‘Who is he?’ I said.

He was just a friend, she said, and she didn’t want to talk about him, but she was worried about him; her face assumed that solicitous cast one gets from concern over a sick friend. This worried me, made me jealous all at once, and I kept after her with little questions, and the drawling way she answered made it worse. We went back over the tracks and through the downtown section. She would go right through a stop signal if no cars were around, and when anyone got in her way she would smash her palm on the squealing horn and hold it there. The sound rose like a cry of help through the canyons of buildings. She kept doing this, no matter whether she needed it or not. I cautioned her once, but she ignored it.

‘I’m driving this car,’ she said.

We got to Wilshire where the traffic was regulated to a minimum of thirty-five. The Ford couldn’t travel that fast, but she clung to the middle lane and big fast cars shot around us. They infuriated her and she shook her fist at them. After a mile she complained about her feet and asked me to hold die wheel. As I did it she reached down and took off her shoes. Then she took the wheel again and threw one foot over the side of the Ford. At once her dress ballooned out, spanked her face. She tucked it under herself, but even so her brown thighs were exposed even to a pinkish underthing. It drew a lot of attention. Motorists shot by, pulled up short, and heads came out of windows to observe her brown naked leg. It made her angry. She took to shouting at the spectators, yelling that they ought to mind their own business. I sat at her side, slouched down, trying to enjoy a cigarette that burned too hotly in the rush of wind.

Then we got to a major stop-signal at Western and Wilshire. It was a busy corner, a movie palace and night clubs and drug stores pouring pedestrians into the street. She couldn’t go through that signal because so many other cars were in front of us, waiting the change of light. She sat back, impatient, nervous, swinging her leg. Faces began to turn our way, horns tooted gaily, and behind us a fancy roadster with an impish klaxon sent out an insistent yoohoo. She turned around, her eyes ablaze, and shook her fist at the collegians in the roadster. By now every eye was on us, and everyone smiled. I nudged her.

‘Pull it in at stop signals, at least.’

‘Oh shut up!’ she said.

I reached for Hackmuth’s letter and sought refuge in it. The boulevard was well lighted, I could read the words, but the Ford kicked like a mule, rattled and jerked and broke wind. She was proud of that car.

‘It’s got a wonderful engine,’ she said.

‘It sounds good,’ I said, hanging on.