Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (35 page)

"Good morning," Linda said. "Sleep well?"

"Good morning," Mayo said. "I don't know. The bed put kinks in my back.
Gee, that water must be cold. You're all gooseflesh."

"No, it's marvelous." She pulled off the cap and shook her hair down.
"Where's that towel? Oh, here. Go on in, Jim. You'll feel wonderful."

"I don't like it when it's cold."

"Don't be a sissy."

A crack of thunder split the quiet morning. Mayo looked up at the clear
sky in astonishment. "What the hell was that?" he exclaimed.

"Watch," Linda ordered.

"It sounded like a sonic boom."

"There!" she cried, pointing west. "See?"

One of the West Side skyscrapers crumbled majestically, sinking into
itself like a collapsible cup and raining masses of cornice and brick. The
flayed girders twisted and contorted. Moments later they could hear the
roar of the collapse.

"Man, that's a sight," Mayo muttered in awe.

"The decline and fall of the Empire City. You get used to it. Now take a
dip, Jim. I'll get you a towel."

She ran into the house. He dropped his shorts and took off his socks but
was still standing on the curb, unhappily dipping his toe into the water
when she returned with a huge bath towel.

"It's awful cold, Linda," he complained.

"Didn't you take cold showers when you were a wrestler?"

"Not me. Boiling hot."

"Jim, if you just stand there, you'll never go in. Look at you, you're
starting to shiver. Is that a tattoo around your waist?"

"What? Oh, yea. It's a python, in five colors. It goes all the way around.
See?" He revolved proudly. "Got it when I was with the Army in Saigon back
in '64. It's a Oriental-type python. Elegant, huh?"

"Did it hurt?"

"To tell the truth, no. Some guys try to make out like it's Chinese
torture to get tattooed, but they're just showin' off. It itches more than
anything else."

"You were a soldier in '64?"

"That's right."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty."

"You're thirty-seven now?"

"Thirty-six going on thirty-seven."

"Then you're prematurely gray?"

"I guess so."

She contemplated him thoughtfully. "I tell you what, if you do go in,
don't get your head wet."

She ran back into the house. Mayo, ashamed of his vacillation, forced
himself to jump feet first into the pond. He was standing, chest deep,
splashing his face and shoulders with water when Linda returned. She
carried a stool, a pair of scissors, and a comb.

"Doesn't it feel wonderful?" she called

"No."

She laughed. "Well, come out. I'm going to give you a haircut."

He climbed out of the pond, dried himself, and obediently sat on the stool
while she cut his hair. "The beard, too," Linda insisted. "I want to see
what you really look like." She trimmed him close enough for shaving,
inspected him, and nodded with satisfaction. "Very handsome."

"Aw, go on," he blushed.

"There's a bucket of hot water on the stove. Go and shave. Don't bother to
dress. We're going to get you new clothes after breakfast, and then
… the piano."

"I couldn't walk around the streets naked," he said, shocked.

"Don't be silly. Who's to see? Now hurry."

They drove down to Abercrombie & Fitch on Madison and 45
^th
Street, Mayo wrapped modestly in his towel. Linda told him she'd been a
customer for years and showed him the pile of sales slips she had
accumulated. Mayo examined them curiously while she took his measurements
and went off in search of clothes. He was almost indignant when she
returned with her arms laden.

"Jim, I've got some lovely elk moccasins, and a safari suit, and wool
socks, and shipboard shirts, and—"

"Listen," he interrupted, "do you know what your whole tab comes to?
Nearly fourteen hundred dollars."

"Really? Put on the shorts first. They're drip-dry."

"You must have been out of your mind, Linda. What'd you want all that junk
for?"

"Are the socks big enough? What junk? I needed everything."

"Yeah? Like …" He shuffled the signed sales slips. "Like one
Underwater Viewer with Plexiglas Lens, nine ninety-five? What for?"

"So I could see to clean the bottom of the pond."

"What about this Stainless Steel Service for Four, thirty-nine fifty?"

"For when I'm lazy and don't feel like heating water. You can wash
stainless steel in cold water." She admired him. "Oh, Jim, come look in
the mirror. You're real romantic, like the big-game hunter in that
Hemingway story."

He shook his head. "I don't see how you're ever going to get out of hock.
You got to watch your spending, Linda. Maybe we better forget about that
piano, huh?"

