did find her sexually attractive, in the abstract fashion of women seen from a distance, or in show-biz illustrations, not by personal experience. She was not someone with whom he would ordinarily have, or want, contact. He looked forward to making a joke of it with Joanie: how he had had his chance with this bimbo, with her flaming head and too-bright eyes. But, more seriously, he could not approve of someone’s driving without being fully and properly licensed: no joke in this day and age, especially if you were the parent of children who might be run down by such a delinquent citizen. Yet it went against his grain to reject the appeal of anybody, let alone a female. It was just unfair that he found himself in this situation.
But it was
not
his business. By rights, he should not have been here at all. It was that goddamned Richie’s fault—and where was he, anyway?
“Look,” he said to the red-haired woman, disregarding her sluttish proposal, “I’ll find the guy who owns this car. That’s the best I can do.”
He marched to the doughnut shop and pushed the door in against a cluster of people who had come there to stare at the street scene. Richie was not among them, nor could he be seen amid those gawking out the windows. John was exasperated, but then he wondered why he was bothering about this matter. He returned outside.
The policeman was in conversation with the youngwoman. John assumed that if the latter were in serious trouble, she would have no hesitation in offering herself to the cop. He turned his back on them and started in a homeward direction. In the excitement of the accident he had momentarily forgotten his sore knee, but remembered it unpleasantly now. He had taken only two painful steps, however, when he was halted by a command at his back.
“Hey, you!” It was the policeman, ruder than they were supposed to be nowadays.
John limped back at the summons of a crooked finger. “I had nothing to do with this,” he said coldly.
“Nobody said you did,” the cop replied, making it a slightly threatening rebuke. “Let’s have your license, please, sir.” This was more polite, to be sure, but John had never heard of such a demand to passersby.
He reached for his wallet before remembering it was at home. He had left the house intending to go no farther than the curb in front of his house.
“I don’t have it with me. I wasn’t driving a car.”
“You were a passenger in a vehicle being driven by a person with a learner’s permit only.” The officer was if anything younger than John, with the rosy cheeks of a boy, but his stubborn policeman’s sense of representing the exclusive truth had been fixed in place with his shield.
“No, he wasn’t,” Richie said from behind John, appearing from thin air. “This man was not in that car.
I
was.”
“You were a passenger in the car?” The young cop’s voice was professionally noncommittal.
Richie stepped around John. He was no longer wearing the billed cap, and his hair was wet, the curls combed flat and looking almost black. Just that little alteration changed his appearance considerably, so that John might not have recognized him for a moment had he not heard the voice.
“Passenger?” Richie asked incredulously. “I was
driving.
The young lady was the passenger.”
“Not according to this young lady,” the cop said stubbornly, his chin stiffening.
Richie had produced a wallet from his back pocket, and now he plucked from it what looked like a driver’s license. “Officer, my fiancée is one in a million, but I’m not going to let her take the rap for me.” He handed the license over. “Truth is, I dropped a lighted cigarette on the floor. When I reached down to get it, I lost control of the car.”
“Lady says,” the solemn policeman insisted, “something happened to the steering and she—”
“Sir,” said Richie, “excuse me for interrupting, but just ask her again.” He turned to the woman. “Honey, you