The Drifters by James A. Michener Page A

him, extending a slim, be-ringed hand. ‘I am Paxton Fell,’ he said quietly. ‘And who might you be?’
    ‘Name’s Joe. I’m from California. The gang at Yale gave me your name.’
    ‘It must have been Professor Hartford,’ Fell said languidly. ‘He’s very helpful, I understand, when you fellows fall into trouble with the draft.’
    Joe nodded and became aware that most of the habitués in the bar, including one table of oddly dressed women, were watching him. On the spur of the moment he extended his hand to Fell and said, ‘Professor Hartford sends hisbest wishes. I’ll probably see you around.’ And he walked to the door.
    ‘Just a minute!’ Fell cried. ‘Join us for a drink.’
    ‘Later,’ Joe said. ‘I’ve got to find a place to park this gear.’
    ‘We can always help you find a place to stay. Now if you …’
    Joe looked at his watch, snapped his fingers and said, ‘Damn. I told the landlady I’d look at her room at five.’
    On the sidewalk he grabbed Jean-Victor by the lapel and asked, ‘What the hell are you trying to peddle?’
    ‘You brought up his name. I naturally supposed …’
    ‘You let me do the supposing.’
    ‘When I first met you … I showed you the pretty girls and you didn’t even look.’
    ‘I was looking … in my own way.’
    ‘So I put you down for another American on the make. And when you popped up with Fell’s name, I was positive.’
    ‘You one of his boys?’
    ‘Me? I wouldn’t go near the place. For me it’s strictly girls.’
    ‘Then why peddle me?’
    ‘Simple! If I cooperate with Paxton Fell … he sees I get a little money.’ Since his manhood had been impugned he felt it necessary to establish his character, so he led Joe down into the oldest part of Torremolinos, a story-book fishing area that had kept out the luxury hotels and skyscrapers. He took Joe past a chain of attractive small bars, each with three or four charming girls waiting on stools, and Jean-Victor said, ‘In Torremolinos … three hundred bars … and they all need bar girls.’ They came finally to a row of very old fishing sheds that had been converted into slap-dash apartments, at whose doors the Mediterranean knocked with knuckles of sea foam.
    ‘This is the real Torremolinos,’ Jean-Victor said, and as he pushed open the door of his flat, Joe saw two large beds, one empty, the other containing a pair of most attractive girls. ‘Ingrid and Suzanne,’ Jean-Victor said offhandedly. ‘My girl is Sandra, from London, but she’s out shopping, I suppose.’
    ‘She went to get her hair done,’ Ingrid said in excellent English.
    ‘She’s always getting her hair done,’ Jean-Victor saidresignedly. ‘Joe’s new in town. From California. No money, test him.’
    ‘Running away from the draft?’ Suzanne asked with a lilting French accent.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Any money?’
    ‘Flat broke.’
    ‘Who cares. Tonight we take you to dinner. We must all fight like hell for peace.’
    ‘You mustn’t waste your money,’ he protested.
    The girls did not even bother to reply. In their crowd, if someone had a little bread he shared it; when Joe was in the chips they would expect him to do likewise. Jean-Victor went on to say, ‘You can make your bed on the floor. A German left his sleeping bag. It’s that tartan thing in the corner. He probably won’t be back.’
    The girls did take Joe to dinner, at a fish restaurant where a solid meal cost less than a dollar. They told approximately the same stories: they had come to Torremolinos on fifteen-day excursions, had fallen in love with the place, had looked everywhere for jobs, and had finally met Jean-Victor, who allowed them to sleep in his extra bed. He had also found them work in one of the bars he frequented, and since he would accept no money, they bought the food. Ingrid thought she might have to return to Sweden at the end of the next month; she had been away a half-year and a young man with a good job in Stockholm