"Never," Linda said adamantly. "I don't care how much it costs. A piano is
a lifetime investment, and it's worth it."

She was frantic with excitement as they drove uptown to the Steinway
showroom, and helpful and underfoot by turns. After a long afternoon of
muscle-cracking and critical engineering involving makeshift gantries and
an agonizing dolly-haul up Fifth Avenue, they had the piano in place in
Linda's living room. Mayo gave it one last shake to make sure it was
firmly on its legs and then sank down, exhausted. "Je-zuz!" he groaned.
"Hiking south would've been easier."

"Jim!" Linda ran to him and threw herself on him with a fervent hug. "Jim,
you're an angel. Are you all right?"

"I'm okay." He grunted. "Get off me, Linda. I can't breathe."

"I just can't thank you enough. I've been dreaming about this for ages. I
don't know what I can do to repay you. Anything you want, just name it."

"Aw," he said, "you already cut my hair."

"I'm serious."

"Ain't you teaching me how to drive?"

"Of course. As quickly as possible. That's the least I can do." Linda
backed to a chair and sat down, her eyes fixed on the piano.

"Don't make such a fuss over nothing," he said, climbing to his feet. He
sat down before the keyboard, shot an embarrassed grin at her over his
shoulder, then reached out and began stumbling through the Minuet in G.

Linda gasped and sat bolt upright. "You play," she whispered.

"Naw. I took piano when I was a kid."

"Can you read music?"

"I used to."

"Could you teach me?"

"I guess so; it's kind of hard. Hey, here's another piece I had to take."
He began mutilating "The Rustle of Spring." What with the piano out of
tune and his mistakes, it was ghastly.

"Beautiful," Linda breathed. "Just beautiful!" She stared at his back
while an expression of decision and determination stole across her face.
She arose, slowly crossed to Mayo, and put her hands on his shoulders.

He glanced up. "Something?" he asked.

"Nothing," she answered. "You practice the piano. I'll get dinner."

But she was so preoccupied for the rest of the evening that she made Mayo
nervous. He stole off to bed early.

It wasn't until three o'clock the following afternoon that they finally
got a car working, and it wasn't a Caddy, but a Chevy—a hardtop
because Mayo didn't like the idea of being exposed to the weather in a
convertible. They drove out of the Tenth Avenue garage and back to the
East Side, where Linda felt more at home. She confessed that the
boundaries of her world were from Fifth Avenue to Third, and from 42
^nd
Street to 86
^th
. She was uncomfortable outside this pale.

She turned the wheel over to Mayo and let him creep up and down Fifth and
Madison, practicing starts and stops. He sideswiped five wrecks, stalled
eleven times, and reversed through a storefront which, fortunately, was
devoid of glass. He was trembling with nervousness.

"It's real hard," he complained.

"It's just a question of practice," she reassured him. "Don't worry. I
promise you'll be an expert if it takes us a month."

"A whole month!"

"You said you were a slow learner, didn't you? Don't blame me. Stop here a
minute."

He jolted the Chevy to a halt. Linda got out.

"Wait for me."

"What's up?"

"A surprise."

She ran into a shop and was gone for half an hour. When she reappeared she
was wearing a pencil-thin black sheath, pearls, and high-heeled opera
pumps. She had twisted her hair into a coronet. Mayo regarded her with
amazement as she got into the car.

"What's all this?" he asked.

"Part of the surprise. Turn east on Fifty-second Street."

He labored, started the car, and drove east. "Why'd you get all dressed up
in an evening gown?"

"It's a cocktail dress."

"What for?"

"So I'll be dressed for where we're going. Watch out, Jim!" Linda wrenched
the wheel and sheared off the stern of a shattered sanitation truck. "I'm
taking you to a famous restaurant."

"To eat?"

"No, silly, for drinks. You're my visiting fireman, and I have to
entertain you. That's it on the left. See if you can park somewhere."

He parked abominably. As they got out of the car, Mayo stopped and began
to sniff curiously.

"Smell that?" he asked.

"Smell what?"

"That sort of sweet smell."

"It's my perfume."

"No, it's something in the air, kind of sweet and choky. I know that smell
from somewhere, but I can't remember."

