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only served to depress him further. Benchly had never agreed with him. They had fought and snarled at each other for forty years; now life without him was dull and uninteresting, and Sam Goldberg saw no good reason to refrain from either the gumdrops or the heavy, satisfying meals he ate each day at Gino's restaurant on Jones Street.
In any case, this was a new, different, and discouraging world, frayed at the seams and disintegrating. He and Benchly were of the immigrants, a special breed. Goldberg's father had come to California in 1852 to dig for gold and had ended up with a fruit stand in Sacramento. Benchly's father had jumped ship in San Francisco in 1850. He and Benchly had lived through a time when all was possible, and the possible was made real. Now the possible had been honed down to size.
Brooding over this and other matters, he was interrupted by his secretary's voice on the intercom, informing him that a Miss Barbara Lavette would like to see him.
He had to adjust, put things in their place, establish a perspective, and after a long moment of silence he said, "Yes, of course. Send her in."
He rose and waited. Time plays tricks, and his first thought as the tall, handsome young woman entered was that his secretary had gotten the name wrong and that this was Jean. The resemblance was striking. Of course it was Jean's daughter. He had not seen Jean for years, but certainly she was well past forty.
He came around his desk and shook the hand she offered. Her manner was a curious mixture of shyness and confidence, and the slight, uncertain smile on her lips was very ingratiating.
"You're Danny's daughter," Goldberg said.
She nodded. "I should have called and asked you for an appointment, Mr. Goldberg. But I don't have any legal business. I want you to know that. I only wanted to talk to you and ask you some questions, and I know how busy lawyers are."
"My clerks are busy," he said. "I sit here and eat gum-drops and brood about the past. I'm delighted—Barbara. Can I call you Barbara? We shouldn't stand on formalities. I was your father's lawyer for twenty years, but it was not
just being a lawyer, believe me. And you're Barbara. You have grown up to be a beautiful woman, my dear. The last time I saw you—well, you were six or seven. And now—"
"I'm twenty."
"That's a beautiful, beautiful age. And what about Danny? I know you saw him last year."
"I haven't been down to Los Angeles yet. I'll go soon. Am I intruding—on your time?"
"Intruding? My dear, this is such a fine, unexpected pleasure. It's almost twelve o'clock. Have you eaten yet? Or maybe you have a luncheon appointment?"
"Oh, no."
"Good. Then we'll go along to Gino's and we'll eat and talk."
"All right. I'd like that."
At the restaurnt, sitting opposite her at a small table with a checkered cloth, Goldberg ordered spaghetti, a veal cutlet, and coffee. "We'll eat light. That's the fashion now," he said. He introduced her to Gino, who fussed over her and insisted that they have a bottle of wine on the house. "Danny's daughter," Goldberg told him.
"I know this place," Barbara said when Gino had gone. "He used to come here with May Ling."
"Does that bother you?"
"No, not really. It's just part of the whole thing that I'm trying to understand. When I went to see him last year— you know, I drove down to Los Angeles—"
"I know."
"I was so happy to see him, and I didn't really know him. I still don't, and I guess I don't know myself, either, and I'm so confused."
"I can understand that." He pointed to the food. "You're not eating."
"I'm not very hungry. Please forgive me."
"Nothing to forgive. I'm a fat man, Barbara. The reason people are fat is because they like to eat. So I'll eat and you talk."
"I have questions. Does it annoy you when people ask you questions?"
"That's a lawyer's stock in trade, if he can answer them." He chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds while Barbara waited in silence. "Go ahead and ask."
"Why does he work as a fisherman down there in