anticipation all day, picking out a dress, pondering what to say when she got to the studio. And now, at two o'clock in the afternoon, Cleve called.
"I know this is goofy,” he admitted, “but could I talk to you?"
"Sure,” she said. “Go ahead."
"Not on the phone."
"Why not?” she said, surprised.
"Don't ask me, I feel like enough of an ass already. I'll pick you up in half an hour."
"But Cleve—"
"Thanks,” he said and hung up. So she got her clothes on and decided that whatever it was she'd make him drop her off at Vega's afterward.
Cleve took her to a small key club bar and sat her down at a table in the rear. They faced each other over the table. Strangers? Friends? Acquaintances? What were they exactly to each other? Cleve had left college before Beth met Charlie and they had only known each other fairly well since she had come to California. They had seen each other often, they had exchanged a few jokes, and now and then when Cleve was tight they danced together. But never alone. Never had they had a private talk. Charlie or Jean or the kids or somebody was always with them.
It made Beth feel odd, unsure, to be with him now in a private bar. Nobody knew about the meeting, apparently, and no one was there to see them but a few late lunchers and early imbibers. It gave the meeting something of the character of a secret tryst.
Cleve ordered a couple of Martinis. “I know this must seem funny to you,” he said, and covered his awkwardness with a gulp of gin.
"Does Charlie know you asked me here?” she said.
"Not unless you told him."
"No,” she said, and somehow the fact that both of them could have told him and neither of them had made her feel part of an illegal conspiracy.
"Well, don't, Beth,” he said. “Just keep it to yourself. I may not have any right to stick my nose in your affairs, but when your affairs get scrambled up with Vega's, somebody's got to tell you a few things."
Beth felt the hair on her scalp begin to tingle. “What things?” she said. Cleve finished his drink and ordered another. He drank like Vega—briskly and for a purpose. Beth looked hard at him, studying the face she thought she knew so well. It seemed different now, pensive under the thick dark blond hair. His mustache drooped and the deep cleft in his chin gave a droll twist to his frown. Cleve was not a handsome man, although Vega was a beautiful woman and they looked a good deal alike. It happens that way sometimes in a family. Two of the kids will resemble each other, yet the features that go so harmoniously in one face are awkward and out of proportion in the other. And still, Cleve's face was pleasant enough—not out-and-out ugly. Beth liked it. She liked the tired green eyes and the small wry grin he usually wore, and now and then, when she thought about it, she wondered why in hell such a man would marry a giggling good-natured idiot like Jean. Maybe her endless smile comforted him. Maybe it bucked him up through the dismal periods Charlie said he had, when he was more interested in booze than selling plastic toys.
Up until the present it had not interfered with his business. Charlie was willing to let him drink what he wanted, as long as he could do his job. So far, it appeared, he could. Beth, looking at him, wondered what strange, strong hold liquor held over the Purvises. Vega and Cleve both worshipped the stuff, and Mrs. Purvis was blind and crippled and leaking because of it.
Cleve had trouble telling Beth why he had brought her there this afternoon. It was easier after a couple of drinks, and by that time they were both looking at each other through new eyes.
"By god,” Cleve mused. “I never realized you had violet eyes before. I always thought they were plain blue."
"Is that why you dragged me down here? To tell me that?” she asked.
He grinned sheepishly. “That's probably as good a reason as any. Better than the real one."
"You were going to tell me something about your wicked
"I know this is goofy,” he admitted, “but could I talk to you?"
"Sure,” she said. “Go ahead."
"Not on the phone."
"Why not?” she said, surprised.
"Don't ask me, I feel like enough of an ass already. I'll pick you up in half an hour."
"But Cleve—"
"Thanks,” he said and hung up. So she got her clothes on and decided that whatever it was she'd make him drop her off at Vega's afterward.
Cleve took her to a small key club bar and sat her down at a table in the rear. They faced each other over the table. Strangers? Friends? Acquaintances? What were they exactly to each other? Cleve had left college before Beth met Charlie and they had only known each other fairly well since she had come to California. They had seen each other often, they had exchanged a few jokes, and now and then when Cleve was tight they danced together. But never alone. Never had they had a private talk. Charlie or Jean or the kids or somebody was always with them.
It made Beth feel odd, unsure, to be with him now in a private bar. Nobody knew about the meeting, apparently, and no one was there to see them but a few late lunchers and early imbibers. It gave the meeting something of the character of a secret tryst.
Cleve ordered a couple of Martinis. “I know this must seem funny to you,” he said, and covered his awkwardness with a gulp of gin.
"Does Charlie know you asked me here?” she said.
"Not unless you told him."
"No,” she said, and somehow the fact that both of them could have told him and neither of them had made her feel part of an illegal conspiracy.
"Well, don't, Beth,” he said. “Just keep it to yourself. I may not have any right to stick my nose in your affairs, but when your affairs get scrambled up with Vega's, somebody's got to tell you a few things."
Beth felt the hair on her scalp begin to tingle. “What things?” she said. Cleve finished his drink and ordered another. He drank like Vega—briskly and for a purpose. Beth looked hard at him, studying the face she thought she knew so well. It seemed different now, pensive under the thick dark blond hair. His mustache drooped and the deep cleft in his chin gave a droll twist to his frown. Cleve was not a handsome man, although Vega was a beautiful woman and they looked a good deal alike. It happens that way sometimes in a family. Two of the kids will resemble each other, yet the features that go so harmoniously in one face are awkward and out of proportion in the other. And still, Cleve's face was pleasant enough—not out-and-out ugly. Beth liked it. She liked the tired green eyes and the small wry grin he usually wore, and now and then, when she thought about it, she wondered why in hell such a man would marry a giggling good-natured idiot like Jean. Maybe her endless smile comforted him. Maybe it bucked him up through the dismal periods Charlie said he had, when he was more interested in booze than selling plastic toys.
Up until the present it had not interfered with his business. Charlie was willing to let him drink what he wanted, as long as he could do his job. So far, it appeared, he could. Beth, looking at him, wondered what strange, strong hold liquor held over the Purvises. Vega and Cleve both worshipped the stuff, and Mrs. Purvis was blind and crippled and leaking because of it.
Cleve had trouble telling Beth why he had brought her there this afternoon. It was easier after a couple of drinks, and by that time they were both looking at each other through new eyes.
"By god,” Cleve mused. “I never realized you had violet eyes before. I always thought they were plain blue."
"Is that why you dragged me down here? To tell me that?” she asked.
He grinned sheepishly. “That's probably as good a reason as any. Better than the real one."
"You were going to tell me something about your wicked
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