"Never mind. Come inside." She led him into the restaurant. "You ought to
be wearing a tie," she whispered, "but maybe we can get away with it."

Mayo was not impressed by the restaurant decor, but was fascinated by the
portraits of celebrities hung in the bar. He spent rapt minutes burning
his fingers with matches, gazing at Mel Allen, Red Barber, Casey Stengel,
Frank Gifford, and Rocky Marciano. When Linda finally came back from the
kitchen with a lighted candle, he turned to her eagerly.

"You ever see any of them TV stars in here?" he asked.

"I suppose so. How about a drink?"

"Sure. Sure. But I want to talk more about them TV stars."

He escorted her to a bar stool, blew the dust off, and helped her up most
gallantly. Then he vaulted over the bar, whipped out his handkerchief, and
polished the mahogany professionally. "This is my specialty," he grinned.
He assumed the impersonally friendly attitude of the bartender. "Evening,
ma'am. Nice night. What's your pleasure?"

"God, I had a rough day in the shop! Dry martini on the rocks. Better make
it a double."

"Certainly, ma'am. Twist or olive?"

"Onion."

"Double-dry Gibson on the rocks. Right." Mayo searched behind the bar and
finally produced whiskey, gin, and several bottles of soda, as yet only
partially evaporated through their sealed caps. "Afraid we're fresh out of
martinis, ma'am. What's you second pleasure?"

"Oh, I like that. Scotch, please."

"This soda'll be flat," he warned, "and there's no ice."

"Never mind."

He rinsed a glass with soda and poured her a drink.

"Thank you. Have one on me, bartender. What's your name?"

"They call me Jim, ma'am. No thanks. Never drink on duty."

"Then come off duty and join me."

"Never drink off duty, ma'am."

"You can call me Linda."

"Thank you, Miss Linda."

"Are you serious about never drinking, Jim?"

"Yeah."

"Well, happy days."

"And long nights."

"I like that, too. Is it your own?"

"Gee, I don't know. It's sort of the usual bartender's routine, a
specially with guys. You know? Suggestive. No offense."

"None taken."

"Bees!" Mayo burst out.

Linda was startled. "Bees what?"

"That smell. Like inside beehives."

"Oh? I wouldn't know," she said indifferently. "I'll have another,
please."

"Coming right up. Now listen, about them TV celebrities, you actually saw
them here? In person?"

"Why, of course. Happy days, Jim."

"May they all be Saturdays."

Linda pondered. "Why Saturdays?"

"Day off."

"Oh."

"Which TV stars did you see?"

"You name 'em, I saw 'em." She laughed. "You remind me of the kid next
door. I always had to tell him the celebrities I'd seen. One day I told
him I saw Jean Arthur in here, and he said, 'With his horse?' "

Mayo couldn't see the point, but was wounded nevertheless. Just as Linda
was about to soothe his feelings, the bar began a gentle quivering, and at
the same time a faint subterranean rumbling commenced. It came from a
distance, seemed to approach slowly, and then faded away. The vibration
stopped. Mayo stared at Linda.

"Je-zuz! You think maybe this building's going to go?"

She shook her head. "No. When they go, it's always with that boom. You
know what that sounded like? The Lexington Avenue subway."

"The subway?"

"Uh-huh. The local train."

"That's crazy. How could the subway be running?"

"I didn't say it
was.
I said it
sounded
like. I'll have
another, please."

"We need more soda." Mayo explored and reappeared with bottles and a large
menu. He was pale. "You better take it easy, Linda," he said. "You know
what they're charging per drink? A dollar seventy-five. Look."

"To hell with the expense. Let's live a little. Make it a double,
bartender. You know something, Jim? If you stayed in town, I could show
you where all your heroes lived. Thank you. Happy days. I could take you
up to BBDO and show you their tapes and films. How about that? Stars like
… like Red … Who?"

"Barber."

"Red Barber, and Rocky Gifford, and Rocky Casey, and Rocky the Flying
Squirrel."

"You're putting me on," Mayo said, offended again.

"Me, sir? Putting you on?" Linda said with dignity. "Why would I do a
thing like that? Just trying to be pleasant. Just trying to give you a
good time. My mother told me, 'Linda,' she told me, 'just remember this,
about a man. Wear what he wants and say what he likes,' is what she told
me. You want this dress?" she demanded.