Marty sipped his beer. Thirty-five cents for a glass of beer seemed awfully expensive. But this was New York, he reminded himself. Everything cost too much.

He looked around, next. Now was the time to find himself a girl. He tried to remember the things Tony had told him.

Stay away from blondes. They’re all pretty phony and some of them will play you for all you got and then not come across. Redheads you can’t predict. Better look for a brunette.

And don’t pick one too young, either. A lot of them can get you in trouble. Look for a girl about thirty or so. Old enough to really know the score. She’ll give you a good time and help you along if you don’t know what to do.

No flashy dressers, either. You want a simple type. She’ll be sitting alone, maybe, or shooting the breeze with another girl. Don’t cut in on a guy who’s already hooked a girl. You may get your guts chopped up that way. Just look around and don’t rush things. If you find a girl, talk to her without coming to the point. If she asks you to buy her a drink, you got it made.

Marty sat back on the bar stool, looking around, thinking about all the things Tony had said. And then he saw the girl.

She was sitting by herself at one of the tables, drinking a cup of coffee. She had light brown hair and she wore a brown coat that didn’t look new. By the fleshiness of her throat she looked to be about thirty. Tony had showed him how you could tell a woman’s age by looking at her throat.

This girl seemed to fill the bill as Tony had outlined it. Alone. Brunette. Not too young. Not well dressed. This is it, Marty thought. He stared at her a minute, and then she saw him and smiled at him. It was a direct invitation. Feeling calm and self-confident now, Marty pushed himself away from the bar and headed over to her table.

* * *

She looked at him. “Hello, sailor.”

“Hello, there. Mind if I sit down—Miss?”

“Glad to have you. Always looking for company.”

He sat down. His stomach was fluttery now and his heart was pounding.

She said, “I’ll bet you came in with the fleet yesterday. You on shore leave?”

“That’s right. Just back from a tour of the Atlantic bases.”

“Must have been fascinating. What’s your name, sailor?”

“Marty. Marty Bowman. I’m from Nebraska.”

She smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. A little of her lipstick had gotten onto her front teeth, too. “I once knew someone from Nebraska. My name’s Margie. Margie and Marty. That’s cute.”

She laughed and he laughed with her. Then she said, “Want to be nice to me, Marty?”

“Sure I would.”