splashing down the heavy rain. A rabbit popping on the road, Smith isn't that sweet that rabbit.
"Miss Tomson what were you going to tell me, back there in the bar."
"It was nothing."
"Come on tell me."
"It embarrasses me now."
"Please tell me."
'Well. You know when I was working for you. Saw you get all those letters, and the pathetic little set up you had and all, in Golf Street. I can't tell you. Seems too silly. Might make you sore."
"O."
"You'll get sore if I don't tell you."
"No I won't."
"I just used to add money to the petty cash box because I thought you were really having it rough. You'd come out and when you thought I wasn't looking you'd take it back into your office and count it and come back looking so pleased because it was more instead of less."
"I never did."
"You're getting sore. Real sweet, the way you used to look with that cash box. Even cried one night over my pay check but next morning I thought what the hell, this is a jungle, and paid it into my account. Which way do I turn."
"Go straight."
Smith slumped back on the leather. The tiny sound of windscreen wipers fanning across the glass. And down into a valley. A swollen river. Raindrops flickering through the light beams. Across a stone bridge and train tracks into a sleeping town. Spread across a hillside, a hotel, terraces built out on the jutting rock. Car mounting an incline towards a great brown door.
"Smith, where we going can't you see the door's closed."
"Drive on, it'll open. Watch."
"Gee."
Hollowing bubbling sound of Sally Tomson's long black car sliding in out of the dark rain. Three moss green armoured bullion trucks. Vast concrete wasteland. Miss Tomson turning and looking at George Smith. Her hand slowly sliding across the black leather to his. Entwining his fingers. Her face a little flower. As the lids lift up on the eyes. Her voice so soft and low. Saying O and O and O.
In the vast underground garage. Their voices echoing. Smith with a finger raised. Beckoning. Come Miss Tom-son. Cross this chill interior. Your legs. Watch you walk ahead of me through life. To open doors, buy my lamb-chops and pay the milkman.
"Where are we, Smith. This is crazy. I feel they move dead bodies in and out this door."
"For God's sake, Miss Tomson."
"I just was thinking this place is built for death."
"This way."
"This elevator is like a little church, Smith."
In Miss Tomson's eyes, down the steps, at the bottom, is her soul. When she was a little girl she had a little boy friend who looked up her dress every Friday after school to see if anything had changed. Easy joys of childhood.
"Smith."
"What."
"I know I said yesh. About a port. In the storm and all."
"Miss Tomson, what's the matter."
"Please take me back down. I'm going to try to get back to town."
"Miss Tomson I can't let you go out in the stormy night again. Might be trees down across the roads."
"This the down button."
"I wish more than anything you wouldn't press it. Wanted to bring you somewhere dry."
"Smith. I just wish it wasn't you. I just wish that tonight wasn't tonight. Don't be sad. Come on, don't be."
"I'm all right."
"I know it's silly but the tunnel. I'm nervous, a litde scared. Smith I've been thinking I've got you figured. I haven't got you figured at all. Face to face like this. I'm a coward. I've been bluffing. Like I'm some sort of careless society girl. I'm a hick."
"Please Miss Tomson."
"And I'm just scared."
Paneled door sliding back. The tunnel The steps to the underground garage. Miss Tomson's beige medallion on her tan finger. Wet tire tracks of her car. Worship the cement she walks on. Across this entrance of death. Night time nearly over. Smacked up her car. Stood by while her dog got killed. Mustn't cry. Just watch her drive away through clear, cool eyes. Got to be hard. Let her go alone. Never see her again. Milk truck bumping, grinding by outside. Her door clicks, engine roars and she spins the wheel. Backing and turning around. Don't go. Look back at me. Please. Standing here. With the nice tie you said I was wearing. Two little corners of a hanky I pulled up to show from my breast pocket. To look natty for you. Wave. Goodbye. Into the faint light of morning. Goes Sally Tom-son's car.