4

The two of them trudged through the closed-up slum business district, neither having much to say. Presently dark stores gave way to houses and apartment buildings. The houses were old.

"This is the colored section," Tweany said.

Mary Anne nodded. Her emotion had waned; now she felt tired.

"I live in the colored section," Tweany said. "No kidding."

He glanced curiously at her. "Don't you ever take it easy, Miss Mary Anne?"

"I'll take it easy," she said. "When I'm good and ready."

He laughed loudly. "I never met anybody like you." Now that they had left the Wren some of his formality was eroding. An expansiveness replaced it; roaming along the deserted evening side walk, Tweany began to enjoy himself. "You love music, don't you?" he said. She shrugged. "Sure."

"There has been some conflict between I and Nitz. He prefers to play the usual line of popular jazz. As you've probably noticed, it's my desire to bring in a more refined musical form."

Mary Anne listened without really hearing the man's words. His deep voice reassured her; it dissipated some of her uneasiness, and that was enough.

The presence of Negroes had always lulled her. In the Negro world there seemed more warmth, and less of the struggle she had known at home. She had always been able to talk to Negroes; they were like herself. They, too, were on the outside, in a separate world of their own.

"You can't go a lot of places either," she said aloud.

"What's that?"

"But you have so much ability. How does it feel to be able to sing? I wish I could do something like that." She remembered the ad tucked away in her purse, and her restlessness increased. "Did you study somewhere? Some school?"

"At the conservatory," Tweany said. "My ability was noted at an early age."

"Did you belong to the Baptist Church, too?"

Tweany laughed tolerantly. "No, of course not."

"Where were you born?"

"Here in California. I've made California my permanent home. California is a rich state ... it has boundless possibilities." To certify his point, he indicated his coat sleeve. "This suit was tailored for me personally. Designed and fitted by an expert firm in Los Angeles." His fingers strolled over his silk hand-painted necktie. "Clothes are important."

"Why?"

"People can tell you have taste. Clothes are the first thing people notice. As a woman you must be aware of that."

"I suppose so." But she didn't care; clothes, to her, were a civic duty interwoven with cleanliness and posture.

"It's a nice evening," Tweany observed. He had got around to the street side of her, a gesture of gentlemanly alertness. "We have excellent weather here in California."

"Have you been in other states?"

"Of course."

Mary Anne said: "I wish I could travel."

"When you've seen the various big cities you'll know one fundamental thing. They're all alike."

She accepted his words, but the longing was untouched. "I'd like to go somewhere, to some better place." That was the most she could summon; the idea was no clearer. "What would be a better place? Name a real nice place, where the people are nice."

"New York has its charms."

"Are people nice, there?"

"New York has some of the finest museums and opera houses in the world. The people are cultured."

"I see."

Guiding the girl from the pavement, Tweany said: "This is it. My house." His expansiveness soured as the old house loomed up before them. "Not much to look at, but ... good music lacks commercial appeal. A person has to choose between riches and artistic integrity."

A dark outside staircase led from the yard to the third floor. Mary Anne felt her way through the gloom; ahead of her was Tweany and to her left was the house itself. A rain barrel glided by; it was filled with soaked and decomposing newspapers. Next came a line of rusting oil drums, and then the steps. Under her feet the wood groaned and gave; she clung to the banister and stayed close behind Tweany.

The apartment was a blur of shadows as Tweany led her down the hall to the kitchen. She gazed around her in wonder; she was seeing a vast clutter of furniture and shapes, nothing distinct, nothing she could properly make out. And then the light was on.

"Excuse things," Tweany murmured. He left her standing in the kitchen as he prowled, tomcat-wise, from room to room. His possessions seemed to be safe: nobody had stolen his shirts; nobody had ruffled his drapes; nobody had drunk his whiskey.

In the kitchen a slight pool of water shone; the linoleum was damp with evidence of the catastrophe. But the heater had been repaired and the mess mopped up.

"Fine," Tweany said. "They did a good job."

Subdued, aware now that her alarm had been wasted, Mary Anne padded here and there, examining bookcases, peering out of windows. The apartment was very high up; she could see across town. Along the horizon ran a series of clear yellow lights.

"What's those lights?" she asked Tweany.

He was indifferent. "A road, maybe."

Mary Anne breathed in the faintly musty scent of the apartment. "You have an interesting place. I've never seen a place like this. I'm still living at home with my parents. This gives me a lot of ideas for my own pad ... you know?"

Lighting a cigarette, Tweany said: "Well, I was right."

"I guess the plumber came."

"Nothing was the matter after all."

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling uncertain of herself. "I was thinking about the people downstairs. I read an ad, once. An insurance company ad about a hot water heater that exploded."

"Might as well take off your coat, now that you're here."

She did so, pushing it over the arm of a chair. "I guess I got you away from the Wren for nothing." Hands in the back pockets of her jeans, she returned to the window.

"Beer?"

"Okay." She nodded. "Thanks."

"Eastern beer." Tweany filled a glass for her. "Sit down."

She sat, holding the glass awkwardly. It was cold and damp with drops of collected moisture.

"You don't even know if there are any people downstairs," Tweany said. He had made a point and he intended to develop it. "What makes you think there's somebody downstairs?"

Staring at the floor Mary Anne murmured: "I don't know. I just thought about it."

Tweany settled himself on the edge of a heaped table; he was now located well above her, in a position of authority. The girl seemed quite small in comparison to him, and quite young. In her jeans and cotton shirt she might have been a teenager.

"How old are you?" Tweany demanded.

Her lips barely moved. "Twenty."

"You're just a little girl."

It was so. She felt like a little girl, too; she could sense his eyes fastened mockingly on her. She was, she realized, about to undergo the ordeal of a lecture. She was going to be reprimanded.

"You got to grow up," Tweany said. "You got a lot of things to learn."

Mary Anne roused herself. "For cripe's sake, don't I know it? I want to learn things."

"You live here in town?"

"Naturally," she said, with bitterness. "You go to school?"

"No. I work in a lousy broken-down chrome furniture factory."

"Doing what?"

"Stenographer."

"Do you like it?"

"No."

Tweany contemplated her. "Do you have talent?"

"What do you mean?"

"You should do something creative."

"I just want to go somewhere where I can be with people and they won't let me down."

Tweany went over and turned on the radio. The sound of Sarah Vaughan drifted out and into the living room. "You've been dealt some hard knocks," he said, returning to his vantage point.

"I don't know. I haven't had it so bad." She sipped her beer. "Why does eastern beer cost more than western?"