The joint on Normandie and Melrose was dead. Its main draw was the television above the bar. Slaphappy locals were laughing at the “Sid Caesar Show.” I left. In the next place, near L.A. City College, there were nothing but animated college kids, all coupled off, most of them shouting about Truman and MacArthur and the war.
I made my way southwest. I found a bar on Western that I had never noticed before–the Silver Star, two blocks north of Beverly. It looked warm and well kept up. It had a tricolored neon sign: three stars, yellow, blue, and red, arranged around a martini glass. “Silver Star” flashed on and off in bright orange.
I parked across the street at Ralph’s market, then dodged cars as I ran toward the neon haven. The Silver Star was crowded, and as my eyes became accustomed to the indoor fluorescent lighting I could tell that the place served more as a pickup joint than a local watering hole. Men were making advances to women seated beside them. The gestures were awkward, and the women feigned interest in the spirit of booze-induced camaraderie. I ordered a double Scotch and soda and carried it over to a dark row of booths against the back wall, choosing the only empty one. My legs were too long to keep from jamming into the table, so I stretched them out and sipped my drink, trying to look casual while remaining alert, with my eyes on the bar and front door.
After an hour and two more drinks, I noticed a comely woman enter the bar. She was a honey blond in her middle thirties. She walked in hesitantly, as though the place were unfamiliar and potentially hostile.
I watched as she took a seat at the bar. The bartender was busy elsewhere so the woman waited to be served, fiddling with the contents of her purse. There was an empty stool next to her, and I made for it. I sat down and the woman swiveled to face me.
“Hi,” I said, “it’s kind of busy tonight. The barman should be with you by Tuesday afternoon, though.” The woman laughed, her face slightly averted. I could tell why; her teeth were bad, and she wanted to be fetching without exposing them. It was the first endearment in what I hoped would be a long night of them.
“This is kind of a nice place, don’t you think?” she asked. Her voice was nasal and slightly midwestern.
“Yes, I do. Especially on a night like this.”
“Brrr,” the woman said. “I know what you mean. I’ve never been here before, but I was driving by in a cab and it looked so warm and inviting that I just had to stop in. Have you been here before?”
“No, this is my first time, too. But please excuse my bad manners. My name is Bill Thornhill.”
“I’m Maggie. Maggie Cadwallader.”
I laughed. “Oh, God, our names are so solid, like a trip to Great Britain.”
Maggie laughed. “I’m just a Wisconsin farm girl.”
“I’m just a big-city hick.”
We laughed some more. It was good laughter; we were playing our roles with both naturalness and refinement. The bartender came and I ordered a beer for myself and a stinger for Maggie. I paid. “How long have you lived in L.A., Maggie?” I asked.
“Oh, for years. What about you, Bill?” From that added intimacy I _knew_ it was going to be. Relief and ardor flooded through me.
“Too long, I think. Actually, I’m a native.”
“One of the few! Isn’t it some place, though? Sometimes I think I live here because anything can happen, do you know what I mean? You can be walking down the street and something crazy and wonderful might happen, just like that.” The wonder in a nutshell. I started to like her.
“I know exactly what you mean,” I said, and meant it. “Sometimes I think that’s what keeps me from moving away. Most people come here for the glamour and the movies. I was born here, so I know that’s a lot of baloney. I stay here for the mystery.”
“You put that so well! Mystery!” Maggie squeezed my hand. “Wait a second,” she said as she finished her drink. “Let me see if I can guess what you do. Are you an athlete? You look like one.”