Year of the Jackpot 3

some" rather than "beautiful" and "glamorous," It was
topped by a healthy mop of light brown hair. He set her
age at twenty-five, give or take eighteen months. He smiled
gently, climbed in without speaking and started his car.
He turned up Doheny Drive and east on Sunset. Near La
Cienega he slowed down. "Feeling better?"
"Uh, I guess so Mr.'Breen'?"
"Call me Potiphar. What's your name? Don't tell me if
you don't want to,"
"Me? I'm . . . I'm Meade Barstow."
"Thank you, Meade. Where do you want to go? Home?"
"I suppose so. IOh my no! I can't go home like this."
She clutched the coat tightly to her.
"Parents?"
"No. My landlady. She'd be shocked to death."
"Where, then?"
She thought. "Maybe we could stop at a filling station and
I could sneak into the ladies' room."
"Mmm, . . . maybe. See here, Meademy house is six
blocks from here and has a garage entrance. You could get
inside without being seen." He looked at her.
She stared back. "Potipharyou don't look like a wolf?"
"Oh, but I am! The worst sort." He whistled and gnashed
his teeth. "See? But Wednesday is my day off from it."
She looked at him and dimpled. "Oh, well! I'd rather
wrestle with you than with Mrs. Megeath. Let's go."
He turned up into the hills. His bachelor diggings were
one of the many little frame houses clinging like fungus to
the brown slopes of the Santa Monica Mountains. The ga-
rage was notched into this hill; the house sat on it. He drove
in, cut the ingition, and led her up a teetei-y inside stairway
into the living room. "In there," he said, pointing. "Help
yourself." He pulled her clothes out of his coat pockets and
handed them to her.
She blushed and took them, disappeared into his bed-
room. He heard her turn the key in the lock. He settled down
in his easy chair, took out his notebook, and opened the
Herald-Exprew.
He was finishing the Daily News and had added several
notes to his collection when she came out. Her hair was
neatly rolled; her face was restored; she had brushed most
of the wrinkles out of her skirt. Her sweater was neither too
tight nor deep cut, but it was pleasantly filled. She reminded
him of well water and farm breakfasts.
He took his raincoat from her, hung it up, and said, "Sit
down, Meade."