Short Stories by Robert A. Heinlein Vol 2 Part 89

The femalte transvest.i.te took a cigar out of her mouth.

"Just," she said, "what business is it of yours, officer?"

The cop turned to her. "Keep out of this I" He ran his eyes over her get up, that of her companion. "I ought to run both of you in, too."

The transvest.i.te raised her eyebrows. "Arrest us for being clothed, arrest her for not being. I think I'm going to like this." She turned to the girl, who was standing still and say- ing nothing, as if she were puzzled by what was going on.

"I'm a lawyer, dear." She pulled a card from her vest pocket.

"If this uniformed Neanderthal persists in annoying you,

I'll be delighted to handle him."

The man in the kilt said, "Grace! Pleasel"

She shook him off. "Quiet, Normanthis is our business."

She went on to the policeman, "Well? Call the wagon. In the meantime my client will answer no questions."

The official looked unhappy enough to cry and his face was getting dangerously red. Breen quietly stepped forward and slipped his raincoat around the shoulders of the girl.

She looked startled and spoke for the first time. "Uh thanks." She pulled the coat about her, cape fas.h.i.+on.

The female attorney glanced at Breen then back to the cop. "Well, officer? Ready to arrest us?"

He shoved his face close to hers. "I ain't going to give you the satisfaction]" He sighed and added, "Thanks, Mr.

Breenyou know this lady?"

"Ill take care of her. You can forget it, Kawonski."

"I sure hope so. If she's with you, III do just that. But get her out of here, Mr. Breenpleasel"

The lawyer interrupted. "Just a momentyou're interfer- ing with my client."

Kawonski said, "Shut up, you! You heard Mr. Breenshe's with him. Right, Mr. Breen?"

"Wellyes. 1m a friend. I'll take care of her."

The transvest.i.te said suspiciously, "I didn't hear her say that."

Her companion said, "Gracepleasel There's our bus."

"And I didn't hear her say she was your client," the cop retorted. "You look like a" His words were drowned out by the bus's brakes, "and besides that, if you don't climb on that bus and get off my territory, I'll . . . I'll . . ."

"YouTI what?"

"Grace! We'll miss our bus."

"Just a moment, Norman. Dear, is this man really a friend of yours? Are you with him?"

The girl looked uncertainly at Breen, then said in a low voice, "Uh, yes. That's right."

"Well . . ." The lawyer's companion pulled at her arm.

She shoved her card into Breen's hand and got on the bus; it pulled away.

Breen pocketed the card. Kawonski wiped his forehead.

"Why did you do it, lady?" he said peevishly.

The girl looked puzzled. "I . . . I don't know."

"You hear that, Mr. Breen? That's what they all say. And if you pull 'em in, there's six more the next day. The Chief said" He sighed. "The Chief saidwell, if I had arrested her like that female shyster wanted me to. I'd be out at a hundred and ninety-sixth and Ploughed Ground tomorrow morning, thinking about retirement. So get her out of here, will you?"

The girl said, "But-"

"No 'buts,' lady. Just be glad a real gentleman like Mr.

Breen is willing to help you." He gathered up her clothes, handed them to her. When she reached for them she again exposed an uncustomary amount of skin; Kawonski hastily gave them to Breen instead, who crowded them into his coat pockets.

She let Breen lead her to where his car was parked, got in and tucked the raincoat around her so that she was rather more dressed than a girl usually is. She looked at him.

She saw a medium-sized and undistinguished man who was slipping down the wrong side of thirty-five and looked older. His eyes had that mild and slightly naked look of tlie habitual spectacles wearer who is not at the moment with gla.s.ses; his hair was gray at the temples and thin on top.

His herringbone suit, black shoes, white s.h.i.+rt, and neat tie smacked more of the East than of California.

He saw a face which he cla.s.sified as "pretty" and "whole- some" rather than "beautiful" and "glamorous," It was topped by a healthy mop of light brown hair. He set her age at twenty-five, give or take eighteen months. He smiled gently, climbed in without speaking and started his car.

He turned up Doheny Drive and east on Sunset. Near La

Cienega he slowed down. "Feeling better?"

"Uh, I guess so Mr.'Breen'?"

"Call me Potiphar. What's your name? Don't tell me if you don't want to,"

"Me? I'm . . . I'm Meade Barstow."

"Thank you, Meade. Where do you want to go? Home?"

"I suppose so. IOh my no! I can't go home like this."

She clutched the coat tightly to her.

"Parents?"

"No. My landlady. She'd be shocked to death."