just like the one Clara Bow had on in her last picture . . .”
“. . . it was a brand new Lincoln, and he banged up the whole right side . . .”
“A talking picture show—can you imagine that! Radio in the movies; I’ll believe it when I see . . .”
“. . . and she was wearing knickers, imagine that! Knickers, just like a man—”
The soda jerk picked at a pimple on his chin as he moved toward Janson to ask what he would have, but a short man with a paunch and a disagreeable expression stepped behind the counter instead, laying a hand on the boy’s arm and nodding him toward another customer sitting not far distant. The man stepped up to Janson, wrinkling his nose as if there were a disagreeable odor in the place.
“What y’ want, boy?” he demanded, staring at Janson, giving him the clear impression that he had to be the owner of the drugstore, Mr. Dobbins.
Janson stuck one hand in his pocket and pulled out his wages, staring at the little money in his hand for a moment as he debated on whether to spend even one of the few, precious coins and order a lemon phosphate, or whether to risk being thrown out of the drugstore as a loiterer instead. Dobbins pursed his thick lips together and nodded his head, as if he had received the answer he had expected, then started to speak—but, before he could tell Janson to leave, there was a shriek from a girl across the room, and the sound of a slap, setting Dobbins in motion around the end of the counter and toward the girl’s table, making him forget all about Janson; and another of the Whitley hands was tossed out of the place instead.
The girl quietened back down as Dobbins pacified her and several of her friends with free ice cream sodas from the fountain, and Janson relaxed slightly, relieved at having been spared the indignity of having been publicly thrown out of the place. He shoved his wages back into his pocket and debated on whether he should stay here and wait for the other hands to leave so that he could hitch a ride back to the Whitley place, or whether to take off walking and just hope that someone might pick him up—but his eyes came to rest on a girl sitting only a few stools away at the soda fountain. She was pretty, probably at least quite a few years older than Janson, in her late twenties, with bobbed red hair and a tight green dress that did not quite cover her crossed knees. She had on face powder and lipstick and rouge, and, as she smiled, a slight dimple showed in her left cheek.
She stared at Janson openly, her fingers toying with the rim of the near-empty fountain glass of Coca-Cola before her. A tall, heavy-set man was leaning over her shoulder, saying something against her ear as he looked down toward her breasts—but she was paying him little attention. Her eyes were set on Janson instead; she smiled, and he smiled in return, and, after a moment, she stood and pushed past the heavy-set man to come and sit on a vacant stool next to the one where Janson sat.
“Hi,” she said, the dimple showing in her cheek again. “I ain’t seen you around here before.”
“No, I don’t guess you have.” Janson smiled.
“My name’s Delta; what’s yours?”
“Janson Sanders—” He was going to say more, but the heavy-set man who had been trying to talk to her before was suddenly there, his hand on her arm, trying to pull her to her feet.
“Com’ on, Delta; I ain’t got all night—”
She looked up at him, anger showing plainly in her clear hazel eyes. “Go away, Les. I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you tonight.”
“But you promised you’d—”
“I don’t care what I promised,” she snapped, jerking her arm free of his grasp. “You go away and leave me alone or I’ll tell your wife about you, Les Jenkins.”
“Now, sugar, you know you wouldn’t—” he began, putting his hand on her arm again, but she only pushed it away.
“I mean it! Go away, Les!”
“You heard what she said.” Janson rose to his feet, and the man turned to look at him.
“Wasn’t nobody talking to you, boy.”
“Maybe not, but she’s done told you t’ leave her be—”
“This ain’t none of your business, boy. You just keep your mouth outta—”
“I’m makin’ it my business—an’ my name ain’t boy—’
The big man’s hands tightened into fists—he was ready to fight. But, then again, so was Janson.
“Now Les—” The girl’s hazel eyes moved quickly around the room. “You behave. Just go on—”
“You heard what th’ lady said,” Janson told him, but suddenly the man snorted, and then laughed out loud, his ruddy face becoming only redder.
“Lady! She ain’t no—”
But suddenly the girl’s hand was on his arm, her tone somehow different. “Now, Les, you be a good boy an’ go away, an’ I’ll let you call me tomorra’ night—”
The man stared at her for a moment, and then glanced at Janson, seeming to consider the possibilities. After a time, he nodded his head, then retrieved his hat from a nearby stool, reaching up to put it on his head and adjust the brim. “Okay, tomorrow night,” he said, and looked at Janson again before turning and crossing the fountain area going toward the front door of the drugstore. He went out onto the sidewalk, glancing back through the windows one last time, his heavily jowled face unreadable.
Somehow something did not feel right—but the girl turned to Janson again and smiled, the dimple coming back to her cheek, and the feeling was gone. All he could think of was that she had the prettiest red hair he had ever seen, even if she did wear it bobbed off too short.
She was not a lady. Janson knew that by the time they left the drugstore together, but it did not seem to matter. They went out into the chilly darkness, her arm firmly hooked through his—they were going for a drive in her motor car, she had said; but he knew what she wanted. She wanted the same thing he wanted. That was all that was important.
They got in her car and she let him drive. He choked the engine too much and it coughed and sputtered, but soon they were driving up Main Street, her warm hand resting on his thigh.
“Wait, hold on!” she said as they came abreast of the billiard parlor, and was out of the car almost before he could stop it. She went to a large, expensive-looking motor car parked alongside the street and quickly leaned inside, giving him a good view of silk-encased calves, and, for just a moment, even the backs of her knees, and the tops of her rolled stockings. She straightened up quickly and returned to the car with something in her hands, getting in and slamming the door after herself. “I figured Les would have some corn liquor stashed in his car, but I did even better’n that,” she said, holding a bottle of gin up for him to see.
Janson started to protest, but suddenly her mouth was on his, her body pressed against him, her tongue sliding into his mouth. She looked up at him a moment later, rather breathless.
“Why don’t we go to my place? I got some glasses for the gin—”
He nodded, but did not speak—he had known that was where they were going all along.
Her
