Clandestine

"Hi," I said, "it's kind of busy tonight. The barman should be with you by Tuesday afternoon, though." The woman laughed, her face slightly averted. I could tell why; her teeth were bad, and she wanted to be fetching without exposing them. It was the first endearment in what I hoped would be a long night of them.

"This is kind of a nice place, don't you think?" she asked. Her voice was nasal and slightly midwestern.

"Yes, I do. Especially on a night like this."

"Brrr," the woman said. "I know what you mean. I've never been here before, but I was driving by in a cab and it looked so warm and inviting that I just had to stop in. Have you been here before?"

"No, this is my first time, too. But please excuse my bad manners. My name is Bill Thornhill."

"I'm Maggie. Maggie Cadwallader."

I laughed. "Oh, God, our names are so solid, like a trip to Great Britain."

Maggie laughed. "I'm just a Wisconsin farm girl."

"I'm just a big-city hick."

We laughed some more. It was good laughter; we were playing our roles with both naturalness and refinement. The bartender came and I ordered a beer for myself and a stinger for Maggie. I paid. "How long have you lived in L.A., Maggie?" I asked.

"Oh, for years. What about you, Bill?" From that added intimacy I knew it was going to be. Relief and ardor flooded through me.

"Too long, I think. Actually, I'm a native."

"One of the few! Isn't it some place, though? Sometimes I think I live here because anything can happen, do you know what I mean? You can be walking down the street and something crazy and wonderful might happen, just like that." The wonder in a nutshell. I started to like her.

"I know exactly what you mean," I said, and meant it. "Sometimes I think that's what keeps me from moving away. Most people come here for the glamour and the movies. I was born here, so I know that's a lot of baloney. I stay here for the mystery."

"You put that so well! Mystery!" Maggie squeezed my hand. "Wait a second," she said as she finished her drink. "Let me see if I can guess what you do. Are you an athlete? You look like one."

"No, guess again."

"Hmmm. You're so big. Is it an outside job?"

"No hints. Guess again."

"Are you a writer?"

"No."

"A businessman?"

"No."

"A lawyer?"

"No."

"A movie star!"

"Hah! No."

"A fireman?"

"No."

"I give up. Tell me what you do, and I'll tell you what I do."

"Okay, but prepare yourself for a letdown. I sell insurance." I said it with boyish mock humility and resignation. Maggie loved it.

"What's so bad about that? I'm just a bookkeeper! What we do isn't what we are, is it?"

"No," I lied.

"So there!" Maggie squeezed my hand again.

I signaled the bartender, who brought us refills. We raised our glasses in a toast. "To mystery," I said.

"To mystery," she repeated.

Maggie finished her drink quickly. I sipped my beer. It felt like time to make a move. "Maggie, if this weather weren't so damn rotten, we could take a drive. I know L.A. like the back of my hand, and there's lots of beautiful places we could go."

Maggie smiled warmly, this time not worrying about showing her teeth. "I feel like getting out of here, too. But you're right, the weather is rotten. We could go to my apartment for a nightcap."

"That sounds nice," I said, my voice tightening.

"Did you drive? I came in a cab."

"Yeah, I drove. We can take my car. Where do you live?"

"In Hollywood. On Harold Way. That's a little street off of Sunset. Do you know where it is?"

"Sure."

"That's right, you know L.A. like the back of your hand!"

We both laughed as we left the bar and hurried across rainy Western Avenue to my car.

Driving north on Wilton Place, the rain started to abate. Maggie and I avoided flirting, and talked instead about things like the weather and her cat. I didn't particularly like cats, but faked great interest in meeting hers. I kept wondering about her body. In the bar she had never taken off her coat. Her legs were well formed, but I wanted to know the size of her breasts and breadth of her hips before we were nude together.

Harold Way was a small, dimly lighted side street. Maggie showed me where to park. Her apartment building was postwar ugly with a Hawaiian motif. It was a giant boxlike structure of eight or ten units, stucco, with phony bamboo trim along the doors and windows. The entrances were along the side of the building.

Maggie and I chatted nervously as we walked down the long entranceway to her apartment. When she opened the door and flipped on the lights a fat gray cat jumped out of the darkness to greet us. Maggie put down her umbrella and picked him up. "Mmmm, my baby!" she cooed, hugging the captive feline. "Lion, this is Bill. Bill, this is my protector, Lion."

I patted the cat's head. "Hello, Lion," I said naturally, not changing my voice. "How are you this fine winter's evening? Caught any rodents lately? Are you earning your keep in this wonderful abode your lovely mistress has given you?"