Highsmith, Patricia Read Online Free PDF Page B

Suddenly she knew why she couldn’t recapture the feeling she had before: she simply didn’t believe Phil McElroy could get her a job on his recommendation.
    “Are you worried about that job?” Dannie was standing beside her.
    “No.”
    “Don’t be. Phil can give you some tips.” He poked his pipe stem between his lips, and seemed to be about to say something else, but he turned away.
    She half listened to Phil’s conversation with Richard. They were talking about boat reservations.
    Dannie said, “By the way, the Black Cat Theatre’s only a couple of blocks from Morton Street where I live. Phil’s staying with me, too. Come and have lunch with us, will you?”
    “Thanks very much. I’d like to.” It probably wouldn’t be, she thought, but it was nice of him to ask her.
    “What do you think, Terry?” Richard said. “Is March too soon to go to Europe? It’s better to go early than wait till everything’s so crowded over there.”
    “March sounds all right,” she said.
    “There’s nothing to stop us, is there? I don’t care if I don’t finish the winter term at school.”
    “No, there’s nothing to stop us.” It was easy to say. It was easy to believe all of it, and just as easy not to believe any of it. But if it were all true, if the job were real, the play a success, and she could go to France with at least a single achievement behind her—Suddenly, Therese reached out for Richard’s arm, slid her hand down it to his fingers. Richard was so surprised, he stopped in the middle of a sentence.
    The next afternoon, Therese called the Watkins number that Phil had given her. A very efficient sounding girl answered. Mr. Cortes was not there, but they had heard about her through Phil McElroy. The job was hers, and she would start work December twenty-eighth at fifty dollars a week. She could come in beforehand and show Mr. Cortes some of her work, if she wanted to, but it wasn’t necessary, not if Mr. McElroy had recommended her so highly.
    Therese called up Phil to thank him, but nobody answered the telephone.
    She wrote him a note, in care of the Black Cat Theatre.

CHAPTER 3
    “ROBERTA WALLS, the youngest D. S. in the toy department, paused just long enough in her midmorning flurry to whisper to Therese, “If we don’t sell this twenty-four ninety-five suitcase today, it’ll be marked down Monday and the department’ll take a two-dollar loss!” Roberta nodded at the brown pasteboard suitcase on the counter, thrust her load of gray boxes into Miss Martucci’s hands, and hurried on.
    Down the long aisle, Therese watched the salesgirls make way for Roberta.
    Roberta flew up and down counters and from one corner of the floor to the other, from nine in the morning until six at night. Therese had heard that Roberta was trying for another promotion. She wore red harlequin glasses, and unlike the other girls, always pushed the sleeves of her green smock up above her elbows. Therese saw her flit across an aisle and stop Mrs. Hendrickson with an excited message delivered with gestures.
    Mrs. Hendrickson nodded agreement, Roberta touched her shoulder familiarly, and Therese felt a small start of jealousy. Jealousy, though she didn’t care in the least for Mrs. Hendrickson, even disliked her.
    “Do you have a doll made of cloth that cries?”
    Therese didn’t know of such a doll in stock, but the woman was positive Frankenberg’s had it, because she had seen it advertised. Therese pulled out another box, from the last spot it might possibly be, and it wasn’t.
    “Wotcha lookin’ fuh?” Miss Santini asked her. Miss Santini had a cold.
    “A doll made of cloth that cries,” Therese said. Miss Santini had been especially courteous to her lately. Therese remembered the stolen meat.
    But now Miss Santini only lifted her eyebrows, stuck out her bright red underlip with a shrug, and I went on.
    “Made of cloth? With pigtails?” Miss Martucci, a lean, straggly haired Italian girl with a long nose