gordon had seen her upset before, and sometimes he could calm her down. But he did not understand what was wrong; a man had made a pass at her-so what? He had made passes at girls himself. "Maybe he didn't have that in mind," he said. "I mean, maybe the shop is on the level, but when he saw you-" He gestured. "You're all dolled up; look at you. That suit, all that makeup."

"But an older man," she insisted. "It's not right!"

"Why not? He's a man, isn't he?"

"I thought I could trust him. You don't expect that from an older man." She got out her cigarettes, and he took her matches to light up for her. "Think of it--a respectable man like that, with money and education. Coming here to this town, picking this town for a thing like that."

"Take it easy," he said, wanting to help her but not really knowing how. "You're okay."

She paced around in a tight, aimless circle. "I feel sick. It's so-infuriating. I worked so damn hard fixing myself up. And the store ..." Her voice faded. "It was so pretty. And the way he looked at first. He was so impressive."

"It happens all the time. All you have to do is walk along the street, by the drugstore. Guys hang out, watch."

"You remember when we were in high school? That bus incident?"

No, he didn't remember. "I-" he began.

"You weren't there. I was sitting next to a man, a salesman. He started talking to me; it was awful. Whispering to me, and everybody else just sitting there jiggling with the bus. Housewives."

"Hey," Gordon said. "I get off in half an hour. Let's drive over to Poster's Freeze and have a hamburger and a shake. That'll make you feel better."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" she said, infuriated. "Grow up, will you? You're not a boy-you're a grown man. Can't you think of anything else? Milk shakes-you're a high school boy; that's all you are."