Night Passage Read Free Page B

Street Blues?” she said.
    “More like Barney Miller,” he said.
    It was his standard answer, but it was no truer than any other, just self-effacing, which was why he used it. Being a homicide cop wasn’t like anything on television, but there wasn’t much point in trying to explain that to someone who could never know.
    “You an actress?” he said.
    “Yes. How did you know?”
    It was another thing he always said. He had a good chance to be right in Los Angeles, and even if he were wrong, the girl was flattered.
    “You’re beautiful,” he said. “And you have a sort of star quality.”
    “Wow, you know the right things to say, don’t you.”
    “Just telling the truth,” Jesse said.
    “Right now I’m working at the reception desk at CAA,” Jennifer said. “But one of the agents has noticed me and says he’s going to get me some auditions during pilot season.”
    “You done any work I might have seen?”
    “Mostly nonspeaking parts, crowd scenes, things like that. I’m in a play three nights a week just down the street here. It’s a modern version of a Greek tragedy called The Parcae . I play Clotho.”
    “Sounds really interesting,” Jesse said. “I’d like to come see it.”
    “I can leave a ticket for you at the box office. All you have to do is let me know the night.”
    “How about tonight?” Jesse said.
    “Sure.”
    “Maybe have a bite afterwards?”
    “That would be very nice,” she said.
    “Good,” Jesse said. “I’ll meet you afterwards in the lobby.”
    She smiled and stood and disposed of her tray.
    “If you don’t like the play, don’t arrest me,” she said.
    “I’ll like the play,” Jesse said.
    He watched her as she walked away. He knew he’d hate the play, but it was part of what he was willing to pay in order to see that body without the Lycra…. At Santa Rosa he crossed the Pecos. It was a pretty ordinary-looking little river to be so famous. What the hell made it so famous? Was it Judge Roy Bean? The law west of the Pecos? Small things pleased him as he drove. He liked seeing the towns that had once marked Route 66: Gallup, New Mexico, Flagstaff, Arizona, Winona. He liked seeing the occasional wind-driven tumbleweed that rolled across the highway. He liked seeing road signs for Indian reservations and places like Fort Defiance. Past Santa Rosa he pulled off of the interstate to get gas and a ham-and-cheese sandwich at a gas station/restaurant in the middle of the New Mexico wilderness. It was the only building in sight with views in all directions to the empty horizon. He pumped his own gas, and a skinny girl with pale skin and a tooth missing took his money and sold him a sandwich. He sat in the car and ate the sandwich and drank a Coke and thought about how alone the skinny girl was and wondered about what she did when she wasn’t working the gas station and selling the pre-wrapped sandwiches. Probably went someplace and watched television off a dish. The sense of her aloneness made him feel a little panicky, and he put the car in gear and drove away, finishing his sandwich on the move. As he drove he ran the ball of his thumb over his wedding ring, in a habitual gesture. But of course there was no wedding ring, only the small pale indentation on his third finger where the ring had been. He glanced at the indentation for a moment and brought his eyes back to the road. The sun was behind him now, the car chasing its own elongated shadow east. He wanted to make Tucumcari by dark … The play had been incomprehensible, he remembered. A lot of white makeup and black lipstick and shrieking. He took her up to a place on Gower called Pinot Hollywood that was open late and featured a martini bar. They drank martinis and ate calamari and talked. Or she talked. She chattered easily and without apparent pretense. He listened comfortably, glad not to talk too much, pleased when she asked him a question that he could answer easily, aware that though she talked a lot she