Easy–you/you/you–straight across.
“Jane, Sol’s the kind of guy that makes dreams come true.”
“Sol Slotnick is a long-distance wrong number. My mom reads _Variety_, and she said _Picket Line!_ was one of the big low grossing losers of 19S1. Sol Slotnick, ick.”
I dipped some bread in my wine glass and bit off a crust. Jane said, “You’re both earthy and sensitive. You’re politically aware, but not didactic. You’ve been wronged by society, but you’re not a martyr. My mom said that men with ambiguous qualities like that make the best lovers, because they keep you guessing, and that postpones the inevitable letdown of sex getting stale.”
“Your dad must be quite a guy.”
Jane giggled. “You mean my dad’s brother Phil. I figured that out because Uncle Phil used to come around a lot when my dad was out of town on extradition assignments, and I got sent to the movies all the time. _And_, I used to sneak peeks at my mom’s diaphragm, which sure was out of its case a lot when Uncle Phil was around. And you know what? Uncle Phil’s hands were _much_ bigger than my dad’s.”
I checked out my own mitts. Big–accordion practice gave them their girth.
A waiter hovered–I signalled him away. Jane laced fingers with me. “Did you ask me out just to shill for Sol Slotnick?”
“Did you join the Westwood People’s Collective just to chase men?”
“No fair. You answer first.”
I pulled my hands free. “I was bored and shopping around for kicks, so I went to the meeting. You looked like kicks, but I’ve decided not to cheat on my wife.”
Hot potato–Jane winced. “Okay, so I joined the group for the same reason. And you can tell Sol Slotnick that I won’t sleep with him until the twelfth of never, but I will audition and strip down to a bikini if you’ll chaperone me.”
“I’ll tell him, and I’ll chaperone you. And I’ll warn you now: you should quit going to those meetings, or your name will end up on some goddamn blacklist that could break your heart.”
Jane smiled. My heart swelled–just a little.
“There’s a meeting tomorrow night that I _have_ to go to, because Mort’s going to discuss FBI malfeasance, and I want to get some lines to tease my dad with. Besides, that man with the Beethoven sweatshirt looks cute.”
“He’s an FBI agent taking names.”
“Well, then at least my dad will approve of him. My dad’s _so_ right-wing. He thinks that slavery should be reinstated and that streets should be privately owned, so the owners can charge protective tariffs. My mom’s a liberal, because she had a Brazilian lover once. He had really big hands, but he tried to pimp her out to cover some track bets he made, and my mom said ‘No, sir,’ and called a cop.”
“What did the cop do?”
“The cop was my dad. He got her pregnant.”
I called for the check. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
* * *
Jane snuggled close in the car. Chanel #5 tickled my nose–I cracked the window for relief. The McGuire Sisters on the radio– I let “Sincerely” wash over me like Jane and I were for real.
It started drizzling. I hit the wipers and adjusted the rear-view– a car was glued to my back bumper.
Spooky.
I punched the gas; the car behind us accelerated.
Jane slid off my shoulder and into my lap.
I hung a sharp left, sharp right, sharp left–that car birddogged collision close.
Jane burrowed into my lap.
I felt myself responding.
Left turn, right turn–the steering wheel brushed Jane’s hair. Hands on my zipper–something told me to hit the brakes.
BAM!–two car bumper-locked pile-up–in the middle of a pissant L.A. side street.
I quit responding. Jane said, “Shit, I think I chipped a tooth.”
I got out. French kissing: my Continental Kit and a ’56 De Soto grille.
???–no white sports job–???
I ran back.
The De Soto driver got out, weak-kneed. Streetlamp glow lit him up good: Danny Getchell, _Hush-Hush_ Magazine.
“Dick, don’t hit me, I’ve got pictures!”
I charged him. A flashbulb popped and blinded me–Getchell bought some seconds.